Chapter 22 #4
“That fact wasn’t in your high school yearbook or anywhere else I looked to gather information about you. Nothing about it on social media that I ever saw, no photos of you at a Dead & Company concert.”
“That’s right. At least you didn’t bug my earbuds to find out what music I listen to.”
A flush of shame rises like a thermometer to my face.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound invasive or stalkerish or anything.
It’s my job to know…” I trail off because I can sense I’m veering back into professional mode—which is entirely too impersonal for our current, umm… whereabouts? In bed together. Sort of.
“I know it’s your job. You can’t seem to get away from that, can you? But I get it. I’m more or less obsessed with hockey.”
“I’m not obsessed with you.” I rush the words out and then realize instantly they’re not true—before he aims his beguiling grin at me. “I mean...” I narrow my eyes and mutter, “Jerk,” sounding as if I’ve been defeated somehow.
He laughs. Meanwhile, glancing at the giant TV screen, Jaws is in the process of swallowing the poor grizzly old captain whole. Why do I identify so much with that old captain right now?
“I can see why Jaws is one of your favorite movies.”
He laughs again, then puts down his half-eaten carton of Cherry Garcia and moves in closer to me. It’s odd, but I don’t panic or hyperventilate, and my heart doesn’t stop. I mean, it speeds up some because I’m human, but—
Then he puts an arm around me and takes my almost empty carton of ice cream from my useless hands and puts it alongside his.
They make a nice couple on the bedside table.
That’s where I’m looking and what I’m thinking as my heartrate steadily increases, and I concentrate on maintaining my breathing.
I exhale. “There’s nothing better than chocolate and peanut butter together and chunks of cookie dough as a bonus.” The words rush out of my mouth fast, as if they’ll make more sense with speed.
His chuckle is so close to my face that I feel the disturbance in the wisp of hairs at my temple. He rests a hand on my fluffy comforter-covered lap, but I feel the burn of it all the way through to my thigh.
I turn to him, “Do you think this is what it’s really like to be married?”
His brows go up further than I’ve ever seen, hiding under a glorious shock of his abundant hair somewhere, and a blip of satisfaction at surprising him registers underneath my absolute mortification. I can’t believe I actually uttered those words out loud.
“I… don’t think about marriage. Recent events notwithstanding.” He recovers his easy expression, mostly, because I see some lingering wariness.
“Why not?”
“I never expect to get married.”
“Your answer was too quick.”
“Too quick for what?”
“Too quick for me to believe you.”
“What about you? You should be in love and on your way to the altar with some lucky guy by now. For real, I mean.”
I laugh and marvel at his ease and lack of self-consciousness about a subject that should be touchy for both of us. It is for me at least, but since he’s game, I jump in with both feet, giving free rein to my curiosity—to my obsession with him.
“Don’t change the subject. I was talking about you. Why haven’t you fallen in love—”
“I don’t believe in love.”
Sighing, I shake my head. “Don’t confuse love with marriage. You don’t have control over love—so I’m told,” I add hastily and clear my throat. “Someday you might fall in love and reconsider your beliefs. You might even get married for real. Unless you’re commitment-phobic.”
“I have no problem with commitments. I’m committed to hockey all the way.”
“Then if the right girl comes along and you fall in love, you might just fall madly enough to get married.”
“Maybe I’m already in love—with hockey.”
My heart lurches up to my throat for a moment at his declaration, before he clarifies. Because I’m silly enough to think—never mind. I gulp down the stupid fluttering and return to our reasonable, logical discussion. “Romantic love is nothing like hockey love.”
“No. Unlike hockey, when you lose in romantic love, you learn from your mistakes and don’t rush back out the next day to play again. You learn that the price of losing is too high to ever play the game again.”
As he says this, a deep sense of sadness overwhelms me. I’m not sure if I’m sad for him, or if I’m feeling his sadness.
Either way, I get what he’s saying. I’ve been there.
I put my hand over his where it still rests on my thigh. “I had a difficult romantic experience when I was young too.”
His eyebrows lift again in surprise, but he tamps down on his expression right away. “Sorry to hear that, honey—Bianca.” He pauses like he’s not sure—a rarity—if he should say more.
I hold my breath until he does.
“What makes you think I had a difficult romantic experience?”
I shrug, realizing it would be a leap. After all, he was the class heartbreaker. “You’re right. You were on the giving end of the broken hearts, not the receiving end. My mistake.”
I turn away, wishing I could think of a graceful way to change the subject suddenly, but the only thing that leaps to mind is talking about contracts, and I can’t think of a segue between broken hearts and negotiating for a fifteen percent increase on the underwear deal. Or maybe—
“Maybe you weren’t mistaken,” he says gruffly. He lets out a long breath.
“What?” I pause a beat, and he gives me a speculative look. My heart speeds up for no good reason, and I blurt, “Hey, about that underwear deal. You should get more for posing practically naked. I’m going to negotiate for—”
“I don’t mind posing nearly naked. It’s my brand.”
“It was your brand. Now—”
“Shit. That’s right. You’re my so-called wife, and you aren’t supposed to be cool with me showing off my—”
“Right. What were you saying about me not being mistaken?”
He laughs. “Leave it to you to follow up on the details.” He pauses like he’s gathering himself, and I wait, feeling like he’s sharing something he doesn’t normally share, which gives me an inordinate bubble of giddiness.
I remind myself this is something sad he’s sharing, and the pinch of guilt and compassion sobers me.
“I did have a difficult romantic experience—a fucking crushed heart when I was fifteen if you want to know the truth. You happy?” He smiles like he’s happy, as if telling me was an accomplishment.
In spite of his smile and the fact that it happened years ago, I can’t get past the idea of him having a crushed heart, and my empathy kicks in like a bad habit I can’t seem to break—which I need to do if I want to succeed with the sharks in this business, or any business.
“I’m not happy at all. I’m sorry. It must have been painful. You were so young.”
“Don’t worry about me. I wasn’t too young to learn fast. Now I’m immune. So I guess it was a good thing to learn early, to get inoculated against the Cupid virus.”
“You see love as a sickness?”
“It’s a fact. They call it lovesick for a good reason, don’t they?”
I nod, and my tummy tumbles like it’s giving a nod of understanding and feeling the connection in every last little tummy cell. I bet it was that girl—woman his sister was talking about—Kara.
“You must have felt it?” he asks with real curiosity, the carefree note gone from his voice.
I nod. “I guess I have.” I try to shrug away the emotions rising in me, threatening to overwhelm me because he looks at me too closely, and I know he’s noticing there’s something deep in my expression.
I can feel the gravity of attraction right down to my flickering eyelashes, and I don’t mean physical attraction.
I feel a real honest connection with him, like he’s not from another universe after all.
“Looks like we have more than hockey in common.” Brody flashes a boyish grin, deepening his dimple. His pleased expression looks genuine. I almost hiccup with nerves—the excited kind.
Holy hockey boy. I could be in trouble.
Trouble? What’s wrong with a little trouble added to the pot of boiling water I’m already in with our fake marriage fiasco? May as well see what Brody has going for him behind that devilish dimple. Did I just think those words?
Even though I know these are the words of my bad angel sitting on my shoulder from hell egging me on to make crazy decisions, I can’t do a thing about it because sometimes decisions are made for a person without rational input from the brain.
I’ve been here before, and no matter how much I regretted it then, I can’t seem to make that matter now.
Instead, I lean in and kiss him.