Chapter 35 We Said a Weekend Fling
We Said a Weekend Fling
Eric
The reception is held in a ballroom with wall-to-wall windows overlooking the ocean, and the whole thing feels like something out of a movie.
We’re seated at a table with some of Theo’s college friends, who are hilarious company.
The food is incredible—lobster bisque, beef tenderloin, and a rosé sherbet that Darcy and I probably shouldn’t share as suggestively as we do.
The champagne flows freely, and by the time the dancing starts, we’re both loose and laughing.
But there’s something wrong with my watch, because the night slips by much too quickly.
Before I know it, the cake is cut, the bride and groom have departed in their limo, and the emcee announces the last dance.
The band shifts to “The Way You Look Tonight,” and I pull Darcy close again.
The champagne has made her cheeks flushed and her laugh even more infectious, but now she’s quiet in my arms, swaying gently as the singer croons about foolish hearts and lovely faces.
The ballroom has dimmed, and most of the older guests have filtered out, leaving just the die-hard dancers and us.
I can feel the warmth of her skin through the silk of her dress, smell the faint scent of her perfume mixed with the ocean breeze drifting through the open terrace doors.
I lean down and kiss her, soft and slow, tasting champagne and wedding cake and something that’s purely Darcy.
When we break apart, she’s looking up at me with those turquoise eyes that have been driving me crazy all weekend, and I know I should say something.
Ask her about dinner next week, maybe a real date where we don’t have to pretend.
Tell her I don’t want this to end when we get back to the city.
The words are right there, forming in my head like a reasonable adult conversation. But then she shifts against me, her body soft and warm and perfect, and instead I hear myself whispering, “I want to take you upstairs.”
And it’s like a repeat of our first time, but without the thunderstorm. We barely make it into the room before the clothes start flying off.
Here I’m on solid ground. It’s only been a few days, but I already know what makes her tick.
I know the little gasp she makes when I trace the freckles on her shoulders and how she gets bossy when she wants something—tugging my hands exactly where she needs them, directing me with soft commands that make my pulse race.
I know she feels like silk and moves like she was made specifically to drive me out of my mind.
This time, I force myself to slow down. Maybe it’s the champagne, or maybe it’s the way she looks at me in the moonlight streaming through those floor-to-ceiling windows, but everything feels heightened.
More real. When she whispers my name against my throat, it sounds less like performance and more like prayer.
“Come here,” I say needlessly, as we strain against each other. “I’m going to give it to you so good.”
If you’ll let me.
And then suddenly it’s official—we’ve survived the entire Wedding Experience.
It’s Sunday morning, and I’m shaking Darcy’s father’s hand one last time as he promises to stay in touch about his sponsorship idea.
And I’m lifting Darcy’s suitcases into the trunk of the car, and closing it with a quiet, confident click that betrays its German engineering.
Darcy is waiting in the car, her seat belt buckled.
“We did it,” she says as I climb into the driver’s seat. “No panic attacks. No more migraines. I didn’t bitch-slap my sister this morning, even when she said my shoes were ‘a brave choice.’”
“Job well done,” I agree. Surviving this wedding was the whole goal.
Well, right up until it wasn’t anymore. I don’t actually want to go back to the city right now. I want another day in the sunshine with Darcy.
And another slow dance to “Speechless” or to Ed Sheeran’s “Perfect.”
And another round of slow, passionate lovemaking on that king-sized bed with the windows open to the ocean breeze.
My mood tanks a little for each mile we travel away from the shore.
There’s traffic on 84 as we cross into Connecticut.
And then it gets even worse as we leave Connecticut for New York.
The potholes deepen, and the sky gets hazier, and I hate it here.
We’ll be home in a half hour, and I can feel the weekend slipping away with every mile marker we pass.
I glance over at Darcy, who’s staring out the passenger window. Her thoughtful expression is so familiar now that I feel it like an ache. And I’m hit with the sudden, desperate realization that I need to speak up right now if I don’t want this to end.
“So,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m taking a trip to train in Colorado. I leave next week.”
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. “So when am I going to see you again?”
The question hangs in the air between us, and Darcy’s expression becomes carefully neutral. “At work, Eric. Preseason training will start before you know it.”
“But… that’s it?” The words come out sharper than I intended. I force myself to dial back my tone and rein in the desperation. Nobody likes desperation. “I don’t leave until Friday, though. You could come over for a homemade dinner.”
“Homemade by Marnie?” she asks tightly.
“Well, yeah.” Of course Darcy knows all about the personal chef my friends and I all worship. “I can’t seduce you on my own cooking. But I’ll make coffee in the morning all by myself.”
She turns to the window again, and my heart drops. “Eric, that’s not a great idea.”
“I think it is.” I’m fighting to keep my tone casual, but this conversation isn’t going the way I hoped.
“We said a weekend fling, Eric. The weekend is over.”
“But…” My mind spins, looking for loopholes. Technically, the weekend lasts another few hours. And hasn’t Darcy noticed how good we are together? The fun we’ve had? The incredible sex?
Am I losing my touch?
“What about a summer fling?” I try again. “The weekend fling went pretty well.” Didn’t it? “And summer isn’t over.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
Okay, ouch. “I just don’t understand why not.” The frustration bleeds through now, and I see her stiffen slightly.
“Because we work together. It’s important for me to keep my work life separate from my private life.”
“I realize that,” I say carefully.
“Do you?” she squeaks. “Because there’s nothing private about our workplace or your life. Even your condo shares a hallway with two of your teammates.”
She’s not wrong. Privacy is hard to come by when you live in the NHL fishbowl. There’s got to be a way around it, though. “The thing is…” I could rent another place! I open my mouth to suggest that but then shut it before I sound like a madman.
Darcy gives me a glance, her expression skittish. I’m so confused right now. She wants me. I know she does. But something is holding her back.
Think, Eric. “The thing is… I really like you.” Christ, I sound like I’m asking someone to the seventh-grade dance.
“But for how long, though? It would be so messy if we were actually dating and then…” She takes a breath. “… and then we suddenly weren’t. Your contract is, what? Seven million dollars a year? And I’m the admin. If things got uncomfortable, guess which one of us is leaving? Hint—it’s not you.”
Well, shit. I hate that she has a point. Her job is a complication. Still, it’s not impossible. “What about…” My phone suddenly rings. I hate my phone. I glance at the dashboard display. “Area code 206?”
“That’s Washington state,” Darcy says automatically.
“Oh. I gave out my number to some rookies…”
Before I can even finish the thought, Darcy taps the dashboard, accepting the call through the car’s system. So I guess she’s pulling the ripcord on our conversation.
“This is Eric Tremaine,” I say with a sigh.
“Eric!” The voice is distinctly female, warm and musical. “I don’t know if you remember me. My name is Sienna Skye.”
Darcy inhales sharply in the passenger seat. But the name means nothing to me, so I give her a look of confusion.
“We met at a fundraiser for Children’s Hospital last summer in Seattle. The hem of my dress jammed in the lock of that porta potty, and you forced it open with your pocketknife! I’ll never forget it.”
“Oh, Sienna!” I laugh uncomfortably. That had been a bizarre encounter. “How could I forget? I hope you’ve had better luck with, um, small spaces this year.”
“I’ve avoided locking myself in any more toilet stalls, thanks,” she says with a laugh. “That was a fun night, though, and I’ve been thinking of you as Prince Hockey ever since. We never got to have that drink we talked about getting the next time you came to Seattle.”
I feel Darcy’s eyes boring into me, and suddenly, this phone call feels like the worst possible timing. “Uh, right?” I don’t even remember giving her my phone number.
“And I’m in New York for a few days, so I thought I’d give you a call.”
“Oh, man, are you?” I ask, my voice going high. “That’s a shame because I’m headed to Colorado for strength training.”
“Aw,” she says in a playful voice. “My timing sucks, is what you’re saying?” She laughs at her own joke. “I guess the women of Colorado win this round.”
“Um…” I chuckle again, desperate for an exit ramp from this conversation. “I hope you have a fantastic trip to New York, though. Maybe we’ll catch up another time.”
We sign off, and I hit the end call button on the console with a little more force than necessary.
“Did you seriously not know who that was?” Darcy yelps. She turns her phone in my direction, showing me a picture of a stunning woman with platinum blond hair. She’s accepting what looks like a Grammy award.
“Huh. I mean… I remember rescuing her from a toilet at the Polo Club in Seattle.”
“Polo Club,” Darcy repeats slowly. As if the words don’t quite fit correctly into her mouth. “Eric, did you bang a Grammy-winning recording artist after an A-list party?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I did not.”
“But you thought about it,” she presses.
“Maybe? That was a year ago.” I’m not trying to sound dodgy, it’s just that the encounter didn’t make a huge impression.
Darcy goes quiet in the passenger seat. Then, “Why did you tell her you were going out of town? You don’t leave until Friday.”
Isn’t that obvious? “Because I’m sitting here with you! The person I’m still hoping to see before Friday.”
More silence from Darcy. “I still don’t think that’s a good idea. Maybe you should call her back.”