Page 86 of Branded (Breakers Hockey)

Fifteen

Cas

I sat on the small set of steps that led up to her door, waiting for Jules to emerge from the apartment next door.

She’d all but carried the younger woman, brown hair mussed and face creased with sleep down her stairs and up to the adjacent set that led to the apartment next door. Then had somehow kept the other woman upright as she struggled with the getting the key out and attempting to unlock the door.

Which had been the point I’d lost my ability to sit back and watch her struggle.

So, I’d taken the keys, gotten the door open, held it for her to shepherd the other woman through.

And then, though I wanted to help, wanted to carry Mary—whose name I’d only caught because Jules had had to use it quite a few times to rouse her—I hadn’t gone inside.

Even though I didn’t like that Jules was struggling.

Even though I knew it would be faster for me to just carry Mary into her bedroom.

Jules had asked me to back off.

I wasn’t going to make the mistake of not listening to her.

I wasn’t that guy.

Ha .

So said the guy who’d all but bullied her into her car so I could drive her home.

Well, I wasn’t going to make the mistake of not listening to her in this instance. She’d been pushed far enough and?—

Footsteps on the stairs next to me.

I glanced up, expected to watch her walk into her own place, to shut the door, to end our evening.

Certainly, I’d pushed her far enough to test the patience of even the most saintlike of saints.

But instead, she surprised the shit out of me by sinking down onto the steps next to me.

“What?” she asked after a few moments.

(Probably because I was basically staring at her like she was a bug).

“Nothing,” I said, shifting enough so that I could watch her without getting a crick in my neck.

She was surprisingly little, despite the fact that she took up a lot of space in my mind, my heart.

Actually, sitting next to her, towering over her even though we were sitting on the same step, reminded me how tiny she was.

And breakable.

“ What?” she asked again.

And strong as hell.

And she’d been hurt because of me.

“I’m sorry that Chelsea?—”

“Don’t,” she said, reaching out and taking my hand, lacing our fingers together.

Her skin wasn’t like silk there—it was a little rough, calloused on her fingers, on her palm.

I liked it, though. It reminded me how capable she was, how tough and strong.

“It’s over—hopefully.” A gentle smile to soften the fact that this might not be over.

“And while I’d prefer not to be in the crosshairs of your ex again, I know it wasn’t really about me. ”

No, it wasn’t about her.

It was about me?—

Except it was about her.

Chelsea had been infuriated when we’d gone to CeCe’s, had hated even more that I’d talked to Jules.

I had always thought Chelsea was being unreasonable.

Now, I understood that I probably hadn’t done a good job of hiding what I felt for Jules, understood that wasn’t good boyfriend material and made me a bit of a dick.

But…that was still no excuse for Chelsea pogo-sticking so far over the fucking line it wasn’t even funny.

She’d hurt Jules, made her feel unsafe at her place of work and no apology I could make would undo that.

Still, I found I needed to give it to her, would apologize for an eternity if it meant that she’d feel better, wouldn’t have nightmares, wouldn’t hurt.

“Jules,” I said. “You’re being really cool about all this, but I’m still?—”

Her fingers squeezed around mine, cutting me off. “So, your real name is Luca?”

I blinked at the sharp left turn. “What?”

She turned our hands over, slipped her fingers from mine, and my stomach clenched. I wanted to keep touching her. Wanted her to keep touching me. Not to pull away.

But before I could maneuver more touching, she spread my hand out, began tracing her finger over the lines of my palm, and I relaxed because…touching. “Your first name isn’t Cas or Casian or…some over C name that begins with Cas ? Instead, it’s Luca?”

I held very still, not wanting to startle her, to have her pull back. To have her stop touching me. “My first name is Luca, but no one calls me that.” I shrugged. “Luca is my dad. I’ve been Cas for as long as I can remember.”

“Oh,” she murmured, the tip of her finger sliding over my skin, raising the hairs on my arm, my nape. “I never knew.”

I touched her cheek. “How would you?”

She went still at the question, or maybe at my touch. Then her shoulders lifted and fell on a breath. “I guess,” she said on a soft laugh, “I wouldn’t know.”

“Exactly.” I gave myself one more second of that silken skin before pulling back.

“And anyway, I should say that I’ve been Cas for as long as I can remember with everyone except for my mom.

I’m always Luca with her because”—I made air quotes—“she didn’t spend nine months carrying me and twenty hours pushing me out to not call me by my given name. ”

She giggled. “I think she earned it.”

“Yeah,” I said. “She did. So, I put up with Luca because she’s awesome.”

“It sounds like it.” Sad in her eyes, in her voice.

The silence dropped between us like a curtain separating the actors and the audience—a slow, steady descent until it was there and nothing but the most determined bout of applause could bypass the barrier.

I didn’t have acting chops, wasn’t going to break the quiet of the evening, the peace I felt with her sitting next to me by smacking my hockey-player-sized palms together like an imbecile.

But I couldn’t let the silence sit between us.

I knew that her sitting quiet and introspective and more open than she’d ever been before might be my best chance to find out more about her.

I danced my fingers along her forearm, lightly stroking skin that was like silk there, that was so soft it almost felt like a crime to touch it, let alone to have a portion of it obscured by bandages and wrap.

“Did you always go by Jules? Or is that strictly a Breakers’ addendum to your life? ” I asked.

Her smile…was so beautiful it lit up the space between us.

“When Beth heard that I had never had a nickname”—she glanced down at my hand and I hated that I’d lost my view of her face, but her voice was soft and Jules and almost as good—“she decided to remedy that.” A peek up, giving me a glimpse of those gorgeous eyes.

“Luckily, she chose something tolerable.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Her head lifted further, her mouth tipping up. “It’s not Commando,” she said, referring to the name Beth had recently tried to christen Smitty with—a reference to the fact the man lived to be naked and didn’t care who knew it.

I touched Jules’s cheek again, soaked in the feel of that silky skin. “True,” I said, grinning at her. “Jules is beautiful, like jewels.”

Confusion in her eyes. “Like topaz,” I whispered, brushing her lashes. “And garnet,” I added, running my thumb over the apples of her cheeks. “Rubies.” I touched her bottom lip.

“Garnet?”

My mouth turned up. “My mom is big into birthstones. I always thought that knowledge was just taking up space in my head.” Instead, it was helpful, giving me the words I needed.

At least, I thought that until I saw the flicker of sad in her eyes.

“What?” I murmured, thumb running lightly over her bottom lip.

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter, gorgeous. I want—” I cut myself off before I said something stupid and too much (like I want to know every single thing about you ) . Before I continued pushing. Always pushing her too far. Because, in this, I needed to play it cool, to not send her running.

“What do you want?” she asked, barely audible.

“You.”

Okay then. Apparently, playing it cool was out of the question.

But…she didn’t run.

Her fingers tensed, wrapping around my hand, flexing tight.

But…she still didn’t run. Instead, I watched as the pink grew on her cheeks, the ruby red of her mouth darkened, her lips plumping, her tongue darting out to moisten the lush pillows I wanted to taste again. Somehow, I managed to hold still, though. To wait and see what she would do.

And it just about killed me.

Because her hand slid up the inside of my forearm, my biceps, to my nape, weaving into my hair. Her body arched, and she lifted so that her mouth came close enough to mine that I could feel her breath on my skin.

One long, taut moment.

Her lips were so fucking close.

But then her hand dropped, and she scooted away and I lost all of her—the warmth, the heat, the curves, the sweet scent of her.

“No?” I asked softly, my heart thudding, my hands aching to touch.

A long pause. “No,” she whispered.

My pulse was thundering, but, thankfully, my voice was calm. “Too much?”

Teeth pressing into her bottom lip. “No,” she whispered again.

I needed to shut up, needed to take my win and just go. But I still couldn’t stop the question from rolling off my tongue. “You didn’t like it?”

A small smile, a self-deprecating shake of her head.

“That’s the problem. I like it too much.”