Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
MORGAN
The minute the elevator doors close, he turns toward me, backing me against the wall and stepping so close I’m forced to tilt my head back to look at him.
“What the fuck?” His words are a low growl, but there’s hunger mixed with confusion in his gaze, and I have to force my body to fight its natural reaction to him.
“I’m having the same thought right now, Danny.” Any trace of the friendliness and professionalism I presented in AJ’s office is gone.
The only reason I was able to hold myself together back there was because I’d had two hours to mentally prepare. If I hadn’t seen that picture of him ahead of time, there’s no way I would have been able to keep that first interaction professional.
“It’s a childhood nickname. No one calls me that but Max, and a few of my friends from home,” he says, and while I’ve never heard of Danny being used as a nickname for Aidan, I guess it makes sense.
So he didn’t technically lie to me about his identity, he just left out some very important details.
Which, to be fair, I guess I did too. “Did you know who I was, back in Bermuda?”
The scoff rips out of my throat so quickly it surprises me. “No. Being my stepbrother is bad enough, but if I knew we’d be working together—”
“You sure?” He drops his head toward me, his voice low and . . . angry? seductive? I’m not sure I can tell the difference right now. “Because even being my stepsister didn’t keep your clothes on—”
His words are like a slap across the face—a sharp and painful reminder of how easily I’d given myself over to him despite all the times I said we couldn’t go there again.
Those ugly feelings from yesterday, the ones that made me feel like I let Danny use me just like I’d let Carter use me, rear their ugly head again. So, I clap back.
“Fuck you,” I spit out, my words an angry whisper shout in the small elevator.
“Is that an offer?”
“God, you’re such an asshole. I will never make that offer again, especially since you’re one of my dad’s clients—”
“What?” His head rears back. “You’re Carson Kaplan’s daughter?”
“The one and only,” I say. “Oh my god, and do you know what the worst part is? I came home from Bermuda and told all my friends I’d had sex with my stepbrother, thinking I’d never see you again.”
“Why is that an issue?”
“Aside from the fact that they’re all going to know it’s you?”
“Why would they know it’s me? It’s not like I’m going to meet your friends.”
“You already know some of them! Lauren, the head of marketing? She’s my cousin. Drew’s fiancée, Audrey, Colt’s fiancée, Jules, Hartmann’s wife, Eva? Three of my best friends. AJ? Also a good friend of mine.”
I watch him connecting the dots but can’t tell how he feels about it. “I don’t know Audrey, Jules, or Eva—”
“Exactly, because you’ve been MIA for the last year. Meanwhile, these people, including your teammates, are like family to me.”
“You don’t have to tell any of them I’m your stepbrother.”
“What? How would I hide that?”
“I think we can easily keep that piece of information to ourselves until our parents’ inevitable split.”
“But . . . I’m a terrible liar.”
“The way you just pretended like you had no idea who I was back in AJ’s office means we both know that’s not true. I think you can lie just fine when it’s convenient for you.”
“There is absolutely nothing fucking convenient about this situation,” I say as the elevator dings.
“Any other lies you told me in Bermuda that I should be aware of?”
“I didn’t tell you a single lie in Bermuda . . . unlike you.” I think about the way he redirected the conversation at dinner after the wedding so that Max wouldn’t talk about him being a hockey player. Makes me wonder what else he might have lied about.
I push past him, heading straight to the elevator doors and turning slightly to fit through them before they’re even halfway open.
I can feel him close on my heels as we walk along the rubber mats that line the rink, and while there’s no one nearby, I still drop my voice very low when I say, “We’re done talking about this. ”
“For now.” His words ring out like both a threat and a promise.
I easily slip back into professional mode when I note that Patrick and Natalie are at the end of the rink, waiting for us.
“So, as part of my role here, I’ll be doing a media profile on you.
And, if I’m being honest, what everyone wants to know, your teammates most of all,” I say, letting my gaze slide his way, “is where you’ve been for the last year. ”
Having the last two hours to prepare has allowed me to dig into his injury and return, look at what fans had been saying, and send off some texts to my friends’ significant others asking what I should ask Renaud.
It all yielded one clear question. As McCabe put it: Why the fuck did he go MIA for the last year?
So now, what I really want to know is how Aidan Renaud went from an all-star hockey player to a recluse over the past twelve months?
I can tell by the way his jaw flexes that the mention of his teammates has annoyed him.
Good. Because while they might be his teammates, they’re my friends.
I’ve only been back in Boston for a couple years, and I’ve spent that time carefully building friendships with women I admire and respect and men who know how to treat a woman right. If he thinks he’s going to waltz in here and insert himself into my circle of friends, he’ll need to reconsider.
“I moved back home. Everyone knows that.”
“And home is Ember Cove?” I reference the small town south of Boston that, until today, I didn’t even know existed.
“Done your research, I see.”
“I’ve done my job.” I try to emphasize that this is work, not me looking into him. He doesn’t need to know that I spent hours yesterday trying to track down who he was. “So, you’ve been less than an hour south of Boston, but couldn’t be bothered to keep in touch with anyone or even come to a game?”
When he hisses out an exhale through his clenched teeth, I know I’ve struck a nerve, just as I intended. The only way I’ll get through this is to keep my armor on and my defenses up.
“Hey,” Patrick says with a friendly smile, as we approach.
“Sorry, we’re a bit early for the photos.
I know you probably haven’t had time to fully finish the interview,” he says to me, before turning toward Aidan—a name that’s going to take some time to get used to—shaking his hand, and welcoming him back.
“Mind if we just shoot some pictures real quick and then we’ll get out of your hair? ”
“I think I’ve got enough to get started, and something I ate for lunch isn’t sitting well.
” I rest my hand on my belly and wince, even though the only thing going on in there are hunger pangs because I was too anxious, after learning Danny’s real identity, to actually eat lunch.
“I’m going to head out. I’ll follow up with you if I need more info, Aidan. Thanks for your time.”
I turn and flee, barely making it outside before I’m dry heaving into a metal trash can.
It’s not the hunger pangs causing this. It’s the realization that there’s no way I’m going to be able to avoid him—and the uncertainty about whether I truly want to—that’s making me sick.
So when I hop in my car, I head to the one place guaranteed to make me feel better.
On the bluestone patio surrounding the pool at my dad’s house, I sit on a chaise lounge with my laptop open on my legs.
I’ve written up the skeleton of what will eventually become a press release about Renaud’s return to hockey, and a bare bones social media profile that will need a lot more work before it’s ready.
But right now, I still have way more questions about Aidan Renaud’s return to the Rebels than I have answers, and it’s my own fault because I ran away instead of asking those questions.
To be fair, I didn’t really want to puke in front of him, my boss, and the intern who is reporting to me until Tatum returns.
“Imagine my surprise, coming home from work and finding your car in the driveway,” my dad’s deep voice booms from behind me, and I turn to find him walking out onto the patio from the living room. “How was going into the office today?”
I tell him a bit about my day, leaving out any mention of my previous connection to Aidan—not only because I’m never telling my dad that I slept with my stepbrother, but also because we talk about my mom as little as possible.
When they divorced, she didn’t even fight my dad for custody. She just quietly moved across the country, leaving us both behind. She’s moved several times since then, always because she needed “a change of scenery” after her latest divorce.
Dad would never tell me not to have a relationship with my mom, but he also hates the way she constantly disappoints me. I appreciate that he gives me the space to figure it out.
I keep my voice as casual as possible when I say, “I can’t quite get a read on Renaud. It seems like he has a pretty big chip on his shoulder. What’s his deal?”
Dad’s belly laugh is exactly what you’d expect from someone of his stature.
He’s six feet tall, with a big bald head, a dark auburn beard he keeps neatly trimmed, incredibly broad shoulders, and a Santa-like belly.
I’ve got my mom’s height and coloring, but my “big boned” structure and the touch of red in my hair are definitely all from Dad.
Sometimes I wonder if my mom’s comments about my body are because I remind her too much of him?
“You’re writing an article about him,” Dad says, “so obviously I’m only going to say good things about my client.”
I roll my eyes as I glance over at him, where he’s pulled up a chair from the dining table that sits under the massive wooden pergola.
“This isn’t investigative journalism, Dad.
My job is to make him look good. But since I’ll be working with him on crafting the story about his absence last season, I’m genuinely curious what type of person he is. ”
Dad blows out a long, slow breath between his lips.
“He’s a damn good hockey player, but he can be a dick. You’re right about the chip on his shoulder. I’ve worked with him since he was in college, and he’s always had it.”
I can’t help but think about what his life was like then. His dad dying when he was younger, his mom dying while he was at college. That would put a chip on anyone’s shoulder, wouldn’t it? Maybe hockey was his escape, the same way singing became my escape when my mom left?
“What can you tell me about his background?” I ask, wondering if he knows as much as I do.
“Not much, seeing as how he’s my client. Sorry, kiddo. You’re going to have to dig into his story on your own. He’ll tell you what he wants you to know.”
His comment makes me think he knows at least as much as I do about Aidan’s past—most likely more.
Wait, does he know that Aidan’s stepdad married Mom? No, I assure myself, he obviously doesn’t, or he’d have said something.
I haven’t told him anything about the wedding, aside from the fact that it was happening, nor do I intend to. And I especially don’t intend to tell him that I’ve slept with one of his star hockey players—the one with the bad attitude who the rest of the league loves to hate.
Dad and I have always been close, and I don’t like lying to him, but we’re both better off if he doesn’t know the truth .
. . and so is Aidan. I’d hate to see what Dad would do to Aidan’s career if he found out.
This is a contract year for him, and if Dad knew what happened between us, he’d make sure Aidan was playing hockey in Sweden by the end of the season. And that’s if he were feeling generous.
His phone rings, as shrill and loud as it always is, because he refuses to miss a call . . . ever. He glances down at it, then stands and says, “It’s Liam Walker. This might take a while.”
Dad doesn’t represent many athletes outside of hockey, and I don’t know exactly how it happened, but landing the football star as a client years ago—right as he was developing into a well-respected quarterback—was a major coup.
But tragedy struck the Walker family earlier this year, and Liam decided to take the season off to stay home with his son.
It’s a decision that hasn’t sat well with some Boston football fans who were used to annual division titles and regular appearances at the championship game.
But personally, I can’t imagine being in his shoes, and I’m sure he made the choice that was right for him and his family.
“Okay, I’m heading home soon anyway,” I tell Dad, as I close my laptop.
Dad bends to give me a kiss on the top of my head then turns, answering the call as he walks inside.
The screen door slams behind him, and I bend my knees up to my chest before wrapping my arms around my legs.
I sit, curled up like this, watching the pool sparkle as the wind kisses the top of the water, and listening to the birds chirp as they flit between the thick row of hydrangeas that line three sides of the pool.
But the peaceful setting doesn’t prevent my mind from immediately turning back to the surly hockey player I exchanged heated words with today.
I’ve known him for less than a week, and already I can’t stop thinking about the different versions of Aidan Renaud that I’ve already seen—a fun and flirty stranger the first night I met him, then my broody and hot stepbrother following the wedding, and now, a hockey player with a chip on his shoulder.
All of it leads me to wonder: Who is Aidan Renaud? And how am I ever going to survive him?