Chapter 15
fifteen
SEBASTIAN
I was an idiot to think Indie would give me an opening to bring up what happened ten years ago or how I feel now.
The woman is infuriatingly adept at changing the subject every time I get close to moving the conversation in that direction.
I could swear I’ve caught her looking at me with the same kind of longing I have for her, but then she shuts me down, and I’m left wondering if I imagined it.
“This place is magical,” she says, her pretty hazel eyes wide as she takes in the massive sculptures around us.
The grass isn’t fully green yet—there are still patches of brown that haven’t awoken from the long winter—but that hasn’t stopped people from stretching out on the vast lawn on blankets, jackets, or directly on the grass.
I follow behind her as she wanders through the grounds, experiencing it all with fresh eyes.
Hers. She lingers near the more abstract sculptures with her head cocked slightly to the side, as though the smallest change in perspective will reveal the artists’ secrets.
But while she tries to reveal secrets carved into stone or bent into metal, I’m studying her.
Indigo Rose Bloom is more mesmerizing and mysterious than any sculpture here.
More beautiful too. The way her pink hair floats in the breeze.
The sway of her full hips as she walks the grounds.
I know she’s always been self-conscious about her body, but she shouldn’t be.
Every soft curve has been lovingly and artfully created.
The swell of her breasts and the dip of her waist offer symmetry ancient civilizations used to worship.
The delicious curve of her ass could inspire sonnets.
Fuck. If I could hunt down every single asshole who wrote the abusive lies she was forced to withstand from the moment she hit puberty, I would.
The woman in front of me should walk through the world with her chin high and confidence in every single step.
She shouldn’t flinch when she brings up the women I’ve dated in ill-advised bids to forget her.
Because those women—while beautiful and interesting—could never come close to dulling the memory of Indie and the way she made me feel.
Did she guess what I was going to say, and that’s why she stopped me? Did she guess I was going to tell her that the specific thing I was looking for was her? Or are those deep-seated insecurities taking their toll? Either way, I need to find a way to tell her how I feel. How much I’ve missed her.
I can’t let her go back to her life in California without laying it all out there, even if she rejects me in the end.
“Is that a big blue cock?” Her giggle infuses my blood with a fizzy lightness.
“It’s a big blue rooster, yeah.”
“I’m a romance writer. It’s a cock.” She laughs again, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from reaching out and pulling her back against my chest.
“So what you’re saying is that your mind is always in the gutter.”
She shrugs, mischief etched into her smile. “Pretty much.”
“Good to know. You’ll get along well with Griffin.”
“Does anyone not get along well with him?”
I chuckle, because she has a point. “Very few people. Do you know he reads romance novels? He’d probably talk your ear off about it if you gave him the chance. And the ladies have a book club. Pretty sure they only read romance. You and Lola should join them while you’re here.”
“Maybe,” Indie says before sucking her lower lip between her teeth.
I’ll have to put a bug in Isla’s ear to invite Indie and Lola. I’m not above using my friends to give Indie reasons to extend her stay here. Maybe even tempt her to stay forever.
“The giant spoon and cherry sculpture is the one most people come for.” I lead her toward the small body of water where the sculpture rests, the large red cherry balanced on the tip of the massive, bent spoon. It’s a popular backdrop for selfies and social media posts.
Indie’s eyes light up when she sees it. “Okay, that’s cute as hell. I can see why people like this one.”
“Why don’t we set up our picnic here?” Despite the Spoonbridge and Cherry sculpture being one of the most popular in the garden, it’s still early enough in the spring that the area doesn’t feel overrun.
A few couples and individuals are scattered around, but we have plenty of space and privacy when I spread out our blanket.
We fall into an easy silence as we pull food from the bags.
It’s not quite as comfortable as when we were teenagers, but it’s close.
Hope bubbles up inside me. Hope that she still feels something for me.
That whatever happened ten years ago hasn’t completely destroyed any possibility of making her mine.
I let myself hope that I can overcome whatever objections she’ll inevitably lob my way.
We nibble bread and cheese and the tapenade I snagged from one of the stalls. She asks me about the guys; I ask her about Lola. There are so many years I want to know about. Too many years without more than a handful of sensationalized, gossip-laden articles to go off of.
“Are your parents planning to make it to any of your playoff games?” Indie asks, her tone lighter than her expression would support. I can’t tell if it’s because she’s hoping to see my parents or avoid them.
My parents always loved Indie. They didn’t care that she was the daughter of movie stars.
They were never starstruck by Robert and Vivian.
When they met her for the first time, none of us had any idea who her parents were.
They fell for her for the same reasons I did.
Because she was sunshine and sweetness. There was something so effortlessly real about her, and that only became more impressive once we found out how she grew up.
It never hurt that they could tell how much she meant to me.
Both of my parents knew I planned to tell Indie how I felt that summer after senior year.
They were absolutely certain she’d return my feelings.
Hell, I’m pretty sure my mom had a folder with wedding inspiration hidden on her laptop hard drive for the day I eventually proposed.
They were almost as disappointed as I was when she disappeared that summer. Eventually, they stopped asking me about her, but I don’t think they’ve ever completely given up hope that we’d reconnect.
Which is why I can’t tell them about her sudden appearance in the Twin Cities until I know she’s not going to disappear again.
“Yeah, they’ll make it out to a game or two. I guess it depends how far we make it this season.”
“You’ll go all the way,” she says confidently. “You have one of the highest save percentages in the league, your first line has an impressive number of goals, and your whole team has rallied under Coach Fry’s leadership in a way you never did under Coach Cross.”
My eyebrows hit my hairline at her casual analysis, and there’s a warmth spreading through my chest. “You’ve really been following along, then, huh?”
Indie’s cheeks flush with heat, but she doesn’t deny it. She shrugs and quietly admits, “I’ve been following your career since college.”
Swallowing becomes difficult, and I stare at her, trying to understand. She disappeared from my life, but she’s been following my hockey career for the last ten years?
“Why?”
“You said you’ve always believed in me. Is it that hard to believe I felt the same?” She looks up at me through the fringe of her lashes, and I want to kiss her. I want to shake her. I want to demand that she tell me why the hell she ran and blocked my number without so much as a text.
“I…”
“I always knew you’d make it, Sebastian. When you grow up the way I did, you get a sixth sense for who’s going to make it and who’s not. There was never a doubt in my mind that you’d not only play in the NHL, but you’d be one of the best.”
Maybe I’m imagining it, but there’s a tight thread of tension in her tone. Pain, even. But she’s the one who walked away from me.
I open my mouth to call her on it, but she speaks first.
“Lola agrees with me. We think you’ll make it to the Cup. And I think you’ll win.”
The wind blows a strand of pink hair over her eyes, and I don’t stop myself from reaching out and brushing it off her forehead and tucking it behind her ear. The air I suck into my lungs is heavy. “Is that so?”
My fingers linger on her cheek, and gravity shifts, pulling our bodies closer together.
How many times did I tell myself to kiss her that last summer together when we were seventeen, but I was too much of a coward? Would things have been different if I’d taken the chance?
Indie’s hazel eyes drop to my lips. “Yes.”
“Yes?” What were we talking about?
The wind swirls around us conspiratorially. Like it knows how much I want to close the distance between us so I can finally discover what her lips taste like. It pushes against us, urging us closer, until I can feel the warm puff of her breath on my face.
“Sebastian…” Indie’s lashes flutter, her tongue darting out to lick her lips.
My fingers flex on her cheek, and I press my palm to her face, reveling in the way she blinks rapidly a few times before her eyes close.
Her lips part on the softest exhale, and I take that as permission to close the distance between us and finally, after all these years, kiss the woman I’ve been hopelessly in love with.
“Shit, watch out!” The shout startles my eyes open moments before something hits me in the back of the head.
“What the hell?” Rubbing the spot, I pull away from Indie, who is now wide-eyed and trying not to laugh.
“Dude, I am so sorry,” a guy who looks like he’s in college says, jogging up to us. He bends to pick up the projectile—a frisbee—with a wince. “My bad, bro.”
Indie giggles, and I know the moment is gone. But at least I’m the one who got hit in the head, not her.
“No worries,” I say with a sigh.
The guy opens his mouth, like he wants to say more but thinks better of it. With another apologetic look, he waves at me and Indie and jogs back toward his friends, frisbee in hand.
“Are you okay?” Indie asks through giggles that she’s trying valiantly to hold in but can’t. “Do we need to run through concussion protocols?”
“Ha ha.”
“Oh my god, you should have seen your face.” Indie laughs again, this time hard enough to make her snort. Her eyes go wide, and she covers her mouth with her hands.
“Laugh it up, Rosebud.”
“Maybe you should wear your helmet out in public too. Your head is a magnet for projectiles.” Her eyes glitter with amusement, and as disappointed as I am that my lips aren’t pressed to hers right now, it’s impossible not to enjoy the flush of her cheeks and the brightness of her expression.
If getting hit in the head with a frisbee makes her happy, I’ll gladly take my lumps.