Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
Poppy
At first, I was talking about my stretch marks, about the loose skin that will never be the same again after carrying Holly all forty—plus two—weeks.
But then somehow…
I was talking about me.
The me I am today. The me who lost Storm. Who lost Sully.
Who gained the world in Holly.
Storm shifts, slowly sliding me to the ground. I shiver as our bodies brush, as I feel all the coiled, fierce strength of him against me.
Then he’s turning and—
Oh, no.
I said what?
“This is beautiful,” I blurt, hurrying to the waterfront.
“I’d forgotten this little cove existed.
” I rush over to the blanket, snagging it from the top of the cooler.
“Not that I could forget—” I clamp my lips shut before I bumble into talking about our night together, talking about what happened afterward.
“It’s just such a hassle to get down to,” I finish in a rush, flicking the blanket out and spreading it on top of the sand.
The river is running fast today, meaning there isn’t a ton of room between the water and the edge of the blanket.
But there’s enough space for a picnic.
I turn for the cooler—
“Pop,” he murmurs.
I bend, but he catches my shoulders, halting me in place.
“Baby, look at me.”
I don’t even realize I’ve averted my gaze, that I’m staring out at the water, avoiding his stormy gray eyes.
“We should eat,” I say. “Holly—”
“Gets out at three, right?” he says.
I nod.
“So we have time.” He cups my face, tilts it up so I’m either forced to close my eyes or look at him. “You’re broken, baby?” he asks so gently it nearly makes my knees buckle.
And as I stand here in his arms, my gaze locked with his, my heart and body aching for so much more…
I have no hope of ignoring the question.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going to answer it truthfully.
“Ignore me,” I say. “I’m just emotional at the possibility of eating Molly’s.” I slap a smile on my lips, nod at the cooler. “That’s what you brought, right?” The last is eager, and it makes his eyes warm.
“I brought Molly’s,” he confirms, shifting his hold on my face, sliding his slightly roughened palms down the outside of my throat, resting them lightly on the tops of my shoulders, his thumbs brushing along the edges of my collarbones. “And Scoops,” he adds. “Rocky road.”
I light up, a real smile gracing my lips this time.
He touches my nose, his own mouth curving. “For the record, I think your body is fucking beautiful, baby.”
My lungs hitch and I nibble at my bottom lip. “Yours too,” I whisper.
“What’s that?”
“You’re gorgeous—” I narrow my eyes when I see the mischief in his. I smack his chest. “You heard me.”
“I heard that you like my body, Poppyseed.”
The nickname washes over me…and it’s chased rapidly on its heels by relief.
Because he drops his hands, guides me toward the blanket.
He’s going to let my slip of the tongue go.
“I’m glad you do,” he says, nudging me down onto it. “Considering how many hours I spent in the gym to get it.”
“Really?” I ask.
He nods.
“Do you like it?”
“Working out?”
“Yeah.”
“I—” He pauses for a moment. Then snags the cooler, comes back over. “I guess I do.”
I wonder why he sounds almost surprised.
But I don’t get the chance to question him about it.
He opens the lid of the cooler, passes me—
“A salad,” I say with disgust.
His laughter fills the air, and it’s so fucking beautiful it takes my breath away, makes me forget—for a moment, anyway—about the leafy green stuff that’s apparently in my future.
“I’m kidding,” he says, pulling out another container and passing me one of my favorites.
He presses it into my hand and my heart skips a beat.
A peach, mozzarella, and prosciutto panini topped with a balsamic vinaigrette and—
“That’s cheating,” I accuse.
His mouth twitches. “It’s not salad if it’s on a sandwich.”
“Who says?”
“Molly herself,” he replies lightly, opening the top of the salad. There’s greens and veggies and a giant chicken breast. He dumps on some dressing, sprinkles some crumbly cheese and toasted walnuts on top.
“What?” I ask, tearing my gaze from the sight of the confident, capable way he’s assembled the salad, from his thick, blunt fingers grasping his fork, from the way he takes a bite and licks a droplet of dressing from his bottom lip.
“Molly said it doesn’t count as a salad if it’s sandwiched—forgive the pun—between two slices of bread.”
I pause.
Then shake my head, know I’ve been bested.
“Considering it’s two slices of Molly’s homemade ciabatta then I’ll let it slide,” I tell him.
He chuckles. “Noted, baby.”
That slides like warm, gentle fingers drifting down my spine.
“Eat, Pop,” he prompts a moment later, his gray eyes gentle…and stubborn.
Maybe—purely on principle—I should argue, but instead, I find myself lifting my sandwich to my mouth, taking a bite.
“Oh, my God,” I moan through the explosion of flavors—the sweetness of the peaches, the tart sharpness of the balsamic, the saltiness of the ciabatta, even the peppery flavor of the arugula all come together to form…
Perfection.
“See?” he teases. “Salad can be yummy.”
“Try convincing Holly of that fact,” I tease back.
Then immediately regret it when I watch the light slip out of his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean—”
He reaches for my hand. “I know you didn’t. I…just wish I was here for it.” A beat. “For all of it.”
“Why weren’t you?” I ask. “I mean, I know that you had to go play hockey. I know you had to go away for it, but why didn’t you come back?” I whisper, my eyes stinging. “That night. I thought…I thought it was the beginning of something permanent, and instead…”
“Instead what?”
The question is sharp, sharp enough to dry my eyes, to send my anger ratcheting up. “Instead,” I snap, setting down my sandwich, “you were gone. You just left me without a word, without a way to contact you. I was alone, Storm. I had to do it on my own.”
He snorts. “You were far from alone,” he mutters. “Everyone in this fucking town had their noses in your business.”
I flinch, rock back.
Then my anger roars forward in full force.
“They might have been here for me,” I snap.
“They might have helped. But I was the one puking my guts up all nine months. I was the one peeing myself when I sneezed or coughed or laughed too hard. I was the one who pushed her out and bled and sported a wound the size of a dinner plate on my uterus for fucking weeks. I was the one who breastfed until my nipples cracked, who lost so much sleep I could barely function. I was the one who worried about paying bills and about when to let her use screens and had to learn how to do fucking common core math.” I slam my fist against my chest. “It was me, Storm. Always, it came down to me.”
His eyes are full of thunderstorms, his expression locked down tight.
And I don’t know what I was thinking, letting this man bring me here, letting him into my heart—even if it’s just a little bit.
I should have known better.
Should know better.
I shove the sandwich into the cooler and stand.
“You need to eat,” he growls.
“And you need to fuck off.”
I spin on my heel, intending to march my ass up the trail and back into town. I have work to do—supplies to put away, bills to pay, liquor to order, considering that the entire town’s been consuming more of it than normal while trying to glean any bit of gossip about me and Storm.
I don’t need this shit.
I don’t need Storm.
I never have—
“Oof,” I grunt when he’s suddenly in front of me, his body big and strong and there.
He steadies me with a hand on either shoulder.
I open my mouth, ready to yell at him to let me go.
But then his words cut me off at my knees.
“When you left me here that night,” he says and my brows drag together.
Because he’s the one who left.
I woke up, went to the bathroom, and when I came back…he was gone.
But before I can ask him what he means by that, he keeps talking.
“I went home and my dad was drunk.” A breath, those big shoulders of his lifting and dropping on a sigh. “I know you’re probably wondering how that was different than any other fucking day—”
He’s not wrong.
Norm Harrison drank—and did it like he was doing his best to win a fucking gold medal for doing it.
“But that day is—was different,” he says. “That day…” His eyes close and his jaw flexes. “That day he was enraged, more angry than I’ve ever seen him, and he—”
His throat works.
“What did he do?” I whisper.
Storm’s lids peel open. “I wasn’t prepared,” he murmurs. “Usually, I could diffuse, or leave, or stay away when he was in one of his moods. But I was worried about you and”—a breath—“I was thinking about how I was going to sneak my way by Sully in the morning because I had to kiss you again—”
My lungs hitch, and I just know what he’s about to tell me is going to be horrible.
And unfortunately, I’m right.
“I wasn’t ready for him. He…” Shadows through his eyes, his throat works again. “He broke my arm—”
I gasp, but he doesn’t stop talking.
“And two ribs. Along with dislocating my shoulder and breaking my nose. I fought back”—a breath—“but too late. It was like he was possessed and all I could do was try to hold on until he lost interest in me.” A sharp, pained laugh. “That wasn’t until I was almost unconscious.”
“Storm,” I whisper, my eyes welling up, tears spilling over, dripping down my cheeks.
“When I woke up, he was gone and I could barely move.”
My chest hitches.
“I called my agent,” he says, “and Allie came and got me. God, we were both so young, so inexperienced. We didn’t know what we were doing so we went to my coach at the college, even though summer wasn’t over and the school was closed for break.
He brought me to see the team’s doctor, who patched me up, then gave me a place to live, along with the space to heal up.
” A shake of his head, his eyes a hundred miles away, his mind lost in the past. “He was thrilled when I got called up to the Sierra, even though that meant leaving him in the middle of my first season on his roster.”
“You played more than half that season,” I murmur.
His eyes flash back to the present. “You know that?”
My throat works. “I followed your career pretty closely.”
“But you don’t even like hockey,” he whispers.
“But I liked you,” I say, gently settling my hand on his chest, wondering if those ribs his father broke still bothered him. “Enough that I was really hurt when I went to the bathroom and came back to find you gone.”
His mouth parts on a rush of air. “What?”
“You were sleeping,” I say softly. “I had to go to the bathroom and it was getting late, so I knew we needed to go home soon anyway. But I didn’t want to wake you just yet, didn’t want the night to end.
” I close my eyes for a moment, open them.
“So, I figured I’d just run over and use the bathroom then I’d find a creative way to wake you up. ”
His lungs hitch beneath my palm.
“But when I came back, you were gone.” My voice drops. “And the next day you were gone. And then I found out about Holly and you didn’t respond and…” I trail off because we both know the rest of the story.
“Fuck,” he whispers. Then he spins on his heel, his hands coming up to the sides of his head, gripping his hair so tightly that for one horrible second, I worry he’ll tear it from the roots.
“Fuck!” he shouts, punching out, his fist cracking into a tree trunk with a sickening thunk.
“Fuck!” he shouts again, hitting the tree a second time before he slumps forward and rests his forehead against the trunk.
“Fuck,” he says again, but it’s a whisper now.
I move behind him, gently settle my hand on his back.
He startles at the contact but doesn’t pull away.
And we stand there like that for a long moment.
Then I find myself saying, “I thought there was ice cream?”
He jerks, his head whipping around, those shadowed gray eyes on me.
Then he does the best thing ever—
He laughs.