Chapter Three
Moskins
The five-thousand-square-foot Tudor-style home located in Fairbanks’s only gated cul-de-sac is complete overkill.
I would have been happy with a condo or penthouse suite, not two acres of land that I have no need for.
I’ll give the small city some credit, though.
The area is nicer than where I lived in Pittsburgh, and not far from Greenwich, where I grew up, and some of my oldest friends still live.
Although I suppose friends is a loose term.
I’m not one to reach out very often to my small group of confidants.
I keep in touch by liking their online posts from my burner account.
That way, I don’t have to worry about random pick-me girls coming out of the woodwork to harass me or reporters digging through my shit and asking for exclusives.
I get enough of that on my professional pages.
A few of my former teammates with the Penguins would give me shit for being a bad texter.
What they didn’t know is that I usually just ignored them whenever they’d ask me to come out with them or remind me about team plans.
I went to what I had to and only entertained them with my presence when I felt like it.
If I really needed a drink, I preferred pouring myself one in the comfort of my own home, where temptation and scandal couldn’t find me.
I’d like to think that’s where I differ the most from my parents. I could say no to a stiff drink—I knew my limits. Socially, I’m more tempted to have one too many. But never, never have I let myself cross the line I saw my mother and father step over too many times to count.
So, yeah. I’ve become a homebody.
Especially since my meeting with Mikhail and my agent, Ashton, went exactly as I expected it to.
Which was bad. Very bad. If it hadn’t been for Bodhi Hoffman, the head coach for the Fireflies, stepping in during my father-in-law’s long-winded rant about every reason why he should fire me on the spot, I’d probably be fucked.
Then I would have bought this house and left a team I loved for nothing.
So, solitude is the better option. It’s the only option. Even if the halls echo with my wandering thoughts, it’s better than putting my ass on the line solely for an orgasm or two.
My phone goes off as I walk into the kitchen to find something for dinner, and I glare at my agent’s name on the screen. “What?” is the way I greet him. I’ve learned that when he calls past five o’clock in the evening, it’s usually about nothing good.
Thankfully, Ashton doesn’t care. “Hello to you too. My night was good, thanks for asking.”
I roll my eyes. “You called me. I’m not going to entertain you with small talk.”
He snorts. “Of course not,” he muses. “My mistake. I’m calling to find out why you asked for details about Winter Bronte. The message you left was vague.”
Since when does he care? “You’ve done background checks for me without needing an explanation. Why question me now?”
“Because,” he says smoothly, “those were for women you wanted to sink your dick into. This is someone who’s supposed to be helping save your ass before your father-in-law throws you out onto the street. You can’t fuck her.”
That’s why he’s really calling me. To tell me where I can and can’t put my cock. “I never said I wanted to,” I inform him, even though the thought definitely crossed my mind.
Attitude is like foreplay to me, and Winter wasn’t hesitant to dish it out when I called her a kid. The second she stood up straighter and pinned me with those fierce green eyes, my dick stood to full attention. All I could picture was how good it would look in her mouth.
So, no. I don’t think she’s a kid. I don’t think she’s anything close. But did I like the offense written all over her face when I called her that? Hell, yeah, I did. And what I liked more was her all but telling me to fuck right off.
“I’m simply curious about her,” I explain to the man who likes to tell me what’s best for my career.
If it’s not him being a pain in my ass, it’s my manager.
Both of them would tell me to stop thinking about the blonde with a sharp tongue and focus on what’s more important.
My contract with the Fireflies. My brand deals.
Getting new sponsorships since the old ones have chosen to distance themselves from my less than stellar rep.
Too bad for them, I don’t like listening.
Ashton sighs. “There isn’t much to tell.
She’s new to this position, but she’s qualified.
Janel is the type of person who only hires the best. I’ve worked with her before.
Anybody who she thinks isn’t a right fit for her company barely makes it past the first month before quitting.
Winter being there for a year means something. ”
This is the first case she’s on, according to Janel. She must be picky if she waited this long to assign her. Lucky me for being the chosen one.
“There’s more,” I state. I know Ashton well enough to tell when he’s holding back information. “What aren’t you saying?”
There’s a brief pause before he sighs again, this time sounding withdrawn. “She’s ten years younger than you, Tom. The last thing she needs is to be wrapped up in your personal life in any way other than professionally. The kid has gone through enough.”
My nostrils flare. He’s forty-eight, so he’s allowed to call her that and mean it. “So you just called to tell me not to fuck her and mess up her life?”
For once, he doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Asshole. “I’m not a monster, Ash.”
“I know you’re not,” he affirms, sounding more genuine than he typically does. “But there’s a lot she doesn’t know about you that she’ll have to figure out if she’s going to clear your name. Let her do her job without giving her a hard time.”
He’s never been this firm about who I allow in my life. It isn’t like he encourages me to go after women, but he’ll turn a blind eye after telling me to wrap it before I tap it. This time seems different.
My eyes narrow in suspicion. “Do you know her?”
I don’t like the silence I’m met with.
“Ashton,” I growl.
He’s relatively local to Fairbanks, so it isn’t out of the realm of possibility that he knows her. Or knows of her. And that doesn’t sit well with me.
“No,” he eventually says, but his voice doesn’t sound right. It’s forced. Distant. Hard. “I don’t know her. Not personally.”
But he does know of her, and I want to know how. “Care to elaborate?” I press, grinding my teeth.
Suddenly, I want to know less about her and more about how my nearly fifty-year-old manager is attached to my latest obsession.
He’s from Connecticut—a Greenwich boy originally whose family made it big as investment bankers in the city.
According to him, he spent a lot of time in Fairbanks because of an old fling, so he has ties to this city.
If Winter is local too, it would make sense that they may have crossed paths before.
Ashton does something I least expect. Turns me down. “No. I don’t. I’m simply calling to tell you to keep it professional. That’s it. Don’t put your dick anywhere near her. Use someone else if you need to get off, but not her. Understand?”
It shouldn’t bother me that I’m being warned away from her. But it does. I’ve never been a fan of being told no, and it’s not often I hear the word. I acknowledge how that makes me sound, but I don’t give a fuck. “You’re really not going to—”
I don’t get the question out before the dickhead hangs up on me.
“What the fuck?” I mutter, staring at the blank screen. I try calling him back, but it goes straight to voicemail.
If he thinks this is going to squash my intrigue over Winter Bronte, he’s dead wrong. He just fed a whole new interest that I will find out one way or another.
*
I wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of footsteps creaking the aged floorboards in the hallway.
The layout of the house isn’t as spread out as it might look from the outside.
I’ve made downstairs my main living space, claiming the only bedroom on the first floor despite it being the smallest of all the rooms. The master is upstairs, along with an attached walk-in closet and bathroom that’s double the space.
It’s too much room—a luxury I don’t deserve.
My ears perk up to the footsteps nearing my closed door. It would be my luck if I purchased a haunted house. As if my career being threatened to crumble around me isn’t enough, I get to deal with Casper the goddamn ghost haunting my ass.
I grab my lamp and rip the cord from the wall because the mid-weight metal is about as good a weapon as I can find on short notice.
And when I hear the doorknob jiggle, I hold my breath to be as quiet as possible. The room is bathed in darkness thanks to the blackout curtains I hung on the windows, so there isn’t easy visibility for whoever opens it.
When the door cracks, I hear the softest voice call out, “Little Bear?”
Wait a second. I know that voice.
“Emaly?” I ask, lowering the lamp. I’m instantly out of bed and walking over to the door to turn the light on. After my eyes adjust, I see the five-foot Russian woman in all her dark-haired, flawless beauty standing at my doorway. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I finish the question with a hug, pulling her into my body and listening to her soft chuckle against my bare chest. It’s a reminder that I’m only in a pair of boxer briefs because I get overheated easily when I sleep.
I would feel bad about the lack of clothes, but it isn’t the first time that she’s seen me naked.
It is, however, an improvement over the last time.
At least now I’m not stripped down to nothing but skin while she slathers ointment on my ass from the poison ivy I’d gotten while camping the one and only time she convinced me to slum it in the woods.
She’d spent the entire time laughing at my expense and joking about selling the pictures of my inflamed ass cheeks to the highest bidder.