Chapter 8
TUCKER
This is ridiculous. I'm Tucker Stag, professional hockey player, Thin Ice condom brand rep, and certified man-about-town. I don't get nervous about women coming over.
Except, apparently, when that woman is Sloane.
Who, I remind myself, was married to my teammate.
I survey my penthouse with fresh eyes, trying to see it as she might.
Not that I need to care what she thinks.
But the massive flat-screen dominating the living room wall suddenly seems ostentatious.
The leather sectional feels impersonal. Because it is.
God, I didn’t even pick out my own furniture.
The glass-and-chrome coffee table is littered with hockey magazines and a few endorsement contracts my agent, Brian, dropped off yesterday.
I hastily gather the papers and shove them into a drawer. I don’t know how to spruce this place up to look less like a pretentious bachelor pad in … I check my watch. I’ve got three minutes.
I quickly stash empty protein shake bottles in the recycling and fluff the decorative pillows I've never once used. I grab the half-empty whiskey bottle from the bar cart and hide it in a cabinet.
Am I seriously trying to impress her? I never expected her to suggest coming by tonight to get her necklace.
The necklace. I hurry to retrieve it from my underwear drawer, where I've kept it safe. The small gold sun catches the light, spinning slowly as I hold it up. Such a simple thing to have occupied so much of my thoughts.
The doorbell chimes, and my heart rate kicks up. I shove the necklace into my pocket and take a deep breath. It's just a woman coming to retrieve her property. Nothing more. Even if I haven't been able to stop thinking about her.
The elevator door opens to reveal Sloane looking somehow even more beautiful than I remembered.
Her curls are loose around her gorgeous face, and she's wearing a simple sundress that shows off her athletic figure.
She looks slightly nervous, which makes me feel marginally better about my own inexplicable anxiety.
"Hey," I say, stepping back to let her in.
"Hey, yourself." She enters, her eyes widening slightly as she takes in the floor-to-ceiling windows with their panoramic view of the Pittsburgh skyline. "Wow. Nice place."
"Thanks. It's, uh, a bit much, I know." I close the door, suddenly self-conscious about the obvious display of wealth.
"No, it's..." She pauses, a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Very you."
"I'm not sure if that's a compliment."
"Neither am I." But she smiles, taking the sting out of her words.
I lead her further into the living room, uncomfortably aware of her eyes on me. "Can I get you a drink? Wine? Beer? Water?"
"Wine would be nice," she says, wandering to the windows. "The view is incredible."
I head to the kitchen, grateful for something to do with my hands. I open a bottle of red that my brother Gunnar suggested I buy, some expensive vintage I know nothing about except that it costs about the same as my fancy whiskey.
When I return with two glasses, Sloane has moved to my shelves, examining the few personal items I have displayed—mostly team photos and family pictures from various Stag gatherings.
"Your family?" she asks, nodding toward a photo from last Christmas.
"Yeah. My brothers and cousins." I hand her a glass, careful not to brush her fingers with mine. Even so, I feel that same electric awareness that's been haunting me since the ski house. "Big family."
"I can see that." She sips the wine, her eyes still on the photo. "You all look alike."
“Dad says the Stag genes are strong," I say without thinking. "My dad and his brothers could be quadruplets."
She turns to face me, and for a moment we just stand there, too close, neither of us moving away. I can smell her perfume—that light and floral scent that dances in my dreams and makes me want to bury my face in her neck.
"I have your necklace," I say, my voice rougher than intended. I pull it from my pocket and hold it out to her.
Her eyes light up, genuine delight spreading across her face. "I can't believe you found it. I was sure it was gone forever."
I watch as she takes it from my palm, her fingers brushing mine. "I figured it was important."
"It was from my grandmother.” She fumbles with the clasp. "The one who died."
“Essie. Right.” Without thinking, I step behind her. "Here, let me."
She hands me the necklace and lifts her hair, exposing the nape of her neck. I move closer, acutely aware of her warmth, the subtle curve where her neck meets her shoulder. My fingers feel too large, too clumsy for the delicate clasp, but I manage to secure it.
Instead of stepping away, I stay there, breathing her in. "There," I say softly. I trail a finger along the chain, feeling her smooth, soft skin beneath my calloused hand.
She turns, still close enough that I feel the warmth of her body. Her hand moves to the pendant at her throat. "Thank you."
We're so close I can see the flecks of gold in her green eyes, the slight unevenness of her breathing. Neither of us moves, caught in a moment of shared awareness that feels both familiar and entirely new.
"We should sit," I say finally, breaking the spell. We should not sit. I shouldn’t fucking sit with Grentley’s ex. "The wine's done breathing. Or whatever it does."
She smiles and nods, following me to the sectional. I sit at a respectable distance, but the space between us feels charged, alive with possibility.
"So," I start, searching for safe conversation. "Public health. That's your major?"
"Yeah." She tucks one leg beneath her, getting comfortable. "I'm just starting back. It's... intimidating, going back to school after so long."
"Why public health?" I'm genuinely curious, I realize. I want to know more about her, everything about her.
A shadow crosses her face. "Family history. My dad was killed in a car accident while my mom was pregnant with me. Mom treated her grief with substance abuse. I'd like to work in prevention programs someday."
I hadn't expected such honesty. "That's... really admirable. You know, my mom grew up in foster care…”
“I didn’t know.”
I tip my glass toward her, ceding her point. “Yeah. She works in family law now. She said the same thing, about wanting to make a difference for families like hers.”
Sloane adjusts her posture, looking slightly embarrassed. "It's definitely something I care about. Family. Helping families. What about you? Is hockey your passion?”
Her question takes me by surprise. I thought my answer would be an immediate yes, but so much of what I love about hockey is wrapped up in my family being on the ice with me.
I blurt, “Hockey is all I’ve ever known,” which I know isn’t the same thing, and Sloane’s face reveals she hears the difference. “But family is really important to me.”
Her expression darkens, and I try to work out where I messed up, remembering she mentioned her grandmother. I decide to lighten the mood, lean in to what she and I have already established as talking points. “Plus, you know, I’ve got that sock money.”
Sloane wiggles her bare toes on the couch, and we both laugh.
I shift slightly closer to her. “What else should I know about you?"
Our eyes meet for a moment, a brief, silent recognition of the main thing we know about one another: our shared connections to Josh Grentley. And then it’s like he’s gone from the conversation, from our thoughts, from our consciousness.
"Not much to tell." She glances around the apartment again. "I'm a lot less interesting than all this suggests you are."
"I doubt that." I study her, the way her fingers trace the stem of her wineglass, the slight tensing of her shoulders when she feels my gaze. "You're the most interesting woman I've met in a long time."
She laughs, but there's a nervousness to it. "You don't even know me."
"I'd like to." The words come out more sincere than I intended, closer to the truth than I'm comfortable with.
Her eyes meet mine, and something shifts in the air between us. The pretense of casual conversation falls away, leaving only the raw awareness that's been simmering since she walked through my door. Since the ski house, if I'm honest.
She sets down her wineglass with deliberate care. "Tucker."
"Yeah?"
“You and I cannot be a thing.”
My heart rate doubles. "No?"
She shakes her head, then moves toward me with sudden purpose, closing the distance between us. “What happened was a one-time thing. Just sex.”
I swallow, worried the wine will solidify in my throat. “Right. Terrible idea. Nothing we should repeat.”
She runs a hand along the leather on the back of the couch. It’s indecent, the way she drags that finger along. “But I’m here anyway. And that already doesn’t look good.”
I scoot closer to her. Just a millimeter. “Nobody’s looking, Sloane.”
Her lips find mine, soft and warm and tasting of wine, and any remaining restraint I might have had evaporates.
I pull her onto my lap, her knees straddling my thighs, my hands spanning her waist. She makes a soft sound against my mouth, sending heat racing through me. This feels different—less frantic, more deliberate, but no less intense.
"I've been thinking about you," she murmurs against my jaw. "I tried not to, but I couldn't stop."
"Same," I admit, trailing kisses down her neck. "Every day."
Her hands find their way under my shirt, cool palms against the hot skin of my chest. I tug at the straps of her sundress, exposing her shoulders to my mouth. She arches into me, her body remembering mine.
"Last time," she says, her breath catching as I find a sensitive spot, "you said I could have anything I wanted."
"Still true," I reply, meaning it more than she knows.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, her eyes dark with desire but also something more searching. "I want you. Right here. Right now."
I don't need to be told twice. I lift her easily, turning so she's lying beneath me on the sofa, her curls spread across the leather. I kiss her deeply, thoroughly, my hand sliding up her thigh, beneath the hem of her dress.
"Wait," I say, reluctantly breaking away. "Protection."
She nods, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
I reach under the coffee table to the basket full of Thin Ice and some other goodies.
Sloane raises an eyebrow when she sees the branded packaging. "Prepared, aren't you?"
I grin. “This is the Safe and Satisfied basket,” I explain. “Even before I was Mr. Thin Ice, my parents were really aggressive about this stuff.” I wave my hand at the supplies, and Sloane peeks inside. “It used to be weird that my dad would bring lube when he came to visit.”
She arches a brow, and I laugh. “Maybe it’s still weird.”
Sloane reaches into the pile and pulls out an ultra-thin condom, shaking it at me. I take it from her and watch as she settles back on the couch, spreading her legs and lifting her skirt. I trail a palm up her beautiful leg and forget every joke I wanted to make.
“I believe you promised to show me your socks,” she says. And then her laugh turns into a gasp as my fingers find her center.
"Next time," I promise, focusing on the way her body responds to my touch. I pull aside her panties and inhale the wet scent of her arousal.
What follows is a blur of sensation—her dress pushed up, my jeans discarded, our bodies finding that perfect rhythm we discovered at the ski house.
She's responsive, uninhibited, meeting me movement for movement.
The glass windows reflect our entwined forms, the city lights creating a backdrop of glittering stars.
I take my time, determined to make this even better than our first night together.
If this is my last taste, I’m going to savor it.
When I roll the condom on and slide inside her, it really feels like coming home.
I should be terrified, but the experience electrifies me.
Her nails dig into my shoulders, her breathing harsh against my ear as she tightens around me, repeating my name on ragged breaths.
I follow her over the edge, her name on my lips like a prayer.
Afterward, we lie tangled together on the sofa, her head on my chest, my fingers tracing patterns on her bare skin. I feel oddly content, more satisfied than I can remember being in a long time, and it's not just the physical release.
"You okay?" I ask, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
She nods, her curls tickling my chin. "More than okay."
I tilt her face up to mine, struck by the realization that I want more of this—more of her—and not just in my bed. I want to know her stories, her dreams, her fears. I want to be the one she calls when she's having a bad day. I want to see her smile, hear her laugh, hold her when she cries.
It's too much, too soon, and yet it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, marveling at the softness of her skin, the warmth in her eyes.
“Will you stay, Sloane?” The question comes out rough with an emotion I’m not ready to name.
Her eyes meet mine, and her face shifts, and I know what she’s going to say. I feel the crushing weight of her words before she even opens her mouth.