Chapter 10
CARSON
We walk over to the café along a path cleared through the snow, with stars glittering in the dark sky overhead. The air is crisp and frosty.
“It’s nice here,” Ayla says. “I wasn’t sure since Aunt Melissa insisted on having this event here. Hopefully, it works out.”
“You mean there was one thing you didn’t have to do?”
“Ha. I did make the booking and I’ve been working with Norm.”
“Of course.” She denies that her family takes advantage of her, because she doesn’t mind doing all the things and helping everyone.
I fell in love with her because of her generosity, her kindness and compassion.
But sometimes, I felt she did too much. She should have been delegating tasks for this party left and right.
We’re seated in the cozy café. There isn’t a huge menu, but when I look it over, I know what Ayla will have. “Fish and chips?”
“Oh yeah.”
I order the veggie power bowl with brown rice and quinoa. They offer to add grilled chicken, and I go for that.
“The formal dining room is over in the pavilion,” Ayla says. “They have a much bigger menu. The chef here is apparently really good. I hope so, anyway.”
“This is fine for now.” I look around the room, which is surprisingly busy for a Wednesday in January. “What can I do to help with all your work?”
“You don’t have to help. It’s enough that you’re here.”
“I’ll help.”
“It’s okay.” Her little chin sets and her lips thin.
I bite back a grin. She’s cute when she’s pissed. “Don’t argue with me, Ayla. Just accept the help.”
She gives me a slitty-eyed look. “I don’t want help from you.”
“You don’t want help from anyone.”
Her lips purse. “That’s not true.”
“It is true. You hate needing help. And you hate asking for it.”
She huffs out a long breath. She knows I’m right. “Says you. You hate asking for help, too. You hate when you’re not in control.”
“Yeah.” I won’t argue with that.
“Tell me about Emily.”
My head jerks back. That change of topic gave me whiplash. “You mean Emma? What about her?”
She shrugs, looking down at the glass of water in her hands. “How long have you been seeing her? Is it serious? Is she nice?”
“Oh.” I don’t want to talk about Emma. “Yeah, she’s nice. Not much else to tell.”
She gives me a skeptical look, one corner of her mouth lifted.
“Why aren’t you dating?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.
“I told you. I’m not interested in dating. Men are just another job. Times are different now. I can have a bank account and a credit card and own property.”
“Men are just another job?” I hike up one eyebrow.
“Yeah. You can’t deny that. You have a demanding career. That meant I took on a lot of the household responsibilities.”
I stare at her. “That’s true,” I say slowly. It’s true of a lot of hockey wives, especially ones with kids. Hockey wives are saints to put up with all the bullshit in their lives when they marry a hockey player. “I didn’t know it was a problem for you. And I helped with things when I could.”
She drops her gaze. “Yeah. Well. Now I realize I want to be by myself.”
After we separated, I waited with growing dread to find out she was seeing someone else.
I figured it wouldn’t be long; she’s gorgeous and sweet and I was sure guys would be knocking on her door every damn day.
Maybe they were. As time passed, though, the dread faded.
Maybe because she never actually has dated someone else?
That I know of. Or because I just got over it?
I don’t know. I still don’t like the idea.
Like I despised the way Norm looked at her.
But what can I say about that? We’re divorced. Almost.
The server arrives with our food and we dig in.
The veggie bowl is delicious and Ayla cuts into steaming hot fish that looks really good, but is not on my diet.
I’m not on a “lose weight” diet, it’s just a healthy diet with lots of protein and fruits and vegetables.
But I can’t resist a French fry. I reach across the table and snag one off her plate.
As I pop it into my mouth, she fixes me with a reproving look. “Hey.”
“Sorry. It was automatic.” We’ve always stolen French fries from each other. And neither of us minded.
She sighs. “Fine.”
We fall silent as we eat. I watch her across the table.
There’s still something irresistibly sweet about her.
She looks delicate, with a small bone structure, heart-shaped face, and big, dark-blue eyes.
Her pale-blonde hair curves just under her chin, with long bangs that skim over her eyes.
But she’s not delicate. She survived one of the worst tragedies that can happen to someone.
Yeah, it was hell; nobody should have to go through that.
I wanted to make it easier for her. I wanted to take away the pain and help her move on.
But I couldn’t. And that’s my greatest failure in life.
“Why do you look like you want to punch someone?”
My head jerks up and I’m pulled out of my funk.
“Hopefully not me,” she says lightly. “I know you’re here against your will.”
“Jesus. Don’t even joke about that. I would never, ever hit you.” I glare at her.
Her face softens. “I know that, Carson.”
“Okay. Good.” I stab my fork into the quinoa and rice.
“So what’s the problem?”
“There is no problem.”
“Okay.” She eats a fry, then says, “How’s your mom?”
“She’s good.”
“She’s still teaching?”
“Actually, she’s principal now. At a different school.”
“Oh, that’s great. And your sisters? How are they?”
“They’re good, too. Lenny’s still in Vancouver. She’s still with Aiden. No sign of them getting married yet.”
Ayla shrugs. “They don’t have to get married.”
“So you’re anti-marriage now?” I’m getting annoyed with all this talk about not needing men.
“I didn’t say that.”
“It sounds to me like you are.”
“There’s a lot of research that shows marriage primarily benefits men.”
“Really.” My back teeth grind together.
“Yes. So I think a lot of women these days are wondering why get married.”
Marriage primarily benefits men. Huh. It’s true I no longer have a spouse to take care of all the household shit that needs to be done when I’m traveling for a week or deep in the playoffs. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. That wasn’t why I married Ayla. Or am I blind and obtuse?
“Statistics show that marriage is in a steep decline worldwide,” Ayla continues. “We don’t need it. The only reason for marriage was to assign parental rights to men for control over women and children.”
“You are anti-marriage.” For some reason, this pisses me off.
“Just for me.” She gives me a toothy smile. “It’s none of my business what other people do. But maybe that’s why Lenny and Aiden aren’t married; she doesn’t need it. Anyway, how’s Viv?”
My other sister. She’s an Olympic rower. We grew up on a lake and she started rowing when she was young. “She’s based in Victoria at the university rowing club. Still aiming for an Olympic medal.”
“That’s fantastic. No marriage for her either?”
“She’s gay.”
“I know that. She lives in Canada; gay marriage is a thing there.”
“I know that, too.” I do. Why did I respond like that? Duh. “She says she has no time for dating with classes and all the practice they have to do.”
“Yeah, I can see that. It takes a lot of work to make the Olympics. Well. You know that.”
“Yeah.” I’ve been to the Olympics as part of Team Canada. Definitely a highlight of my hockey career.
“And things in Salmon Arm are good?”
“Yeah. Summer’s always nice there, with the lake and all the things to do.”
“I liked visiting there,” she says with an almost wistful curve of her mouth. “It’s beautiful.”
I took her home with me in the summers. I have a house there on Shuswap Lake with a dock and beach access and we enjoyed long summer days on the water, in the water, beside the water. In the hot tub. In bed. What? Never mind that.
“Yeah,” I say. “I love it there.”
We finish up our meals and I pull out a credit card to pay, which Ayla tries to wave away but I won’t let her, which makes her give a little grumble of frustration. Which makes me grin. Then we head back to the cottage.
Fuck. I’m going to be spending the night in this cottage with her. There’s no reason for it to be weird and awkward. We were together for years. Except we’re not together any more and two strangers sharing a room is supposed to be weird. But we’re not strangers either. This is fucked up.
It wouldn’t be so awkward if I didn’t keep noticing little things about her: the sexy curve of her mouth when she smiles, the shape of her ass in the jeans she’s wearing, the drape of her sweater over her tits. Even the way she brushes her bangs off her eyes is sexy.
I’m not supposed to be attracted to my ex-wife.
I’m an asshole.
I can’t still be attracted to her. I can’t care about her like that. I couldn’t fix things for her and I let her down and I sure as hell don’t deserve love or anything from her.
I’ll just ignore the cute, hot things she does and pretend she’s my… sister. Eew. I can’t do that either.
I spy the fireplace and move over to turn it on. Flames spring to life.
Ayla is setting up her laptop on the small dining table. She glances over and sees the fire. “Oh, that’s nice. A fire is perfect.”
“Yeah.” I walk over to the table. “Anything I can help with?”
She opens her mouth and I know she’s going to say no, but after a beat, she says, “Maybe you could help pick out the music. I’ll need a few songs.”
I pull up the other chair next to her so I can see her screen.
Unfortunately, that means I can smell her scent—the familiar one of rain.
I don’t know what rain smells like, but the perfume is called “Rain something or other” and supposedly smells like “dew” and “amber” and “freesia”.
I bought enough of it for her, and honest to fuck, just smelling it in the store gave me a stiffy.
I’m trying to will that away right now. Jesus.