Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
R en
“W-what?” I can’t have heard her correctly.
Beatrix looks as shocked as I feel at what she just said. Her face goes peony pink, cheeks hotter than the pavement, and her pale blue eyes round into lakes.
“Nothing.”
“Not nothing. You just?—”
“No, I didn’t,” she insists, fanning the air around us as if to dissipate the words. Or cool her skin.
“You—”
“No. I didn’t. Let’s just move on.”
“O-kay…” I’m not sure I can do that, not sure I want to do that. But I also don’t want to make her so uncomfortable that she runs off, so I grudgingly let it go. For now.
“Yeah.” She smooths her hair, even though it’s already perfectly tidy. I take in the totality of what I see before me—the pouty lips, the full breasts outlined beneath her shirt, her curves in all the places I loved to touch.
But now there’s more—the spark in her eyes is fierce, unforgiving. The curve of her cheekbones is still soft, but the set of her jaw looks resolute, like she doesn’t suffer fools. I want to hate that she’s looking at me like I’m the prized fool of all time, but instead, it’s a turn-on.
Ten years.
I had ten years to convince myself that the woman I fell for in college was not as pretty as I remembered. And she’s not. She’s better. More stunning, more effortlessly graceful—even when she was scrambling beneath my dog—and so fucking gorgeous that I’m having a hard time forming words.
A light breeze tugs at her long, dark hair that she’s tried to tame into a ponytail. Tendrils spill out, framing her face and igniting the flame in her eyes even more. Her mouth, which I can’t stop staring at, is twisted into something between a scowl and resignation.
Beatrix looks like she’s about to hit me, which would be a first. Not that we didn’t get into it regularly when we were together, but it was always the feisty kind of foreplay that led to the hottest sex I’ve ever had. Sex I haven’t been able to get out of my head, despite a string of fleeting, lackluster relationships with puck bunnies who were more than happy to oblige when the loneliness got to be a little too much for me.
If the salacious tabloid posts about me and various women had anything to say about it, I succeeded. But none of the women I’ve been with could hold a candle to Beatrix Corbett, and not because she was my first love.
Because she was my only real love.
Ten years of wondering what Beatrix Corbett was up to. Ten years of googling her name to find out. Ten years of wishing I hadn’t been the biggest asshole on the planet because then I just might have a snowball’s chance of asking for her forgiveness .
But I was, so I don’t.
Gave up that hope when I walked out the door at twenty-two to a million-dollar contract that seemed like manna from heaven to a kid with no other skills. I was young and dumb, but that doesn’t excuse my lack of explanation. My lack of communication. If I didn’t know it already, I see it on Trix’s face—pure disdain with a side of disappointment.
That look takes me right back to the days after we broke up, when she refused to take my phone calls and sent barbed replies to my texts. I convinced myself that she was the one being unreasonable, and I actually started to dislike her a little bit. Way easier than loving her from afar and feeling guilty about hurting her. But what they say about love and hate is true—two sides of the same coin. I chose the one that allowed me to sleep at night.
When a guy is lucky enough to find the purest kind of love with a woman like Beatrix Corbett, and then he blows it like I did…well, that guy pretty much deserves whatever miserable fate befalls him after that. It’s why I never tried to contact her, never tried to cross paths with her.
Yet when given the choice between a hundred vacation destinations, you bought one in the one town where she lives.
Well, that’s different. The deal was too good to pass up, better than any of the other vacation homes my broker showed me. When she told me the property has a working winery in addition to old vines in a sought-after appellation, she piqued my interest. I’d never considered being a winemaker, so I almost gave the place a hard pass.
Then I came to visit. Under a setting sun, the vineyards extended out toward the horizon amid a sea of birdcalls and a peaceful lack of bustle that reminded me of where I grew up in the Vermont Berkshires. I wanted to regain that sense of peace without flying across the country. The commute here takes just over an hour from my house in Berkeley, even in traffic. The main residence was a pigsty and a half, sending me into a fever dream of carpentry projects I haven’t had time for, but maybe once I retire from professional hockey.
Right now, that feels like a long way off. The Oakland Otters are a hot mess. Last season, they made every mistake possible on the ice, lost a lot of games, and pissed off fans and investors. The team earned the name Otter Pops because they popped, sputtered, crashed, and burned.
As the new team captain, I’m supposed to have a heavy hand in righting the ship. I’ve been here a month, and there’s no obvious fix. I was the first player brought in during the free agency signing period, and now we have the best roster of players in the league—all the top picks because management decided to throw tons of money at impact players.
And we look like shit. Everyone’s playing his own game, and all the star power in the world can’t win a game if we don’t connect the dots. Fan and investor expectations are sky high, and we’re positioned to be unstoppable if I can create some team unity and get us as good as we look on paper. It’ll take some strong words and leadership, and I haven’t felt this much pressure since I was a rookie player right out of college with everything to prove. I thought those days were in the rearview. Apparently fucking not.
No surprise I’ve been in a surly mood, with only a couple months before our first game. And now, this. Her . The one bright spot in my week. A gorgeous woman who, by her own admission, could adjust both of our attitudes with an afternoon quickie.
But I don’t dare touch that one, not when she’s scowling at me.
“Just like I figured. Truman’s human is a dumbass.” Her answer comes with an eye roll and a raspberry, which only serves to draw my attention to her lips. Plump, pink. Frowny.
Great. I’m the proud owner of a multimillion-dollar piece of property I’ll never see, not if it means a repeat of the way she’s looking at me right now. I get enough pummeling on the ice. The last thing I need is to get my ego stomped on my days off. I need to apologize for my dog and walk away.
“Glad you’re smart enough to blame the dumbass, not his dog,” I say.
This is you apologizing and walking away?
“Helps that I already knew you were a dumbass, even before your dog stole my breakfast.”
“I don’t think it counts as stealing when a person throws her breakfast across the pavement.”
Her eyes narrow, fire blazing within the pale blue. “It was that or let him attack me.”
Truman comes loping over with the remains of the pastry bag and nuzzles Beatrix, tipping his face against her leg and looking up at her with his big, dopey, brown eyes. I defy her to be angry with him, even if he is licking the last of her breakfast from his mouth.
“Labradoodles aren’t known to be attack dogs.”
She rolls her eyes. “Figures you’d have a designer dog,” she mutters. I see her hand flutter as she resists the urge to pet him. I say nothing, just wait for the inevitable to overcome her, and she reaches for his head and scratches him between his curly, floppy ears.
“He knows you’re talking about him. Smart boy.”
“Not smart enough to know he shouldn’t run through a parking lot.”
“Smart enough to find the prettiest woman in six counties.” I lock eyes with her and dare her to believe I’m sincere, even though I know I don’t deserve her goodwill.
“Just six counties?” She retorts. “I’m not falling for your pretty one-liners, Ren. Those days are long gone.”
I study her face, wanting to find some sign that she doesn’t mean what she’s saying. Maybe she doesn’t hate me as much as I always presumed she did. She looks serious, frustrated with me. It’s a look I remember well, and it brings back the end of our relationship when I insulted her with lame explanations and excuses.
“And you didn’t answer my question. The Otters play in Oakland. What are you doing here ?”
“I bought a place.” I point in the distance as though she can see it from here.
Her jaw clenches, and her eyes grow bigger before she looks away. Kicking a toe into the gravel beneath her feet, she brushes some dust from the back of her shirt. Despite her attempt to act casual, she understands that I intend to be here more permanently. Her eyes flit from my face to a tote bag on my shoulder branded with a logo from a fancy paint store.
“Didn’t know you were a winemaker.”
“I’m not. At least not yet.”
She rolls her eyes. Probably seen a dozen of the likes of me, rich guys strolling into town, thinking we can design some cute wine labels and add a vineyard to our collection of toys. She’s wrong about her assumptions, but I’m not going to insult her intelligence with my tale of being swept off my feet by a sunset and a few birds. Or tell her the real reason I bought it.
“Well, good luck to you.”
Holding her cumbersome stack of fabric swatches against one hip, she tucks a wayward strand of hair behind one ear. I bend down to pick up her spilled cup of coffee and its lid a few feet away because it’s the least I can do, but I wish I could say I’m a better guy than that. I wish I could pretend I didn’t notice the perfect swell of her hip and the curve of her cheek. I wish I could say with a straight face that the sight of it didn’t make my dick twitch in my pants. I wish I could forget that five minutes ago, she blurted that she needs to get laid.
But I can’t do any of it, and from the way her face heats when she catches me looking, she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Stop that.” Turning to go, she drops the coffee cup and empty pastry bag into a nearby trash can. Hefting a stack of fabric under one arm, she attempts to move past me. “Bye, Ren.”
“Bye, Trix.”
Truman’s head whips from one of us to the other, seemingly confused about why our encounter is ending.
“You and me both, bud,” I want to say. He runs after Beatrix and leaps in circles around her. For a second, I fear he’ll trip her, but she steadies herself before turning to glare at me. All the while, she pets Truman and alternates between smiling at him and scowling at me. “Is that leash just for decoration?” She points at the leash dangling uselessly from my hand.
I should have slung it around my dog’s neck. Would have, if she hadn’t distracted me so much. “Fully functional.”
“Use it,” she calls, crouching down in front of Truman. She looks him in the eye while talking to him calmly. “You’re going to go with your dad here, and I’m going to leave, okay? He’s going to get some fancy asshole coffee, and hopefully you can use that trick where you knock it out of his hands. Okay, good boy?” She smiles at him.
“Nice,” I say sarcastically. It’s my turn to roll my eyes.
“All’s fair in love and war.”
“Are we really at war, Trix? Come on, it’s been a decade. Maybe we can start fresh as adults. I’m not the bad guy you think I am.”
“I think I know exactly who you are, Ren.”
I smile at her and shake my head. I can’t help it. Her feisty streak amuses the hell out of me. The more riled up she gets, the more I want to push her a little harder, even though the woman already looks like she just might choke me with my own dog leash.
“Can I at least buy you a new cup of coffee? If you’re anything like me, you won’t get far this morning without it.”
She peers at me like I’m strange. “It’s not morning. That was cup number three for me. ”
Glancing at the time, I see that it’s late in the afternoon. I stayed up half the night drawing up plans for what I think I want to do with the main house on the property, only to rip them up this morning. I’m not further along with all my imagined woodworking projects than I was when our season ended and I started working on the place.
“I think you’re the one who referred to it as breakfast. Fine. Let me get your afternoon caffeine fix and a new muffin.”
She shakes her head.
“Please?” I add.
It’s the please that seems to soften her resolve. Or maybe it’s the bag of paint samples on my shoulder. She sneaks another look at it and inhales, opens her mouth, then shakes her head.
“Fine. But only because my blood sugar is dangerously low.”
She starts walking toward the market while I put Truman on his leash. By the time I catch up, she’s holding the door to Oxbow for us, and I brace it with my hand so she can step inside first. “After you.”
As we stand wordlessly in the coffee line, Beatrix smooths the front of her beige sweater and brushes nonexistent dirt from her pants. Tucking a few strands of hair behind her ears, she looks at the coffee menu. My hands itch, dying to free the strands. In college, her hair hung loose and free, and unless we were going to a formal, she wore hoodies and jeans. I know she has a career now, so I don’t expect to find her in sweats, but there’s something else. She seems tense, wound up.
I love that for as smart and capable as she was, she showed me her vulnerable, messier side. I see none of that vulnerability now—just a polished, organized woman with places to go that have nothing to do with me.
Except that … “Or…we don’t need to have coffee. We could go back to my place and…”
Her eyes lock on mine. “Are you serious? ”
I shrug. “You said you had needs, and I’m just trying to be helpful.”
“You’re. Not,” she grumbles through gritted teeth.
Busy tapping on her phone, she doesn’t notice that the person in front of us has finished. I gently place my hand on the small of her back to urge her forward. For a millisecond, she sinks against my hand. Then she jolts away like I’ve just fired the starting gun at a sprint. She leans hard on the counter, as if trying to get as far away from me as possible. “Coffee with cream and a muffin. Whatever you have.” She waves a hand, flustered. I won’t deny that I like seeing her ruffled.
I order a black coffee and a dog cookie for Truman and hold up my credit card. “We’re together.”
“No, we’re not.” She rifles through her purse, but I push the card forward, smile at the barista, and nod. She snatches the card, and by the time Beatrix gets her wallet out, I’m finger-signing the iPad screen.
She turns to me, pointing accusingly. “So, the morning starts at three in the afternoon for you? Out partying or posing for photo ops or whatever you do?” She asks me as though the whole idea bores her, yet the way her hands flit around betrays that she cares a little bit.
“No. I was researching craftsman design features and drawing plans. Not that it came to anything. I’m not much of an artist, turns out.”
Her frosty demeanor thaws slightly. “Designs for what?” She looks pointedly at the tote bag.
“Renovations. I have ideas for the house, but I can’t seem to make them look right on paper. And today, I got sucker punched by paint colors. Did you know that there are about a billion shades of white? I get overwhelmed when I have to choose between paper towel brands.”
I know from some casual Google stalking that she’s won design awards for the restaurants and inn she runs at Buttercup Hill, but it seems that my project has caught her interest. If I toss out breadcrumbs carefully, maybe I can keep her here longer.
Her eyes soften for a moment, as though she’s imagining the glorious blank canvas of a dilapidated house and all she could do with it, but then the focus returns, and she frowns. “It’s harder than it looks. You should hire someone to help.”
I walk toward a tall round table with two chairs and indicate for her to follow. “I think it sounds like you’re offering.” She follows me with a huff that says she’s not enjoying my company.
“You thought wrong.”
I pull the chair out and extend my hand. Shaking her head, she pulls the fabric samples to her chest. “I’m not having coffee with you.”
“Okay,” I say, sitting down and waiting. Her options are to join me or march out, and I know she’s not rude. Beatrix grudgingly puts down her bundle and perches on the chair. She keeps one foot on the ground like she might need to make a hasty escape. “Do you want to see the paint samples? Like I said, there are about a billion, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with them.”
It’s a last-ditch attempt to keep her here, and I can see I’ve failed when she shakes her head emphatically. Then she grabs for the bag. “Let me see what you have.”
I feel a secret thrill, realizing I’ve found her catnip. I seize the small opening when it presents itself. “Go for it. I can’t make heads or tails of any of it—seriously, Dutchess Tea Room? Sierra Stone? These are paint colors? What happened to gray and blue?”
I earn the barest shred of a smile. “When all else fails, go with Swiss Coffee. But seriously, it’s just a coat of paint. You can always paint over it if you don’t like it.” In her zeal to search through the bag, she perches more solidly on the chair, leaning toward me. I catch a whiff of jasmine, and it sends a ripple of want through my veins. I never expected to see Beatrix again. I’d hoped to, but even in my dreams, I’d never anticipated how it might feel. I never expected to feel this—the sensation of being drawn to her like she’s the source of the air I need to breathe.
“Or if you want…you could come look at the place. It’s a zoo of fabric options, furniture catalogs, wood specimens, and paint chips, all rolled up in a disaster of a renovation.” I don’t deserve what I’m asking of her—a few more minutes of her day—but I’m asking anyway because I can’t help it. Now that I’m near her again, I want more. I want as much as she’s willing to give.
For the first time since Truman bowled her over, Beatrix Corbett gives me a smile.
“If I come, it’s only because I’m interested in interior design. Not…the other thing.” She waves her hand toward the parking lot, as if I need a reminder of what’s been bouncing in my brain for a half hour—she wants sex, and I know I can more than satisfy her on that front.
I pretend I don’t see her cheeks blaze pink again. “Of course,” I say. “Whatever you want.”
But Is this what I want?
If you asked the guy with a twenty-two-year-old heart that never forgot Beatrix Corbett, he’d say that yes, it’s what I want. However, the thirty-two-year-old man standing before her isn’t so sure that sex is the only thing he wants from this incredible woman. But if that’s all she’s willing to give me, my greedy heart would ready accept it. My dick would too.
So I walk to my car without turning around. Just hoping she’s following me.