Chapter 22
twenty-two
. . .
Nick
I wake with a start in an unfamiliar room. A body lies beside me, soft and warm.
What did I do?
A flash of copper in the corner of my eye, and the comforting scent of orange blossoms, clues me in.
Bex.
She texted me. Or rather, her friend did. I need you. Is there any question why I rushed to her side? She was drunk off her tits; I wasn’t about to leave her in that state.
I didn’t have to stay the night, though. But I didn’t want to leave.
Now, she’s wrapped around me, her cheek on my shoulder, her arm around my chest, and her leg slung over mine. She burrows into me, her skin burning into mine even through the fabric of my shirt.
I’m in hell.
My cock is hard, trapped against her hip, and I carefully angle myself away so I don’t poke her with it. The last thing I want is for her to accuse me of coming on to her. I can’t help that my body is constantly responding to her. All she has to do is look at me and my blood thrums in my veins.
After last night’s game, I’m expecting to be sore and achy, but to my surprise, I’m feeling good. The usual morning-after hunger, sure. A few bruises. But no pain. No exhaustion. Just a bone-deep contentment.
Maybe I should fall asleep beside Bex more often.
The thought makes me snort. I have no interest in dying today. Or anytime soon.
Gently untangling myself from her, I shove a pillow into her arms and crawl out of the bed. My shirt rides up as I stretch, and I scratch at my belly, letting my body wake up.
My bed partner lets out a soft snore. Good, she’s still passed out.
I take care of my morning business, snagging a spare toothbrush from the package under her sink. Then I plod into her kitchen, taking inventory.
Her fridge is barren.
A jug of cold brew coffee. A bottle of hazelnut creamer. Three apples, an orange, and a bag of baby carrots that’s seen better days. Two half-empty boxes of Chinese takeout. There aren’t many condiments, either. Just the bare essentials.
She does have three separate packs of ready-made cookie dough: chocolate chip, peanut butter, and white chocolate macadamia.
My heart squeezes. She’s so busy taking care of all of us. When does she take time for herself?
Pulling out my phone, I tap the screen a few times before groceries are ordered, and I pay extra for delivery within the hour.
The rest of her apartment is tiny. There’s a squishy yellow couch and a vibrant forest-green armchair, and the small dining table is covered in baby-blue enamel.
I vaguely recognize the furniture from the one time I visited the apartment she shared with Elsy—before I knew her Bex was my Bex, before everything blew up between us.
I settle on the couch, pulling the throw blanket over my lap. A reed diffuser sits on the coffee table, filling the room with her signature orange-blossom scent.
Before long, a knock raps on the door, and I open it to find three paper bags on the welcome mat.
“Thanks,” I call to the delivery person, who’s already halfway down the hall. I open my app and tip them extra for being so quick—and for not having to deal with them face-to-face.
It takes me no time at all to put away the groceries. Although it’s way harder to find the pots and pans—for some reason, they’re all shoved in the oven.
In quick order, I have a tray of bacon baking, veggies chopped, a block of cheese shredded, and a dozen eggs scrambled. It’s impossible to locate a mixing bowl, so I end up stirring the frittata ingredients directly in the Pyrex pan.
The rustle of movement sounds in the apartment. From my angle, I can’t see, but I hear as Bex cracks open her bedroom door and locks herself in the bathroom. The toilet flushes, and water runs, and then she appears at the edge of the kitchen, looking adorably rumpled—and significantly disgruntled.
“What are you doing here?” Her eyes narrow into slits, but her yawn ruins the effect. Her hair is falling out of the braid, sticking up in places. The cozy pajamas she’s wearing—navy blue, with hot-pink polka dots—swallow her whole.
Fuck, she’s cute.
After putting the baked egg dish into the oven, I pop two slices of whole wheat toast into the toaster. “How’s your head?”
“Fine. Why are you still here?”
The coffee pod I brewed twenty minutes ago is cool now, so I add a healthy splash of hazelnut creamer and hold out the mug.
“Drink your coffee.”
Her face creases in a frown. “I don’t like hot coffee.”
“It’s lukewarm.”
Suspicion clouds her features as she takes the cup, bringing it to her nose as she inhales the scent of nutty hazelnut.
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
“I’m really not.” The toast pops up, and I pull it onto a plate before putting two more slices in. “Breakfast will be ready in about half an hour. Why don’t you go take a shower?”
She stutter-steps backward. “What?”
“You have the day off, right? Don’t have to be at the rink?”
I have to get a workout in, but there’s no on-ice practice today. There are a few errands I have to run, but not anytime soon. If I don’t have to be there, I doubt she does, either.
“Don’t you need to go?” she fires back.
“I have time.”
She harrumphs.
“Babe—” The word slips from my lips automatically. And all hell breaks loose. If she could light me on fire, she would.
Her hackles rise, fury on her face. “Don’t call me babe,” she snarls.
“You like it when Luke calls you babe.” I hate that I say it, but it’s too late; the words are already out, hanging in the air between us.
She scoffs. “I don’t have to worry about him forgetting my name.”
My stomach twists. “Is that what you think of me?”
That day in Ohio, she accused me of not knowing her name. Insinuated I was only interested in sex, and not in her as a person. I don’t think she realizes I wanted more with her; I still want more.
“It’s a negative association with the word.”
“Okay…”
Bex sighs, leaning her arms on the counter opposite me. I pick up the knife again, slicing the stems off the strawberries.
“That day… I thought you were calling me babe because you didn’t know my name. That I was so forgettable to you even when you were inside me.”
She’s addressing it. She’s actually acknowledging that day.
But then her words filter into my brain, and the knife clatters from my hands onto the cutting board. I barely avoid getting nicked as I stare at her.
“Holy fuck, Bex. If you think I’ve forgotten even one damn thing about you all these years…”
She shrugs. “I’m not saying it’s rational. I’m saying it’s what I thought.”
I swallow, my throat spasming as I try to keep my cool. “So all this time…”
“Yeah. Sorry.” She winces. “I was a bit of an asshole.”
Sorry? That’s all she has to say?
My laugh is hollow. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“That’s okay, I’m saying it for you. I was an asshole to you before you could do the same to me. It’s a defense mechanism. It’s not healthy. I hurt people before they can hurt me.”
She says this so woodenly, so matter-of-factly, I can’t help but wonder how many people have said this to her. How she’s accepted it as her truth.
I go back to my task, beheading the strawberries with more force than necessary. I’m not angry at her; just the situation. She’s hated me all these years, and for what? A misunderstanding? Because she wouldn’t fucking let me talk?
Fury rushes through me, a reaction so intense and unexpected I grit my teeth, grinding the molars into dust. When I finally allow myself to speak, my words are measured.
“You don’t have to hate me. You don’t have to take your anger out on me. I can be a lot of things, but I don’t want to be your punching bag.”
Her stare burns into me. “Why are you here?”
“I told you—”
“No, you didn’t. Why did you stay? Why are you making breakfast?”
“Elsy—”
She rolls her eyes. “Elsy didn’t need to know.”
“She asked me to look out for you.”
“Oh. So you’re doing this for her?”
Is she going to make me come right out and say it?
She glares at me, challenging me.
“I wanted to.”
She may have a boyfriend, but he’s not here. She’s Elsy’s family, so by extension, she’s my family, too. That’s a disturbing thought. I can care about her and carefully lock away my attraction at the same time. Maybe.
A glimmer of vulnerability crosses her face. “But why?”
My protective instincts kick into overdrive. She’s a grown-ass woman, and I know she can take care of herself, but I still want to take care of her, too. I want to tackle any problem she can’t handle, and fight any battle before she has to. I want to be there for her—without the barbs and taunts.
Whatever she’ll allow, I’ll take it. Every little scrap of attention, every glance, every smile. I’ll take it all.
“Do you have to read into it? Can’t you just leave it be?”
She scoffs. “Have you met me? I overthink everything.”
Scooping the strawberries into a bowl, I mix them with the blueberries and raspberries already there, before setting it in front of her, along with a spoon.
“You don’t have to overthink this. Trust me on that.”
“I want to,” she whispers, the fight leaving her. “I just don’t know if I can.”
My heart freezes, and I try to keep the hurt off my face. “Did I do something?”
She shakes her head, her eyes downcast. “No. For once, this has nothing to do with you. This is me. This is all me.”