Chapter 3 #2
Thorne was a forward for our rival team, Harvard. He was also rich, entitled, and had a reputation that made mine look like sainthood. His father was on the board of both schools.
He was wearing a white dinner jacket that made him look like a Bond villain.
"Thorne," I nodded, keeping my face blank.
"Sterling," he sneered. He turned his attention to Michelle. His eyes raked over her, lingering on her chest, then her slit. It was a violation. "And Michelle Vane. I heard you were slumming it at Blackwood this semester."
"Carter," Michelle said, her voice dripping with ice. "I see you haven't evolved since the Hamptons last summer."
"Still feisty," Thorne laughed. He stepped into her personal space. "You look good, Shelly. Gold suits you. Tells people exactly what you're worth."
My jaw clenched so hard I thought a tooth might crack.
Shelly.
"Back off, Thorne," I said. My voice was low, devoid of emotion. The Gavel voice.
Thorne looked at me, amused. "Relax, Captain America. We're just catching up. Michelle and I have history."
He reached out and touched her arm. His fingers brushed the bare skin of her bicep.
Red.
My vision actually tinted red at the edges.
It wasn't a conscious decision. It was instinct. The wolf in the chest.
I moved. I stepped between them, my shoulder checking Thorne back a good two feet. It was a hockey move, disguised as a clumsy stumble.
"Oops," I said flatly. "Crowded room."
Thorne straightened his jacket, his eyes narrowing. "Watch it, Sterling."
"I am watching," I said. I stared him down. I was three inches taller and forty pounds heavier. Thorne was money; I was iron. "The lady looks like she wants to be left alone. I suggest you go find the open bar."
Thorne looked at me, then at Michelle, who was staring at my back with wide eyes.
"You're guarding her?" Thorne laughed, shaking his head. "God, Vane really does have you on a leash, doesn't he? How much is he paying you to be her nanny?"
The insult landed. It struck the exact insecurity I had been nursing.
"Walk away, Carter," Michelle said. Her voice was sharp. "Before I pour this drink on your white jacket. You know how hard red wine is to get out of silk."
Thorne sneered one last time. "Have fun in the Ice Box, Shelly. Try not to freeze."
He turned and disappeared into the crowd.
I didn't move. I stood there, staring at the back of his head, imagining what it would feel like to drive him into the boards until he couldn't get up.
"Greg," Michelle’s voice was soft.
I turned to her.
She wasn't looking at me with defiance anymore. She was looking at me with… confusion. And something else. Heat.
"You didn't have to do that," she said.
"He touched you," I said. It was the only explanation I had.
"I can handle Carter Thorne."
"I know."
"Then why?"
I looked down at her. The gold dress. The vulnerable neck. The frantic eyes.
"Because," I said, my voice rough, "you're living in my house. Which means you're under my protection. No one touches what I'm protecting."
The words hung there. What I'm protecting. Not who. It was possessive. Territory.
She stepped closer. We were in the middle of a hundred people, but it felt like we were the only two in the room.
"I need air," she said suddenly. "I can't breathe in here."
"Okay," I said. "Come on."
I didn't ask. I turned and led the way toward the terrace doors. I could feel her following in my wake.
The terrace was empty. It was freezing out here, the wind whipping off the ocean, but neither of us seemed to care.
Michelle walked to the stone railing and gripped it. The wind tore at her perfectly styled hair, pulling loose strands across her face. She shivered violently.
She was wearing a scrap of gold fabric in twenty-degree weather.
Without thinking, I shrugged off my tuxedo jacket. The cold hit me through my dress shirt, bracing and sharp.
I stepped up behind her and draped the jacket over her shoulders. It engulfed her. She looked like a child playing dress-up.
She flinched at the weight, then pulled it tighter around herself.
"It smells like you," she murmured.
"Is that a complaint?"
She turned around. She was leaning back against the stone railing. I was standing in front of her, blocking the wind. Blocking the exit.
"No," she said. She looked up at me. "Why are you so confusing, Greg?"
"I'm not confusing. I'm consistent."
"No, you're not. You treat me like a nuisance in the kitchen, like a criminal in the library, and like… like this in public."
"Like what?"
"Like I matter."
The words were a whisper, carried away by the wind.
I looked at her. Really looked at her. Beneath the makeup and the gold dress, she looked exhausted. Lonely.
"You matter because you're a distraction," I said, trying to put the armor back up. "I can't focus on hockey if I'm worrying about you getting mauled by trust-fund idiots."
"Is that all?" She took a step toward me. "Just a distraction? A job?"
She was pushing. Testing the electric fence.
"Michelle," I warned. "Don't."
"Don't what?" She reached out. Her hand—small, manicured, shaking slightly—touched the center of my chest. Through the thin white shirt, she had to feel my heart. It was beating like a jackhammer. "Don't ask questions you don't want the answer to?"
"Yes."
"Thorne said my dad was paying you." Her eyes searched mine. "Is he?"
This was the cliff. I could lie. I could tell her the truth and watch her burn the world down.
"He's making a call," I said, choosing a version of the truth. "To the Bruins. He's helping my draft stock. In exchange for ensuring you don't fail out or get arrested."
She flinched. Her hand dropped from my chest.
"So I am a job," she said. Her voice was flat.
"It started as a job," I said. The words tumbled out before I could stop them.
She looked up, catching the nuance. "Started?"
I stepped in. I couldn't help it. The magnetic pull was too strong. I placed my hands on the stone railing on either side of her, trapping her. I leaned down until our noses were almost touching.
"You think a job makes me lose sleep?" I rasped. "You think a job makes me want to punch Carter Thorne in the throat just for looking at your legs? You think I turned off your heat because I'm mean?"
"Why did you turn off my heat?" she breathed. Her eyes were dilated, dark pools in the shadows.
"Because I needed you to come into my room to complain," I admitted. The confession felt like bleeding. "Because fighting with you is the only time I feel… awake."
She gasped.
"Greg," she whispered.
She tilted her head back. Her lips were parted. They were painted a dark crimson.
I wanted to taste them. I wanted to ruin my reputation, my contract, and my sanity right here on the terrace of the Alumni Museum.
I lowered my head. The gap between us closed to millimeters. I could feel her breath on my lips. Warm. Sweet. Champagne and defiance.
"Kiss me," she challenged. "Break the rules, Gavel."
My hand moved from the railing to her waist. I gripped her through the silk of her dress. I felt her shudder.
"If I kiss you," I growled, "I'm not going to stop. Not here. Not ever."
"Good," she whispered.
I tilted my head, aligning our mouths.
"Sterling!"
The voice boomed from the doorway.
We sprang apart like magnets with reversed polarity.
I spun around, shielding Michelle with my body.
Coach Miller was standing in the doorway, holding a cigar. He looked oblivious.
"There you are," Miller boomed. "The Dean wants a photo with the Captains. You and the Field Hockey girl. Let's go. Chop chop."
My heart was racing so fast I felt dizzy. I looked back at Michelle.
She was clutching my jacket tight. Her face was flushed. Her lips looked swollen, even though I hadn't touched them.
"Go," she said, looking away. "Go take your picture, Captain."
"Michelle—"
"I'm fine," she said, her voice hard again. The mask was back up. "Go do your job."
I stood there for a second, torn.
"I'll find you after," I said.
"Don't bother," she said to the ocean. "I'm going home."
I turned and walked toward the Coach. My body felt cold. My skin felt tight.
I had almost crossed the line. I had almost thrown it all away.
And the terrifying part?
I wished the Coach hadn't opened that door.
I walked back into the warmth of the gala, but I felt colder than I had on the terrace. The game had changed. It wasn't just a job anymore. It wasn't just attraction.
She was getting under my ribs. And for a guy who built his life on defense, that was the most dangerous play of all.