Chapter 40
DARBY
Standing by the couch in Henrik’s shirt, I debate opening my suitcase to find something to wear. At least some clean panties. That would be smart. Right? Right.
But I don’t have to be smart. I don’t have to play it safe. I don’t have to wear boring business casual or age-appropriate leisurewear.
I can wear my boyfriend’s shirt and nothing else if I want.
Though that word—boyfriend—makes me feel like a teenybopper. Which isn’t a bad feeling, to be honest. Young. Reckless. Not afraid of breaking a few hearts, taking some risks, enjoying everything life has to offer.
I’ve always been the good girl. Perfect grades. Perfect attendance. Need someone to work overtime? Sure. Need someone who’s meticulous and conscientious? I’m your girl.
When have I ever been sexy? Daring? Seductive?
When did I ever have the pleasure of torturing three men simply by sitting in nothing but a low-cut flannel shirt?
It’d be too bad if some of those buttons accidentally on purpose came undone. Or if I forgot to sit like a lady.
If I dare.
Playing it as cool as possible, I walk into the kitchen to finally grab my phone since I’m up. I scan my inbox, facing away, while I undo a button at the top. Another.
Oops. The shirt hangs open almost to my navel now.
I have a text from Kirstin too. I debate buttoning at least one back into place while I read another terrible review from Darby’s Too.
This isn’t Darby’s. If you ever went to the old one, you know who she is. The blonde woman running the place looks like she’s 18 and doesn’t even know who Darby is.
I thought Michael was running the place, not a young woman. I text Kirstin back.
Do you know who the woman is?
She replies almost immediately with a link.
Sorry.
I pull up the link, and it’s an article in the local business section talking about the new bakery run by Michael Wilkins and his fiancée Katrina Phelps, helpfully listed as ages thirty-four and twenty-one, respectively.
My god. She’s barely legal. Pretty too. Elegant. Like she comes from money.
Ah. Things are starting to become clear to me. I type back to Kirstin.
Wanna bet he got the money to open a new place from her father?
Oh, for sure. Her family’s from Texas and they’re loaded.
Memories flood me. I was twenty-one when I got the job at the large bakery and finally found something I was passionate about.
Michael had already dropped out of college by then.
We were broke. All the time. Like ramen for dinner and searching under cushions and seats for change to get a gallon of gas broke.
Until I started working full time and still managed to graduate from college.
So many hopes and dreams, dying one by one. Fluttering away like papers in a hurricane. All because of my choice to marry Michael. I took my vows seriously. Far more seriously than he did.
I feel sorry for her.
It’d be too bad if someone told her what he’s really like.
She probably wouldn’t believe it.
Even if she did believe it, she might think she’s in too deep now. Her father would want his money back, or at least the business. Michael would’ve made sure his name was on any contracts so he could get his fucking share. Just like he did to me.
She still had a chance to get out. They weren’t married. Yet.
How’s the lumberjack hunk?
I bite my lip, trying to decide how much to say. I type out, Will you be mad if I don’t come back? But I don’t send it. She’ll call immediately, and I don’t want to talk about it right now with the guys in the next room. I delete the text and then type out,
They’re coming to Vegas with me tomorrow.
They??
Shit. I mentioned his friends before, but not their interest in me. Again, something I can’t really discuss right now when they’re less than twenty feet away.
I’ll fill you in later. Bye.
Hopefully she takes the hint.
I take a deep breath to center myself and then casually turn around and walk back toward the living room.
Ren’s not back yet. Leland’s still on the couch where I’d been sitting earlier, but he has his laptop out now.
No padded desk like he has at Henrik’s, so he’s using one of the decorative throw pillows on his lap.
Henrik’s sitting on the bottom part of the U sectional, his back tucked into the corner, one leg up on the couch. He’s reading on a tablet, but he’s very helpfully laid the book I’d been reading at his place between him and Leland.
Telling me exactly where he hopes I sit down.
Neither of them look up, which sort of ruins my grand entrance. Skadi has reclaimed her blanket nest on the floor. I could walk around some more to get her food out, but she had breakfast thanks to Henrik’s special omelet. She really doesn’t need her kibble until dinner.
So I step around her, pick up the book, and take a seat. Now if I can only concentrate enough to actually read…
REN
I don’t usually write our music with company, even the guys. The lyrics and sound are mine. Once we get to rehearsal, they of course make suggestions, and we inevitably make a million adjustments until it’s perfect.
But the first, raw draft is mine alone. It’s like opening a vein sometimes. Hurts like a bitch.
I’m not sure I can focus on anything with Darby close, even if she’s not watching me.
As I sit opposite Leland with my notebooks and scribble paper, I’m a little self-conscious, which is a feat indeed for the Gustafson Hotshot.
I’m used to being center stage. Carrying the immense pressure of a crucial playoff match. The Olympics. Cameras in my face.
No big deal.
Write a song when my muse is sitting a few feet away? Agonizing.
Again, a little self-conscious, but I close my eyes so I can drift into the right mind space.
Sometimes I put on headphones and listen to the sounds of skating on ice.
The slice and rasp of steel immediately take me to the Ice.
Or better yet, I skate by myself at night and speak the ideas out loud while I move.
I could use some chill air right now to cool me down. I’ve never skated in the buff before, but I could stand to douse myself in icy water for sure.
Lay down on the ice. Face down. Melting through to the water below.
Images flicker through my mind. My bedroom door. Unlocked. Swinging open for her. “Wishful thinking.” On my knees. Her hand slowly reaching out to flip the switch.
Turn me on. Light me up. Let the fire rage.
I scribble these words down with my favorite pen. Other random phrases. This is me. Heart unlocked. Your name like an oath. Written in my blood. Red on the ice. Melting through.
Movement out of the corner of my eye draws my attention. She shifts on the couch, scooting closer to Henrik. Mesmerized, I stare at the long slit of skin. Throat. One creamy curve of her breast. The shirt is barely covering her. Riding up on her thighs as she moves. Higher.
As she swings her legs up onto the couch, I catch the briefest glimpse of the dark curling hairs covering her pussy. A bit of pink flesh.
She’s facing Leland now, and he’s ensnared. Caught in the same web as me. Only she’s reading his book. His words. His heart and emotions exposed. Just like mine in our music.
Henrik shifts the tablet to his other hand so he can play with her hair. She leans back against his chest, cradled between his thighs.
Now, nobody’s getting any work done.
I’m trying not to stare for fear she’ll catch me and stop.
I don’t want to remind her she has an avid audience.
I can’t draw for shit, not like Alyssa, but I can’t spell my own name right now.
So I doodle, drawing circles, warm-up drills around the rink of my paper.
Testing one blade and then the other. Subtle weight shifts.
Like hers. Nudging her buttocks harder against Henrik’s groin.
Not sure how he’s not blubbering like a baby, especially if he knows she’s naked under his shirt.
He must. That’s what he meant about torture when I came in.
She just can’t sit still. I know for a fucking fact she hasn’t turned a single page in that book, and I’ve read every single one of Leland’s books.
I know how good they are, so it’s not boredom.
She’s horny. We all are. But Henrik’s controlling the game.
Evidently the Mighty Zon has a game plan that doesn’t involve a pack of ravenous wolves descending on his girl. Not even himself.