6. Brynlee
Some girls grew up wanting to be the princess saved from the dragon by the handsome prince. I wanted to be the dragon slayer. Now... I want to be the dragon rider. I guess I can thank romance books for that evolution.
—Brynlee’s Secret Thoughts
Fifteen minutes later, I find myself listening to the last chapter of the epic fantasy romance I’m currently binging on Audible. And okay, so maybe... just maybe, I’m using it as a stalling tactic while I sit parked in front of the Kroydon Hills Plaza Hotel. The last few words of the book play out on my Bluetooth before I wipe an errant tear from my cheek. Damn it. I swear I always cry when I’ve invested so much time in a series, and the hero and heroine finally get their happily ever after.
I grew up watching the most modern fairytale imaginable play out between my parents.
Their love was tangible.
It had its own heartbeat.
My father encouraged my mother to be the strongest woman in any room but never let her forget he was always going to be there, standing next to her, holding her hand, and giving her his strength when she needed it.
Scarlet Kingston was the original dragon rider in my eyes.
You’d think that would make me a daydreamer, desperate for her chance at the kind of love I grew up watching. And maybe I was at some point. But life seems to have other plans for me.
Plans that might not look the way I thought they would.
Plans that I’m still trying to come to terms with.
As the credits roll on my book, I push the button to turn off my car and silently count to ten, giving myself an out.
Right now, Deacon Kane doesn’t know I’m here.
We haven’t crossed any weird work lines, and we don’t owe each other a single thing.
That all changes if I go upstairs.
Which leads me to ask myself, again, what the hell I’m doing here.
Room 210... His husky voice whispers in my ear as if he’s standing right next to me, his hot breath tickling my sensitive skin, instead of being an already distant memory more than twelve hours after leaving him on the beach. No sooner does that thought trickle in and out of my mind than I’m closing the car door behind me with anticipation thrumming through my veins for the first time in a long time. A smile plays on my lips because I know exactly why I drove here.
I did it for myself.
I felt more alive lying in the cold sand next to Deacon than I’d felt in months, and I. Want. More.
More sparks.
More life.
Just. More. Time.
With steadier feet than I’d expect to have, I walk by the front desk and wave at the woman standing behind it, her face familiar from classes I teach at Crucible. I don’t stop to chat, eager to garner as little attention as possible. It’s been months since I was the focus of a Kroydon Kronicles article, and I’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible.
The fewer people who see me here, the better.
I slip quietly onto the elevator and press the button for the second floor, then wait for an eternity to pass before the doors finally close. No sooner have I exhaled the breath I was unknowingly holding than the doors open once more, and I’m left scanning the hall for prying eyes before taking a few steps toward one of the first doors and raising hesitant knuckles to knock on the door of Room 210.
My hand hangs in the air, fisted and frozen as my emotions go to war.
Can something be equally stupid and out of character and yet completely worth it at the same time?
Guess I’m about to find out.
I’ve barely touched the door when it’s swung open, and I’m met with Deacon standing just inside. A white towel is knotted at his hips as water droplets run down from his jet-black hair. A sexy smirk slides into place when any words I may have prepared die a quick death on my suddenly dry lips.
Ho-ly hell. This man is just so... much.
Broad, beautifully carved shoulders slope down to a chest I’d love to get my hands on, strictly in a professional manner... of course. His pecs are pure perfection, and as a few lucky droplets of water sluice over beautiful, tanned washboard abs—I manage to count eight... Eight.
This man is the epitome of a golden god, and I may have just swallowed my own tongue because I stand here without words, fighting to shake myself out of whatever trance I seem to be frozen in.
“St. James.” My name sounds more like a curse than a greeting from his lips. “Didn’t think you were coming.”
He doesn’t step aside or ask me in, and suddenly I find myself wondering if I read him and the entire situation wrong. The backs of my eyelids burn with embarrassment, and I have no doubt a crimson red wave of heat is washing over my face.
Seriously?The first time I put myself out there in forever, this is what happens?
Screw this and screw him for making me feel this way.
“You know what?” I shake my head, aggravated that I’ve allowed myself to be so vulnerable. “I shouldn’t have come. I’ve had a bad day, and I guess I wasn’t thinking straight. It won’t happen again.”
“That’s it? Didn’t know you’d give up so easily,” he challenges, and I taste the coppery tang of blood in my mouth as I bite down on my bottom lip to keep my smart mouth in check.
I’m going to have to work with this man, if only for the next month.
It’s still a damn month.
“Give up?” I counter, getting ready to go toe-to-toe, but Deacon looks up toward the ceiling for a hot second before bringing his stormy blue gaze back to mine. And when he does, I don’t see a man ready to spar. That I know how to deal with. I’ve been doing it for years in every aspect of my life. No... this man looks wrecked.
“I’m sorry. That’s not what I fucking meant. Guess you’re not the only one who’s had a bad day.” He runs his fingers through his hair, moving it off his face. The action draws me back to that beautiful body and the way it moves. I’d love to study this man’s muscles. Again... in a purely professional way. “I thought you were room service. I’ve got a pizza and beer coming up. Want to share shit-day stories over dinner?” He pushes the door wider and steps aside. “You gonna come in or make me stand here in a towel until somebody snaps a picture they can sell to the tabloids?”
Guess he did see the Kroydon Kronicles article after all.
Better get used to it in this town.
I walk by him with a roll of my eyes. “Not sure anyone would buy that picture, Kane. We’ve got a lot of athletes in Kroydon Hills, and they’ve been caught in less,”—I drag my eyes over his chest with a smile and tease—“and looking better.”
Deacon
This spitfire walks by me like she owns the hotel, and for all I know—or care—she might. Her bare arm brushes mine, and my hair stands on end. This woman... Damn, I’m glad she’s not looking at me because something about her less than impressed attitude and the insane fucking electricity thrashing between us like a live wire makes it hard to hide my cock jumping to attention behind my towel. My eyes stay locked on her as the streetlights filtering in through the curtains bathe her in a warm glow.
“Give me a minute,” I groan before grabbing sweats and making my way into the bathroom. I throw them on, then pick up the t-shirt I tossed on the floor earlier and sniff.
Yeah . . . that’s not gonna work.
When I step back into the bedroom, Brynlee’s thanking the room service guy. She turns to me with a sexy smile on her face and pizza and beer in each of her hands, having no idea that standing in front of me the way she is right now, she’s my fucking dream girl. No makeup. A tight tank top and a pair of jeans with holes in both knees. She radiates comfort and confidence, and fuck, that’s sexy. Add the pizza and beer, and I’d have to beat men off with a hockey stick if they were lucky enough to see what I’m seeing. And I’d do it willingly for this woman.
I don’t share.
“You better get a shirt on, Kane. Wouldn’t want to drip any grease on that pretty chest. You’ve got to look good for the front page of the tabloids, after all.” Her smile stretches across her beautiful face and lights up those green eyes, and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, I’m a goner.
Brynlee places the food on the table and pulls a beer bottle out of the six pack. She inspects it with a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Good choice. This is my cousin’s beer.”
I grab an old Boston University tee from the edge of the bed before I take the beer she’s holding out for me. “Oh yeah? I figured I’d try the local IPA.”
She twists the cap off and steps back, watching me with careful eyes. “Go ahead. I want to know if you like it.”
“Awfully invested in your cousin’s beer, St. James. You guys must be close.”
Her face drops before she scowls. “The asshole took my condo today. So I’m not really sure how to answer that.” She searches through the brown bag on top of the pizza box and pulls out paper plates and napkins. Then she puts them on the table before placing the remainder of the six pack in the fridge, while she helps herself to a bottle of water before sitting down. She looks up at me with pursed lips and a sparkle in her eyes. “Are you going to sit to eat, or do you expect me to cut your pizza too?” she teases with a laugh, and fuck... I like her sass.
I drop down onto the chair and tear away a slice, then push the plate in front of her before serving myself. She might be feeling salty tonight, but I do have manners. Even if the eating I’d like to do right now doesn’t involve pizza or a plate. I watch her fold the pizza in half and wait for the grease to drip off before she takes a bite, and I’m pretty fucking sure I’ve never been jealous of a slice of pizza before right now.
We eat in silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts for a minute until Brynlee cracks open her water bottle and catches me staring. “So... why was your day such a shit show?”
I shake my head no. “Uh-uh. My momma taught me manners. Ladies always come first.”
Her breath catches on a silent gasp, and I know she’s feeling this crazy connection too before she quickly recovers. Her shoulders rise with a deep inhale before she blows out a breath. “Let’s see... I made a stupid bet with my cousin because I trusted my mother. A mistake I had to learn the hard way. Because, thanks to her, I lost the bet and my job.”
“What the hell? Your job with the Revolution?”
What kind of fucked up family is the Kingstons?
“I didn’t lose my job so much as quit.” She takes another bite of the pizza, and I can’t take my eyes off her.
Could she possibly have any clue what she’s doing to me or the hold she already has on me? When I don’t say anything, she finally answers my silent question. “My mother wanted to move me over to work with the Philadelphia Kings football team. Which would mean working under her instead of Max.”
“And that would be bad?” I ask without thinking it through, and the look Brynlee gives me would cut a lesser man down. Good thing I’m not a lesser man.
“My mother and I...” she chews her lip. “We wouldn’t work well together. We’d probably kill each other in the process. But it’s not even that. I worked hard to get where I am, and I love this team. I never wanted to work with the football team. I always knew the only other place I’d love as much as the Revolution would be working for Crucible.”
“Your dad’s gym?” It’s a rhetorical question. Crucible is well-known to anyone who’s ever followed MMA.
The anger disappears from her face, and a gorgeous smile appears in its place as she nods. “I grew up in that place. The octagon was my playground. The fighters were my first babysitters. If it wasn’t hockey players, it was always going to be fighters. So I quit. I gave my mom thirty days’ notice, and tomorrow, I’ll tell my dad I’m finally ready to take him up on his offer.”
She shrugs, like quitting her job is no big deal, and I’m reminded of what different lives we’ve led. Quitting a job without having another lined up has never been an option in my life.
“And you’re sure your dad will hire you?” I ask, as interested in her answer as I am in the sound of her voice.
She nods and rips the crust from her pizza, then points it at me like she’s waving a wand.
“Hey, now, Hermione. Don’t point that thing at me.”
Her face softens, and her smile spreads, deviously. “Are you a Potterhead, Deacon?”
“Kennedy and I have been reading chapters together at night over FaceTime. It was a great way to get to spend time with her, even if we were in different states.” I lean back in my chair and sip my beer, ignoring the anger that bubbles right under the surface when I think about Isla wanting to take my daughter across the world. “We’re up to The Prisoner of Azkaban.”
“That’s sweet. I bet she’s a real daddy’s girl.”
“Yeah. But her stepdad just got offered a promotion that would move them to Japan, and I hate the idea of being a FaceTime father for the next two years. Not sure how that’s gonna work yet,” I groan through gritted teeth.
“Oh, Deacon. I’m so sorry.” She reaches her hand across the table and rests it on my forearm, and even through my frustration, her touch heats my skin. “What are you going to do?”
“No fucking clue,” I admit, so fucking frustrated that just when I thought I’d get to have my daughter in my life more than FaceTimes and summers, she’s going to be ripped even further away than she is now.
Brynlee pops up from the table and clears our plates with a smile, then turns to me. “Come on, Kane. Get up.”
“What are you thinking, crazy girl?” I ask with a gruff laugh.
She holds her hand out for me. “What? Are you scared?”
I take her hand in mine and stand, then lift my other hand to her face. “Of you? Not hardly, Brynn.”
She licks her lips as her green eyes darken to a shade you only see in pictures of the Irish countryside. “Maybe you should be,” she whispers, and fuck... maybe she’s right.