Page 8

Chapter 8

Come Pretend With Me, Freckles

Gabe

“Wade,” I say through a leaden breath, moving my hand away from his neck and down his chest.

“Yeah?”

“Let go.”

His hold loosens at my command. No battle, no snark, no visible signs of disappointment. Not even Wade’s cock deflates. It remains at a 90-degree angle. Pointing at me. Blaming me for its current state.

My legs attempt confidence, and I’m glad for the wall support from behind. The tense air between us is so thick I can taste it. From the way he licks his bottom lip, maybe he can, too.

It’d be too easy to succumb. He’s young. I don’t have to think too much. And it won’t mean anything to him. He’s not even the worst option I have. At least this one can get me to the finish line. But no.

“We can’t?—”

“Okay.” He withdraws and backpedals, taking his warmth and leaving behind goosebumps.

A ragged breath escapes from me. “Wade.” I don’t want him to think I’m doing this on purpose. It’s not like I set out to blue-ball him. I’m a horny, weak woman lacking self-restraint. He knows that, though. He was on the receiving end of that lingerie pic from earlier.

Head shaking out a chuckle, he rubs a palm through the back of his hair and nape.

“I know.” A smile returns. It’s soft and understanding. Probably the most sincere I’ve seen him since last summer. “You hate me.”

He says it like he doesn’t want to believe it. I’m not sure I do, either.

“You can still stay.” Wade slides off his shoes by the door.

I really shouldn’t.

“For a few minutes.” I leave my sneakers next to his. “Only to avoid the cameras.”

He nods. “Only to avoid the cameras.”

We loiter in the foyer. His fist knocks into his thigh, awkward and unsure.

“Are you gonna show me around, or…?

“Right!” His palm meets his temple with a slap. “Come on in. Might as well get familiar.” Wade’s ruinous smirk reappears. “My girlfriend would spend a lot of time here.”

“Is that so?”

Lights switch on as we move through the spaces. Motion-sensing, I’m guessing. One space flows seamlessly into the next. Dining, kitchen, living.

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t… this .

Okay, that’s a lie.

I expected a bachelor pad. I expected black leather couches, minimalist furniture, a neon Labatt Blue sign, bar stools instead of dining chairs, maybe a bright red rug, and animal heads on the wall. Or something.

Not this .

This is cozy.

The kitchen is immaculate. State-of-the-art. There’s a sage green subway tile backsplash paired with gray cabinetry and a cooktop with, like, ten ranges. Fridge doors span an entire wall. Copper pots and pans hang from a rack above the massive island.

“Go stand by the island so I can take a picture.”

“You’re not the boss of me.”

“I’m gonna post it on Instagram, smartass. Elliott sent me another text saying we haven’t been keeping up. Now, do it. And be casual. And less mad-looking.”

I roll my eyes. “What can I say? You bring out the best in me.” With an exhale, I lean against the counter edge, curling my hands around it and giving him a fake smile while looking off-camera.

The tip of his tongue pokes from the seam of his lips as he concentrates on snapping a few photos. He shows me the screen.

“Not bad.”

He types the words mine in the caption, and my stomach flips.

It’s fake. It’s fake.

“Jeez, I sound like Radek,” he says with a scoff. “What a sap.”

“The world’s a stage, and we’re just players.”

Wade frowns. “That’s not the quote.”

“As if you’d know,” I snipe back, wandering through the kitchen. “Who cooks here?”

“Me, sometimes.” Wade shrugs. “Usually, Mathieu does.” Before I follow up with another question, he continues. “My personal chef.”

“How fancy.”

Long benches flank a farmhouse-style table. A spacious c-shaped sectional and its modular ottomans fill the living area across from the TV. He reads my curious look.

“The guys from the team come over a lot.”

Most surprising of all are the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining several walls. I tilt one out by the spine. The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde.

“That’s the first edition. From 1895.”

I gape.

“What?”

“You read this?”

Pretty Boy’s eyes narrow. “I am literate, y’know. Judging from the way you misquote Shakespeare, I’m not sure about you, though.”

“I know how to read, jerk. I thought these were decorative.”

He responds with a disgusted face. “People do that?”

“Supposedly.”

“What a weird thing to do. Books are for reading. Or at least collecting in hopes of reading.”

“Who are you?” I say under my breath.

Maybe he’s not a chauvinistic, dumb jock. The last glimpse of that side of him was through a post-orgasm haze.

We stared at the ceiling, every breath heavier than the last. Sweaty. Spent. Naked. Wade’s dazed expression held irrefutable proof of what we’d just done. Three times. If this hotel bed could talk, it’d need a cigarette and a strong drink.

Oh, Gabe, you big dummy. Why did you kiss him again? Kissing Wade—bad. But he’s so good at it. Too good, if I’m honest.

Unlike the quickie in the closet, he’d taken his time. Kissed, touched, worshiped. Slow, patient. Swallowed each of my moans and fed me groan after groan, whispering filthy praises while filling me up in a way that I hadn’t been in many years. Maybe ever.

“You sucked my cock so good, Gabe. Your tight cunt’s gonna take all of it, too.”

Between Vaughn and I, sex was about pride. A competitive sort of race for who could get the other to the finish first and the most times. I usually won, because men are easy. A blowjob here, a finger in the ass there, and kapow! Cum shot everywhere.

Wade fucked like what I wanted mattered. Like I mattered.

If only outside of that night, outside of that hotel room, he wasn’t obnoxious.

I hid my face and aggressively sighed as he snuck off to the ensuite for a piss before returning to the mattress.

At least he had the decency to throw on a pair of pajama pants. Its matching striped top got lobbed my way. Shifting to his stomach, he tucked a hand under his pillow. His hair fell in a voluminous wave against its surface, eyes drooping closed with the next exhale. Lush lashes darkened the crest of his angled cheekbones with their shadows. Pretty Boy was almost angelic.

“I should…go.”

He hummed through a soft yawn. Good, he agrees. My gaze lingered too long.

“You sure you don’t wanna keep staring?” Wade mumbled, not moving from his comfortable position.

I cringed and scooched down to yank the sheet over my head.

“Don’t go shy on me now, Freckles.” He joined me under the white bedsheet, those sleepy eyes narrowing. I pulled both lips into my mouth and shook out a denial. “I’ve already been inside you.”

“I should definitely go.”

When I tried to escape, Wade curled an arm around my hips and tugged me close. “No.” He wrapped me in his shirt and buttoned it over my chest. “You can’t.”

“Sure, I can.”

“You’re not some fling that can sneak away in the middle of the night.”

“Aren’t I?”

“Stop arguing,” he admonished quietly while his hand squeezed my waist, repositioning us so we were face-to-face. “Just stay.” Calluses on his fingertips stroked a sensitive stretch of skin at my midsection, his swollen, red lips brushing my cheek. Knots in my sex hair caught in his grip, but he detangled and tried again with aimless, winding lines across my scalp until I responded with an unintentional hum. “Doesn’t that feel nice?”

“You treat all your one-night stands like this?”

“Would you believe me if I said yes?”

“Good to know I’m not special.” What was meant to be sarcasm sounded like spite.

“All women are special, Freckles. Don’t be jealous.” His forehead puckered with concern. “Haven’t you heard of aftercare?”

“Uh, sure, but…”

He snorted. “Did that motherfucker Vaughn never hold you after?”

I peered to the right, recalling bitter memories. “He wasn’t into it.”

“Ugh. What a prick.” Wade’s eyelashes stuttered closed, brows lifting with an entitled expression. “Too bad. I need cuddles.” He buried his nose into the crook of my neck and inhaled, tightening his grasp and forking our legs together.

Okay, fine. The idea of a beefy professional hockey player with the athletic prowess of a cheetah wanting to be snuggled is precious.

“Don’t you ever get attached?”

“Attachments stem from unfulfilled desire. Suffering follows. My desires are fulfilled. No attachments. No suffering.”

I scoffed. “Unbelievable. Did you just quote Buddha?”

“Please.” He let out a drowsy giggle. “It’s from the Bhagavad Gita.”

“Wade Boehner” —a yawn interrupted my wry introduction— “the philosopher.”

“Hardly.” A shush wafted past my ear, the firm caresses on the back of my neck lulling me into a groggy, relaxed state.

It felt too intimate to end after one night. But I did it anyway.

I blink twice to drive the memory away.

Wade stands with his arms folded across himself. The index finger of one hand rests on his Cupid’s bow. Studying. Scanning me up and down. A lump moves down my throat.

“So…?”

“So?” I parrot.

He glances at his watch. “I go to sleep early, but not this early. It’s only seven.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Since you’re staying?—”

“— Only to avoid the cameras ?—”

“Right.” He nods to the left. “We could…see what’s on TV.”

“You wanna watch TV?” My finger points to my chest. “With me ?”

Wade rounds the sectional, never breaking our eye contact. “Isn’t that what real couples do?”

“But we’re not.” I clarify, “A real couple.”

“We can pretend.” He drops to the couch and gets comfortable, then calls over his shoulder. “Come pretend with me, Freckles.”

I huff but step forward, shimmying out of my coat and leaving it on one side of the sectional. “You think you’re so cute with that nickname.”

“You think you’re so cute with those freckles.”

“What?”

Was that a compliment?

“Nothing.” Wade hands me the remote.

I click through the cable guide: news, boxing, Gordon Ramsay, poker, Fresh Prince of Bel-Air . Nothing elicits a response. I linger on an episode of Gilmore Girls before skipping past.

“Go back.”

“Sorry?”

He shushes me.

Dean and Tristan face off at Rory’s dance, and Dean goes deliciously protective when Tristan attacks her.

Like Wade with Kurt.

Wade rests his elbows on his knees. Eyes shiny with attention, lips moving as if reciting the lines.

The scene fades out as they leave and cuts to a commercial.

He reclines with a sigh, stretching an arm across the top of the couch. Suspiciously close to my shoulders. I tilt my head toward him.

“You don’t watch Gilmore Girls .”

“Sure, I do. Donovan and I have watched it in nearly every hotel lobby on the road.”

“Why the lobby?”

“Before the management stopped it, I used to share a room with Jaeger the Snorlax. And Fletch roomed with Landy.”

“Radek doesn’t like Gilmore Girls ? I feel like he would.”

“Only serial killers don’t like this show. Nah , Landy loves it. But he loves having phone sex with Indi more.”

I groan. “ Aw , come on. That was uncalled for. I already know way too many gory details about their sex lives.”

“Hey, if we have to know about it, so do you. Now, shh , I love this part.”

Dean and Rory return to the screen, coffees in hand, sneaking into Miss Patty’s after the winter formal. When Dean asks why it’s so heavy, Rory reveals she has a book in her purse. I sink further into the couch, mirroring how they settle into a bean bag as Dean starts reading Dorothy Parker to her.

The combination of the acoustic guitar in the show’s score, the sweet idea of being cared for and read to, and the warmth of being so close to Wade—it’s soothing.

My breathing relaxes. So does he.

Maybe Wade Boehner’s not as greasy as he makes himself out to be. He treats his one-night stands gently, knows how to accept the word ‘no’— when it matters, anyway— cooks frequently, reads classic literature, and watches Gilmore Girls .

A weighty slumber settles over me, along with Wade’s rounded bicep, and I don’t fight either.