Chapter 13 Pembrooke Books
Pembrooke Books
Lenzin
Practice ends exactly the way it always does. My body spent. But for the last week, my mind has been in overdrive. The rink empties in stages—music cuts out, helmets unclip—and the scent of ice, sweat, and effort lingers. I follow my unwritten script: shower, change, stretch. No cutting corners.
It should calm me. It doesn’t. Between the final drill and the last lace coming undone, one thought takes hold: they’re out there.
Hildy and Lucy, making their way through the city as daylight dies.
Subways crowding. Sidewalks shrinking. That nighttime edge New York gets, when everyone moves faster, sharper, less forgiving.
I despise it. Not in theory, in my gut. I tell myself it’s rational—risk assessment, pure math. Lucy is three; Hildy is stretched thin. Dusk narrows margins. It’s not paranoia. Then I remind myself I’m not responsible for them. That one doesn’t stick.
By the time I leave the locker room, my jaw is locked tight. Aleks catches up in the parking lot. “You coming for food?”
“No,” I say.
He squints. “You always come.”
“I have an errand.”
He studies me. “Since when?”
“Just now.”
He watches me head to my vehicle, unconvinced but smart enough not to push it.
There it sits, my black-on-black BMW X7—huge, plush, German precision. Practical, yes. Also, wildly obscene.
The engine’s quiet growl soothes me more than it should. I merge into traffic, telling myself I’m en route to Pembrooke for books. True—I do need books. Just not right this second.
It gets dark early this time of year. Streetlights flicker, headlights multiply, crowds tighten. I picture Hildy mapping it all—pace, density, safest route—because she has to. I hate that she has to.
I swear it’s not about control, not about undermining her. I simply have a vehicle and free time. If I pass near them, I’ll offer a ride. If they say no, fine.
I say that twice, to convince myself.
Traffic eases as I near Pembrooke. I signal, turn, and pull up to the curb and park.
Inside Pembrooke Books, the air is dense with dust and aged paper—a silent wealth that never shouts. It’s exactly like my grandmother’s winter parlor, where even a whisper felt intrusive. I stand still, aware any movement could mark me an outsider.
I glance at the desk, the office behind it, remembering Lucy told me she has a special place in the office where she works. She’s currently hard at work taking a nap.
I walk in further and spot Hildy Sullivan—her last name now seared into my memory—perches on a scuffed step stool, reshelving hardcovers.
Her hands glide over the spines without hesitation, handling each book like a seasoned hockey player caresses a stick.
Her hair, impossible to miss, is braided back in a riot of copper-tones, catching the late afternoon sun that streams through the windows.
I hover at the edge of her vision, rehearsing a peace offering—never an apology, because I refuse to regret what was real.
This meeting should’ve happened weeks ago if Aleks hadn’t warned me she was off-limits, Fairfax territory.
Had I ignored his caution, the tension of the past week might never have settled into this simmering dread.
I still don’t know why I obeyed or why I never tested those boundaries.
With hockey, my parents declared I couldn’t both play and graduate Yale with honors.
I met that head-on, excelling in both arenas.
I was drafted into the pros without hesitation.
But how could I compete at that level and then turn around to fulfill family obligations—marry a girl they chose long ago, oversee our estate?
I may not have outrun it, but I delayed it.
That night with Hildy was amazing, and I’ve been furious I haven’t been living in her memory too. Time would dull the edges, but memories aren’t so easily buried beneath sand. Hers of me may have faded; mine of her ever present.
We didn’t swap numbers, schemes, or even names—our encounter was disposable, a contract with no terms. A one-night accord born of mutual need, sealed with the lie that there’d be no fallout. Yet here I stand, confronting its aftermath.
She reaches high for a book, and the hem of her shirt flutters—a sliver of skin revealed, then gone.
I note it: she’s an expert at hiding in plain sight, even that night I knew her clothes were not made for her, even though she spoke as if she’d been raised like me.
It’s not exposure she offers, but the promise of it.
She guards herself, convinced the world doesn’t deserve full access. I couldn’t agree more.
My mind doesn’t panic or race; it catalogs every detail and, in her case, refuses to move on. Something has changed. Her movements are a fraction more cautious, her breath a hair shallower as she bends, the way her hand steadies her back as she straightens. A subtle, almost forensic trace.
She steps down with the soft grace. For a moment, the sunlight outlines her. Freckles dust the bridge of her nose, her gaze fixed, unaware of the storm I’m navigating, she can’t.
I pick up a book from the table—anything to occupy my hands while I convince myself I’m imagining this. I turn and grab a copy titled Inheritance—of course—it bears a subtitle about bloodlines and choices echoing across generations. Fitting.
I almost laugh, but I was raised to maintain composure. I am a Faulker von Hohenwald, descendant, accident of lineage. Trained to appear unbothered, except when it comes to hockey, the only exception. My private life isn’t for public display, and this moment threatens that.
I think of Savannah—another one-night outcome—and Claudia, here on a summer PhD internship. The parallels are uncanny.
Kyle Dingy may look monstrous for trying to reclaim what he abandoned, but at least he had an option.
“Hi,” she says, voice cool, but courteous.
“I’m hunting for a new read,” I say, smiling as harmlessly as I can. “Seen this one?”
She glances toward the book in my hand. “It’s a YA series—popular, but not my thing.”
I replace it. “I’ll keep looking. Might take a minute. What time are you done? I could give you and Lucy a ride.”
She arches an eyebrow. “No bookstores in Brooklyn?”
“Not owned by my teammate’s fiancée,” I reply.
“I’m off in ten minutes.”
The checkout process is mercifully swift. The clerk—a woman who looks barely out of her teens—leans on the counter with that bored confidence people mistake for poise. Her gaze flits over the small mountain of books, then settles back on me, holding just a moment too long.
She likes what she sees, but I don’t bed women that young or na?ve enough to think that after one fuck that I could possibly want more.
“I’d ask if you found everything,” she says casually, “but I imagine you did.”
“Yes,” I reply, swiping my card and placing it back into my wallet.
Her smile flickers, as if she’d hoped for more. I fold the receipt neatly into my pocket.
Lucy stirs in the office, and a soft sound escapes her, then her head lifts—those sleepy eyes blinking as if she’s confused about her surroundings. They lock onto me instantly.
“Faulker,” she mumbles, voice heavy with sleep, which is not like her.
“Hello, Lucy,” I whisper as I walk around the counter, not asking or needing permission to do so, and I gather her up.
She exhales and buries her forehead in my collarbone. Instinctively, I shift her weight—one hand firm at her back, the other cradling her legs. She’s too warm. A mild fever.
“We’ll go to the car,” I tell her. “You can rest.” She nods once, completely surrendered.
I push the door open with my shoulder and step into the sunlight just as Hildy rounds the corner, startled by the sight of me carrying Lucy. She glances from Lucy to me, then to the bag in my hand.
“She woke up,” I say quietly. “I’m quite sure she’s got a fever.”
Worry threads through Hildy’s calm facade.
“I’ll take that,” she says, easing my bag from my grasp. “I’ll grab my things and meet you outside.”
“Mommy, I need Axel.” Lucy whimpers.
Mommy.
Hildy leans in to brush Lucy’s hair back and kisses her forehead. “I’ll be right there.”
Lucy watches her go, then settles again, cheek pressed to my shoulder. “I feel yucky.”
I adjust my hold and continue toward the car, pace steady, careful not to jostle her. She smells sweet still, like she does, but warm.
By the time we reach the BMW, her breathing has evened out again, small and steady against my chest.
I unlock the back door, ready to get her settled, already recalculating the rest of the evening.
Some plans can be postponed.
This isn’t one of them.
Hildy attempts to lift Lucy, and something inside me snaps. “Not happening,” I growl, the words spilling out before I can catch them.
As we step into the house, I realize how counterproductive that was, but it pales in comparison to the scene unfolding before us.
“Hey, Lucy, what’s going on, girl?” Hank asks, his girlfriend hovering beside him.
Teeth chattering, Lucy replies, “I’m freezing.”
I press my lips to her forehead, feeling the heat radiate from her skin.
“Do we have a thermometer?” I ask Hank.
“There’s one in my bathroom,” Hildy says, already moving toward the door.
“When you get that settled, come back and say hello,” I hear a familiar voice call to my back. Anneliese Weissmann. My betrothed is here in New York.
Hildy steps back into the room, her gaze steady on me. “Go, I have her.”
“I’m so cold, mommy,” Lucy whimpers, curling tighter against me.
“I’ll set her down,” I say, moving slowly toward the couch.
As I lay her down, she flinches as if I’ve hurt her, tears welling in her eyes. “It hurts,” she cries, clinging to me desperately.
“Let’s let Hildy take your temperature first, then we’ll warm up your bed,” I suggest gently.