Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Poppy
“What do you think, Clover?” Shep says.
He’s switched to water and though his cheeks still have a hint of flush from his consumption of all those Storm Warnings earlier, there’s something in his deep brown eyes that reminds me of Storm.
Focus.
And determination.
Maybe it’s a professional athlete thing.
Or maybe it’s a…male thing.
A rasped-out baby. Gentle knuckles running over my skin. The tempting promises of later.
Of more.
My gaze drifts to Storm’s and I shiver, my thighs pressing together.
Stupid.
So damned stupid.
But here I am, still standing here with need coursing through my veins and stupid hope blooming in my chest.
“I think,” Clover says, and I tear my eyes from Storm’s to listen to my quiet friend finally entering the conversation, “that it’s time for me to go home.”
“She speaks!” Shep jumps up from his chair, throws his hands in the air, and whoops. “She finally speaks!” He does a ridiculous little dance that has my lips twitching and Clover’s cheeks going bright red.
But she just ignores the show and glances over at Clem and Blossom. “Are you guys ready too?”
Clem’s eyes are dancing as she gathers her purse and her jacket, and I know mischief is afoot when she says, “Are you going to be okay walking from my place down to yours alone?”
“It’s four houses,” Blossom mutters.
Clover just glares at her.
“I don’t know.” A dainty shrug paired with a roguish smile that rivals the smirk Shep has been sporting. “It’s late and you never know what can happen. Storm lives next door. Maybe he can—”
“I’ll walk Clover,” Shep interrupts. “I’m staying with Storm so I’ll be next door too.”
“You are?” Storm mutters dryly, and I stifle a giggle.
Clover sighs but doesn’t bite as she looks at Blossom and Daisy. “Ready?”
“I think,” Daisy says, sinking back down into her seat, “that I’d like another drink. Blossom, you said the same, right?” she adds, tugging at Blossom’s arm in such a way that the only answer is to sigh, sit down, and mutter, “Yeah, I’d like another.”
“Me too,” Clem says.
Glares all around from Clover.
But to her credit, she just—still ignoring Shep—says goodnight to everyone.
“Night, babe,” I tell her, and when she comes over for a hug, I offer, “You can always chill upstairs until he leaves.”
“No,” she mutters. “I might as well get this over with.”
Then she’s gone.
And to no one’s surprise, Shep tosses some cash on the bar (and the man definitely gets points for covering Clover’s drinks too) then follows her out into the night.
“I wonder if that will make the Gazette,” Storm stage whispers.
I grin, and even though the girls talk him into taking the chair Shep’s given up, and Tommy and Roger holler, and I’m pulled away to make a few final drinks as last call approaches, I don’t miss that Storm…
Well, I don’t miss that some of the thunder and lightning and hurricane-force winds around him have quieted.
It’s like he’s settled.
Like he’s calmed.
At least until Clem asks, “So, what’s up with the trade from the Sierra?” She finishes the dredges of her drink, The Fine Print (which is light—very light on the whisky), and sets the empty glass on my tray. “Weren’t you supposed to be the backbone of their long-term succession plan or something?”
Storm’s free hand tightens into a fist and he glares at her. “Jesus, Clem. Still as blunt as ever, aren’t you?”
A shrug. “Nothing’s served by hiding shit.”
He stills.
Then exhales.
I open my mouth to intervene—
“Ain’t that the damned truth,” he says before I can. Then he finishes his glass of water—he made the switch from Storm Warnings about the same time Shep gave them up—and turns to her.
But he’s speaking to me.
“Yeah, I was supposed to be there for the long haul.” A sharp breath.
“Until I fell in love with a woman who didn’t love me back.
” The blow of those matter-of-fact words has me gripping the edge of the table.
“I left Cedar Hollow looking for a fresh start away from all the shit with my dad, and I found it—for a time—with the Sierra.” He exhales.
“Then I fell in love with my coach, with Joey, and she…well, she fell in love with Damon.”
“The GM and the Coach,” Clem whispers. “Fuck.”
A brittle laugh. “Yup. That about sums it up.”
“So yeah. That’s why they traded me.” He sighs. “Well that, and the fact that I’ve been stinking it up out on the ice.”
Clem, Blossom, Daisy, and I exchange looks, and they’re not comfortable.
Because none of us know what to say.
Because…what is there to say?
“That sucks,” Clem finally murmurs. “I’m sorry.”
A shrug that’s far more casual than the pain sliding through his eyes. “That’s professional hockey. Trades happen all the time.”
“And now you’re close to home,” Blossom says softly.
Storm’s heavy eyes come to mine. “Yes. Now I’m home.”
Not close to home.
But…home.
“Does that mean you’re staying?” Clem asks, clearly picking up on the same distinction I did.
Those gray eyes lock with mine, and he says simply, “Yes.”
My heart thumps hard, but before I can reply, Roger’s setting his glass on my tray. “Heading out.” He makes a show of checking his watch and looking around the almost empty bar, his chess set folded and clamped beneath one arm. “It’s getting to be about that time, isn’t it?”
Another thump, and I want to tell Roger to shut it, to stop interrupting when I’m finally getting somewhere.
But…it is getting to be about that time.
And Clem, Daisy, and Blossom know it too.
Clem pushes to her feet and snags the tray, using it to gather up a few rogue empties before returning to kiss my cheek. “Goodnight, honey,” she whispers as she passes it over. “And I know we still sort of hate him for leaving, but maybe go gentle on him?”
I nod.
Mostly because I think that even when I hated him, I still…
Hell, but I still loved him.
And maybe, even despite the plethora of unanswered questions, the history, the pain, and the small chance at a future, there’s still a small part of me that does.
Dumb. Dangerous. Risky! my brain screams.
The truth, my heart soothes in return. All of it.
Blossom squeezes my hand, her expression soft and full of knowing. “Love you, Pop.”
“Love you, back,” I whisper.
Daisy hugs me, and we promise to get together soon.
Then they’re gone, shooing Roger and Tommy (and Gertie) out in front of them.
The door shuts, and I stare at it for a moment, debating what I should do next.
Storm figures that out for me, hopping to his feet and going to the door, hitting the lock. It slides home with a quiet click, and then he’s disappearing down the hall. A moment later, I hear the mop bucket being wheeled out.
He parks the bucket against the wall, snags the bottle of disinfectant and a towel, and starts spraying down the tables.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Helping you clean up.”
“But why?”
“Because I’m selfish.”
My eyebrows drag together—because him helping me clean up is selfish?—and he’s suddenly in front of me, stroking a finger over the furrow there.
“I like being with you, Pop,” he says.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” A beat. “Oh.” His mouth hitches up as he goes back to cleaning the tables. “Plus, if I get you to bed at a reasonable hour then maybe you won’t fall asleep when I take you out for lunch tomorrow.”
Now my brows fly up. “We’re having lunch tomorrow?” I thought he was going to meet Holly and me at the Pioneer Museum after camp.
A sexy smile. “Considering you work every night, I gotta take what dates I can get.”
“So long as it’s not salads from Molly’s.”
“Those salads are kickass,” he declares. “Even Rain said so.”
“They’re also salads,” I protest, not entirely sure why I’m allowing this conversation to continue down this path when alarm bells are blaring and my brain is reminding me that he left.
And also…knowing—for better or worse—it’s that small part of me that never fell out of love with Storm that’s talking now.
“If we’re going on a date, I expect wooing,” I say, doing some declaring of my own. “And there’s no wooing in salad form.”
He laughs, and it’s almost as though it takes him by surprise.
The sound is rusty, a little rough, and, damn, but it feels good to make him laugh.
“Noted,” he says once he’s gotten a handle on himself. “I’ll make sure there’s a proper amount of wooing during our lunch date.”
I giggle.
And that feels a little rusty too.
But it also…well, it also feels nice.
He goes back to wiping down tables and chairs, and I watch him for a second.
Then I realize it’s late, and he’s working, and I’m staring, and—
Yeah, I need to do my part in this.
I load up the racks with dirty glasses, pop them in the dishwasher, and start it up.
I restock what’s needed. I clean and wipe down the bar and all the various accoutrements I use on the daily. Then I cash out the drawer and stow the cash and receipts in the safe.
Then I’m hurrying back out, intending to help Storm with the chairs—
“Oof,” I grunt.
“Easy, baby,” he murmurs, catching me by the shoulders.
“Sorry, I…” But my gaze flicks behind him and my apology falters when I see that the bar’s been mopped, the chairs put up, and the lights dimmed. “Wow,” I whisper.
“What?” he says.
“You’re done.” I glance at my watch. “I’m done an entire hour earlier than normal.”
“Good.” He starts guiding me to the apartment door. “Then my plan for you to get more sleep is working.”
My heart thumps again, but by the time I gather my wits and try to think of something to say, he’s nodding at the door. “Put in the code, baby. I won’t look.”
Danger, danger.
Slipping and sliding down a treacherous slope.
“It’s Holly’s birthday,” I murmur. “Zero-Four-Three-Zero. April thirtieth.”
Warmth and pain battling in his eyes. “I won’t miss another one.”
I touch his jaw, and for better or worse, I feel that promise in my soul, know it’s not that I’m slipping and sliding down the slope.
I’m already at the bottom of it.
“I know,” I whisper.
He leans in and it’s close, so close I can feel his breath on my lips.
It would be easy to touch my mouth to his.
So easy.
But he straightens before I can work up the nerve, then plugs in the code, opens the door, and ushers me upstairs.
I feel his gaze burning into my back the entire way.
And when I turn to face him, he’s right there, so close I can see the scar crisscrossing his temple, the streaks of molten gold in his eyes as his stares locks with mine.
Pulse speeding, fingers shaking, softness between my legs growing, I lean closer.
But he just cups my jaw, brushes his thumb over my bottom lip.
“Another time, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
A kiss to my forehead.
A nudge on my side toward the door.
“Get some rest. I’ll lock up on my way out.”
Then, before I can convince him to stay, convince him to change his mind, he’s pounding down the steps, disappearing from the stairwell.
The door shuts with a soft squeak.
And all I’m left with is the faint scent of his cologne, longing rippling through my insides…
And that fucking hundred-dollar bill in my pocket.