Page 75 of Branded (Breakers Hockey)

Four

Jules

The hundred-dollar bill was crisp in my hand as I hurried down the hall.

“Cas!”

He stilled, hands on the door, and as I got close, I realized that he was big. Okay, I’d known that. He was a hockey player, and though not universally giant-sized, every single one of them was taller than my own five-three.

Usually, by more than a foot.

But the height differential was more than that when it came to Cas.

Hell, my nose barely reached his throat.

And suddenly, I had the insane urge to lean close, to press said nose to said throat, and to inhale deeply. Spice, I knew. He’d smell of spice and man and sometimes orange. I sometimes got a hint of the scent when it came off his beard, off his skin.

Would an inhalation at such close proximity bring out a deeper variety of scent for me to roll around in? Maybe a hint of sandalwood, perhaps a dash of something fresh and astringent, like mint?

Which was another of those things I thought about in the middle of the night.

What would it be like to have his scent in my nose, filling my senses?

What would it be like to be surrounded by the heat and strength of him?

What—

“Did you need something, gorgeous?” he asked softly.

I blinked, gaze jerking away from his throat, darting up to meet his eyes, mine no doubt wide as the rough endearment slid over my skin.

“I…” God, he was the one who was gorgeous.

And he smelled good, and it was late already, the hour firmly in that soft cushion of night between evening and sunrise.

There was something about the utter navy of the sky, the darkness only interspersed by streetlights or stars or the faint glow of the TV I fell asleep to every night.

Moonlight on snow.

The whisper of the wind through pine needles.

All of that being torn away?—

I had a better life here, I told myself. Better for me and Ethan. But even as I held tight to those thoughts, I clenched my jaw, attempting to control the pounding of my heart, the painful pulse of those old memories.

I was in the light now.

I wouldn’t let myself go back there.

Fingers on my cheek startled me, made me realize I’d drifted off again. He’d called me gorgeous and I’d?—

Right.

A breath as I tried to ignore the fact that there was something familiar about his touch—and tried to ignore just as completely that it was probably because I’d dreamed about it every night since I’d first seen him.

And, God, it had been so, so long since a man had touched me.

Had wanted me.

At least of the non-drunk, non-creepy customer who was trying to seduce me into bed variety that usually made a move.

Cas wanted me—and not in a creepy way. He’d asked me out on a date, and it could have been?—

Nothing. Because I was me and he was a playboy hockey player, and I didn’t do men and I didn’t do men who were hockey players especially and?—

All of this was a moot point because Cas was somewhere I couldn’t go.

I worked in a bar. I went to school. I worked my ass off.

I wasn’t easy.

No matter what my dad thought.

And there was that dark again, the slicing pain, the disappointment and hurt and?—

Stop.

I was still standing in front of the man I dreamed about, the man I wanted in my secret fantasies but would never let myself have. I was taking up his time when he’d clearly been trying to leave, and worse, I was staring at him like a dope and not saying anything.

Sigh.

I tugged the pieces of myself together, drew myself up another inch, even though it still didn’t bring me anywhere close to Cas’s height, and then lifted my hand that held the hundred. “You left this,” I said.

His brows drew together and then his big, strong body went still.

So still he was all but playing statue.

Playing a very unhappy statue.

I inhaled slowly, got that spice and orange and maybe a dash of mint from the base of his throat. It made me shiver, but I held his gaze. “Oliver already paid for the tables,” I said. “And tipped generously.”

“Good,” he said, then, incongruously, wrapped his fingers over mine.

I blinked.

And, God , his hand was warm and strong and a little rough.

A fact that made me shiver again, but then he was folding my hand closed. “I know they paid,” he said, ignoring the part of my comment about tipping generously. “That’s still for you.” Fingertips trailing over the back of my hand, making me shiver for a third time.

Then his words processed.

For me?

Um…

“Cas—”

But he was releasing me, and disappointment was a blunt blade shoving home hard and fiercely and fast . Except, he wasn’t backing away like I’d instinctively braced for, wasn’t pushing through the door and leaving me. He was reaching behind him, tugging off his sweatshirt. “You’re cold.”

“I’m—” I caught a glimpse of taut, flat stomach, a hint of a trail of short dark hairs dipping beneath the waistband of the jeans that cupped his lower half, including his ass—and good God his ass was perfect, lush and bitable.

An ass I’d found myself tempted, more than once, to get my hands on over the time I’d known him.

But that peekaboo of tummy—and God, I sounded like an idiot calling a hockey player’s stomach a tummy, but I was a mom—had my own tummy clenching.

And other things, too.

South of my tummy.

He reached for me and, startled, I rocked back on my heels, my breath catching. But he didn’t take me into his arms, didn’t draw me close so that I could steal my sniff.

Instead, he dragged the material over my head.

One second, I was staring at his shirt, at his stomach, at that expanse of skin, and the next I was covered in fabric that smelled of him, his hands tugging it into place, manipulating my arms, tucking them into the sleeves.

It was warm and there was a hint of mint in the fibers…and it was fucking wonderful to be surrounded by him.

Even better than the fantasies that crowded my head in the middle of the night.

Even better?—

“And I know they tipped,” he murmured, his voice just as warm as the material, just as rough as his hands. “It’s still for you, anyway.”

My eyes flew to his. “It’s too much,” I whispered.

“Keep it.”

“I can’t.”

“You work too much,” he whispered back. “ Keep it.”

My eyes drifted away from his, inadvertently closing down, avoiding the argument. My gaze caught on a dent in the wall. It had been patched over and painted, but the surface wasn’t perfectly flat.

Trauma did that.

Busted through barriers, left marks and divots, and sometimes it even took chunks out that had to be filled in and smoothed over.

But even repaired, it was never the same, never exactly like it had been before.

I’d had repeated trauma.

The repairs were too great.

I was held together with duct tape and glue and pure will.

I didn’t have it in me to trust again.

“And you sleep too little,” Cas murmured, brushing a thumb beneath one of my eyes. And then the other.

I shuddered because despite all of those thoughts swirling through my head, all the reasons to avoid this man…his touch felt good.

“And you’re cold.” His hand lowering, his other joining in, both rubbing lightly along the outsides of my arms, using friction and his body heat to try to warm me.

But I didn’t need it. I wasn’t shivering because I was cold.

I was shivering because I was burning up inside.

“I’m not cold.”

“Then why are you shivering?” he asked.

My gaze shot back to his, cheeks blazing, and I knew he understood what my body was betraying because fire entered his gaze, blazing through the forest of his irises, sparking and spreading.

An inhale.

Mine.

Maybe his.

All I knew was that time seemed to have stood still. Every molecule in the air arrested, settling over us in a quiet sort of peace that shouldn’t have been possible.

We were in a bar.

I was at work.

But in that instant, it was only me and Cas and my body wrapped in his warmth, his scent in my nose. Longing and need and all those dreams that I allowed myself to have in the deep of night. The fantasies that I would never allow myself to have in my real life.

Except my fantasy was standing right in front of me.

And it was better than anything I could have imagined.

Which was saying something because I’d imagined a lot.

“Why are you shivering, gorgeous?” he pressed.

My heart thudded hard against my rib cage. I should stop this, should pocket the money, turn around, and go back to my life.

But…

I couldn’t make myself turn away from him.

My chin came up. I leaned a little closer and let myself get lost in the fantasy—for just one moment. “You know why.” A whisper. A challenge. Almost a taunt.

One second, his body was separated by mine, a few careful inches between us. The next, he had me pinned against the wall, his torso pressed to mine, palms flat on the wall. “Why?” he rasped, body bending, head dropping, nose to my throat, not shy about the fact that he was inhaling deeply.

Jealousy coiled in my belly. He got to smell. I didn’t.

Of course, I was wrapped in his sweatshirt that I’d decided I was never giving back, covered in his scent?—

Teeth on my skin.

I sucked in a breath.

He flicked out his tongue. “Why?” he asked again.

My mind threatened to short out, but I liked this, liked his hold, his body close, his mouth. Stupid, but…I liked it, and suddenly, I didn’t care about all the very logical reasons I should keep my distance and?—

Ethan .

I thought about my son.

Cold water on my desire.

And somehow Cas sensed it.

Because the next instance he was straightening, his body separating from mine. Now, I shivered for real, and yeah, part of it was from missing the heat of him, but the rest was a result of the chill from reality washing over me. From risking doing something that would put Ethan in harm’s way.

“Bye, gorgeous,” he murmured. “Sleep tonight, yeah?”

I nodded.

Then he was pushing out through the door.

Then…he was gone.

But even though that stung—him leaving, what I couldn’t permit myself to have—I allowed myself a small smile.

Because when he’d been close, I’d slipped the hundred in the pocket of his jeans.