Chapter 15
15
NICKY
S etting my paperback on the side table, I perch in my cozy armchair by the window. I watch Ronan practice. All by himself.
He’s zipping around the ice and shooting pucks into the net, one after another. Just a few minutes into his pre-dawn session, and I can already see that this man is not messing around.
In the early morning darkness, the rink’s stadium lights shine down on him and he is absolutely mesmerizing to watch. Ronan Brighton is a man who’s found his passion in life, that much is clear. Out there in the icy cold dead of dawn, you’d never know that Ronan is considered an impulsive troublemaker who can’t keep himself on the straight and narrow.
From the speed and fluidity of his movements, I’m starting to second-guess whether hockey is really meant to be a team sport. He looks powerful enough to carry an entire match on his own. All I know is, this man loves hockey. I can’t help but find his dedication admirable.
And my favorite part? The blissful smile he wears on his lips the whole time.
Those lips.
Those lips that were all over my lips last night. Oh my god.
I didn’t sleep a wink as I laid in bed in the hours after that kiss. My body was on fire, my skin burning with need.
The way his mouth glided over mine. The way his hands touched my skin. The smell of his skin. The taste of his tongue. All of it made me so hot.
I tried reading my steamy book as a distraction from the memory loop. But that turned out to be a not-so-great idea. I somehow ended up with my hand between my thighs, making a sticky mess all over my fingers and panting Ronan’s name, as a violent orgasm shook me from head to toe.
But when I was done touching myself, I just felt ashamed, battling the guilt and lust inside my head.
That guilt is part of the reason why things were so awkward with Ronan this morning. The tight smiles, the forced jokes, the uncomfortable air between us.
Everything is one big mess. From our heated argument in the car to that explosive makeout session on the front porch, nothing is going according to plan. And I’m doing a terrible job of keeping things professional between us.
Jeez, Nicky. What ever happened to swearing off men? And playing it safe? And focusing on career?
Because Ronan Brighton is the last man I should get involved with. There’s absolutely nothing ‘safe’ about that sexed-up man. Getting personally involved with him is a surefire way to get my heart broken and burn my career to the ground at the same time.
This is precisely why I don’t allow myself to indulge in my emotions. Nothing good ever comes of it.
I’ve got to get my ass back on track. I have goals for myself. And I’ll never reach them if I allow myself to get distracted by my reckless emotions and my horny hormones.
The longer I sit here staring at him, the more I start to feel bad for the way I yelled at him last night. Yes, he crossed my boundary when he started prying about my personal life. But maybe I pushed his buttons first when I got on his case for how he handled the post-game interview.
After replaying our argument a few hundred times on the screen of my mind, I came to the conclusion that, maybe he is right in his assessment of me. Maybe I do hide from my feelings. Maybe it’s something I’ve done for a long, long time.
While I’m very good at putting on a tough front for the world, that doesn’t mean I don’t feel. Deeply. It doesn’t mean I’m immune to hurt. It just means I’m not comfortable showing it.
“Is that something I need to work on?” I ask myself.
I quickly shut that thought down.
“No. It’s not something worth changing.” Being vulnerable never, ever did me any good.
I tune back in to Ronan. Throughout his entire practice session, he remains determined and laser-focused on each drill that he puts himself through. He doesn’t mess around. He doesn’t stop when he’s tired. He clearly stepped onto the ice with an objective in mind, and each minute of his training, he pushes himself to reach that and beyond.
Right now, I’m having trouble reconciling his two different personas. The reckless bad boy who’s quick to throw punches in a parking lot brawl, and the dedicated captain who will wake up at the crack of dawn on his day off to work on perfecting his craft.
Ronan Brighton is a riddle I’m struggling to solve.
As Ronan skates around the ice, he makes sure to shoot glances toward the cabin every now and then. It’s almost like he’s trying to make sure I’m still here. It gives me tingles in my belly. I’m getting my very own private show from this great athletic specimen.
When he’s finally done practicing a full ninety minutes later, he stores his stick and gear in a nearby shed. Wearing a goofy grin, he marches across the yard, right past the window where I’m sitting.
I hear heavy footsteps jogging up the front steps. A moment later, there’s a knock at the door.
My heart beats a little faster.
I frantically finger-comb my hair and sniff-test my breath as I waddle out of my cozy seat. Then I inwardly scold myself for caring what Ronan thinks about me. Jeez—I’m such a mess because of this guy .
I open the door, a warm blanket still wrapped around my shoulders. Ronan greets me with the wobbly grin. The slightest hint of nervousness flashes across his face. He tugs the edge of his toque down over his ears. “Let’s go grab breakfast?”
Both of my eyebrows jerk upward. “Breakfast?”
That’s not what I was expecting. More like, Thanks for shamelessly ogling me for the past ninety minutes. Now you can go back to reading your smutty book for the next three hours, you perv .
But I wasn’t expecting this. He wants to hang out with me? Even after the way we yelled at each other last night? Even after we kissed and made an awkward situation even worse?
His cheeks are red and there’s a playful glint in his eyes. “Breakfast. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. It’s the first meal of the day, usually eaten in the morning. Breakfast.” He pulls out his phone. “Hold on. Let me see if I can pull up an official definition on the internet. I might even be able to find a few pictures.”
“Don’t be a jerk noodle.” Tilting my head to the side, I give him a little shove.
Big mistake. I forgot how touching him sends electricity rushing to my nipples. Mmm .
Ronan doesn’t seem affected, though. He barks out a hearty laugh. “Come on. It’s my treat.”
I dip one toe out onto the porch and poke my head outside. “I can see my breath.” I whine, blowing a cloudy puff of air in front of my face.
He laughs. “There will be heat.”
I tug the blanket over my head like a cloak. “I’m not sold.”
“What if I promise you the absolute best pancakes in Starlight Falls?” he offers temptingly, waggling his brows. “Scratch that—the best pancakes you’ve ever had in your life?”
My stomach growls.
Yet still, I narrow my eyes at him. “That’s a big promise, sir. You sure you can back that up?” I’m Maud Westbrook’s granddaughter. My Grammy’s breakfast anything puts everyone else’s to shame.
“Absolutely,” Ronan says with complete assurance.
I pause and consider his offer. Pancakes sound real good right about now. Yeah, I could definitely eat some pancakes.
Plus, I think I like the way his hair is peaking out from under his wool hat. It’s cute.
No. Not cute. He’s not cute. Not at all.
He reaches out and gently touches my hand. “Also, we need to talk, Nicky. About last night.”
That simple touch, that slight dip in his tone of voice—it’s my undoing.
I make a big show of sighing heavily. “Fine.”
When I accept his invitation, Ronan beams so bright. Suddenly I’m questioning the most basic things.
What is the meaning of life?
Why are we all here?
Why are my panties soaking wet?
Do we really need sunshine when Ronan Brighton’s ear-to-ear grin lights up every corner of this early morning sky?
I try to fight my own smile but I’m a weak woman when he’s looking at me like that. Like gaining my approval is the most important thing in the world to him.
This guy is good. He’s a professional charmer. Don’t fall for it, Nicky.
I turn away from him to hide the blush creeping up my neck. “Let me grab my coat.”
A few minutes later, I’m ridiculously bundled up and ready to brave the cold. I can confirm that my extra layers of clothing are doing absolutely nothing for me.
I’ve got on my warmest boots. My thickest winter socks. Coat. Gloves. All of it. I’m wearing leggings under my jeans—that’s what kind of cold it is. But my warmest gear does nothing to ward off the icy January deep freeze, especially when the sun has barely even woken up yet.
This is craziness. Why am I letting this man lure me away from the heat and warmth of the cozy cabin? Who the hell am I anymore?
I’m starting to think that Ronan Brighton has worked some kind of Starlight Falls magic on me.