Page 20

Chapter

Twenty

André

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.

André couldn’t turn off the fire hose streaming those two words on repeat as he walked ahead of Grace down the lush corridor of the Fantasyland Hotel, rolling her suitcase beside his. He’d been shocked when she opted to stay in his room instead of finding another hotel.

But this was best case scenario. This wasn’t his fault—she’d forgotten to make the reservation—and he didn’t suggest she join him. He looked like the knight in shining armour in this situation. Unless he did something to screw it up. Which was quite likely considering he was on day three of no cigarettes and wanted to rip off the first ten layers of his skin. Or have sex. A lot of sex. Which would make him want a cigarette, so. Winning.

He tried to keep his hands from shaking as he reached out and hit the elevator button. He had to look cool. Chill. Like he wasn’t thinking about the fact that she’d be brushing her teeth three feet from him while wearing something that was definitely not a pantsuit. Or that she might leave her shampoo in the shower.

What did she sleep in? He swallowed hard.

“What floor are we on?” Grace stepped into the elevator and looked at the bank of buttons.

“Three.” André cleared his throat. His voice cracked like a fourteen-year-old boy.

Grace hit the button, and the doors closed. The golden lighting reflected off the overly ornate mirrors on all sides. She filled his field of view entirely, and that wasn’t helping the “oh shit” situation.

Grace stood on the other side of the elevator, her arms crossed tightly. Her ponytail was slightly mussed from the long ride, her coat slung over her arm, and her lips pursed like she regretted every life choice that led her to this moment.

André shifted his weight. He was not going to stare. He was not going to?—

“I can see you, you know.” She caught his eyes in the mirror.

He grinned. “Wasn’t hiding it.”

She huffed, turning her head to hide her blush when the elevator doors opened. They entered the hall to the chemical scent of some kind of tropical air freshener.

“I can carry my bag.” Grace put out a hand.

“Wow. Nice of you to offer now that we’re a few metres from the door.”

Her lips twitched. André turned left, following the gold-plated sign, and Grace followed him down the hall.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured as they slowed in front of room 317. “I’m mad at myself, not at you.”

“Very self-aware.” He grinned, then tapped the key to the black box above the handle.

“You don’t have to rub my face in it.”

“Well—” André stopped mid-sentence. He stared at something in front of him, moving to the side as Grace crowded in next to him.

“What the . . . ” Grace made a sound in her throat.

A round bed sat in the center, framed by velvet drapes that screamed Caesar’s brothel, and there was a heart-shaped jacuzzi tucked beneath faux marble columns. Cherubs adorned the wall. Real ones. Carved. Edged in gold.

Andre blinked. “I swear to you, I booked a standard room.”

Grace held back a grin. “Sure you did.”

He gave her a sidelong glance, but she pushed past him, taking in the full scope of the Roman decor. “You didn’t have plans to bring someone back here?”

André rolled his eyes. “I’m here for a hockey tournament.”

“Yeah, and nobody at tournaments brings puck bunnies back to their rooms?”

“First, I’m impressed you know the term puck bunny. Second, how dare you insinuate that I’m a man of such loose moral values.”

Grace snorted. “Mmkay.” She spun in a slow circle.

André set their bags against the wall and walked over to the jacuzzi. “If I didn’t think I’d get Hep C, I might use this after our games.”

“That or a yeast infection.”

He grimaced. “That was over the line.”

“We’re roommates now. Get used to it.”

Something fluttered in his chest, and his eyes narrowed. Grace stood with her arms still crossed over her chest and her jaw set. That’s what she was doing. Setting boundaries. Making this feel as unromantic as possible. Controlling the narrative.

To hell with that.

André dragged his suitcase over to the end of the bed and opened it on the moon-shaped bench. Then he pulled his shirt over his head.

“What are you doing?” Grace snapped.

André looked over his shoulder. “We’re roommates now. Get used to it.”

Her nostrils flared. “There’s a separate bathroom. You can change in there.”

He turned toward her, running a hand over the back of his neck so his stomach crunched a bit. Just enough to show off some definition in his abs. “I’ve already seen you topless. I figured it was only fair.”

Grace’s lips drew into a tight line. She looked like she was in a self-proclaimed staring contest, right down to the eye twitch.

“You can look. I’ll give you a minute.” André grinned.

“Shut up.” She rolled her eyes and walked to her suitcase. “I’m not going to have sex with you, so you can stop trying so hard.”

“You haven’t seen me try hard. Not by a long shot.”

Grace ignored him, dragging her bag to the other side of the bed and opening it on the floor. She rifled through her things, grabbed two clothing items, then pulled out a toiletry bag and stalked into the bathroom.

André stared at the closed door. Now what? She hadn’t said anything about the bed. He turned back, appraising it. The mattress looked large enough, but with the shape, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep straight without his feet hanging off the end of the bed. But if he slept diagonal, there was a chance he’d be touching her. And he hadn’t brought any pajamas.

He pulled out one of his T-shirts. Grace would be pissed if he pulled the “Oh, sorry, I sleep in my underwear” excuse, even if it was true. And for the first time in a long time, he found himself caring what a woman thought. He wanted to push but not that hard.

Settling on a pair of shorts that he’d thankfully thrown in his bag last minute in case the guys went for a warm-up lifting sesh in the gym, he got dressed and dropped onto the bed. He grabbed the TV remote from the nightstand and . . . that’s when he noticed the mirror.

Mounted above the bed. Same size as the mattress, actually. It covered the entire circular inset in the ceiling.

"Are you going to shower at the arena or back here in the room?" Grace exited the bathroom and padded back to her suitcase.

"I'm just wondering because the shower is glass, so I want to make sure that I take care of everything I need in there so you can have it to yourself."

"I'll probably shower at the arena."

"Okay. That makes things easy."

She laid the neatly folded clothes she'd been wearing earlier on one half of her suitcase clamshell, then straightened and put her hands on her hips. "See? You can change privately."

She wore a tight tank top and yoga pants. Her bra strap was visible, and he barely caught himself from asking whether she would sleep in that or not. Grace's all-business expression flickered as she looked at André relaxing on the bed.

André smirked. "Did you just realize that it's eight thirty? And there's no way in hell you're going to sleep right now but that means it's just me and you in this room for the next four waking hours?"

Grace scoffed. "I don't go to bed past ten thirty."

"Perfect. I love watching you sleep."

Grace's eyes widened. “Not creepy at all.”

Andre laughed. "I'm kidding.”

“Not sure you are.” She walked toward the bed.

“I have to be at the rink at six thirty for practice."

"Did Sean choose that time?"

"He had to if we were going to be able to make it back for ten o’clock breakfast and shenanigans."

Grace nodded. They’d all received an itinerary from Jenna the day before. First, it was a buffet breakfast at the restaurant downstairs, then the water park, then lunch—some place he couldn't remember—followed by the seal show and aquarium.

Despite living in Alberta for a huge chunk of his adult life, André had never done any of those things. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been to a water park, and he'd be lying if he pretended that the first thought entering his head wasn't, “I'll go anywhere if I get to see Grace in a bathing suit.”

"Are you coming to all of that?" he asked, turning his attention to his phone.

"Of course, I am. Why else would I be here?"

"You're such a big hockey fan, I assumed?—"

"Don't be an ass."

He looked up and grinned, adjusting the pillows behind him. "Are you hungry?"

"We already had dinner."

"That's not what I asked."

Grace breathed in and held it a moment. "No."

"I saw that."

"You saw what?"

"You hesitated."

André leaned over and picked up the room service card from the nightstand.

"No. Don't—" Grace leaned across the bed and tried to snatch it from his hands, but he held it out of her reach. "I just had to think about it for a second."

"Yeah. I know what that means."

She gave up. "Right, because you know me so well."

"Yeah. I do. It's about decisions, isn't it?"

Grace blinked. "What are you talking about?"

André didn't answer, just scanned the QR code and waited for the menu to load. When the items populated, he scrolled down the list. Showing up with tacos that night had been a stroke of inspiration, because now he had the cheat code. That look on her face? It was the same one she'd had when he stood on her doorstep. And because she'd been on the verge of a mental breakdown, she hadn't been able to hide what it meant.

“I'm going to get the loaded nachos, the marinated olives and spiced nuts, and the sliders." He looked up.

Grace stood with her hands at her side. "That's a lot of food."

"Yeah. Some would say it’s enough for two." He held her gaze a moment, then finished checking out. When he had the confirmation, he set his phone on the bed beside him. "Should be here in about thirty minutes."

She dropped to the bed, as far from him as humanly possible.

André lifted the remote and clicked on the TV. He flipped through the streaming options, completely tongue-tied. It wasn't often that he was speechless, but with her moving softly on the bed and his heart galloping like a racehorse, he could barely read the titles on the app icons.

"I can sign into my Netflix," Grace offered.

He clicked on the red square and it went directly to the menu with the profile "AmeliasEx" listed at the top of the screen.

"I have so many questions," Grace murmured.

André clicked on the recently watched section. The Human Centipede, Trailer Park Boys, MILF Manor, and PAW Patrol: The Movie. "Pretty sure I don't want the answers."

"Who doesn't log out of their account on a hotel TV?"

André blew out a dramatic breath. "Okay, not all of us have project management software running in our brains at all times. Some of us are just trying to remember which episode of MILF Manor we're on." The corner of her mouth turned up, and he took that as a win.

André clicked on the icon, and Grace made a noise. He grinned. “For science, Fairbanks.”

She groaned and threw herself back against the pillows. “Don't pretend you haven't already watched this episode.”

His grin widened. "Oh definitely. But now I want to watch you watch it." The opening credits began: dramatic music, slow-mo close-ups of middle-aged women in bikinis strutting down a tropical beach, intercut with young men oiled up and flexing.

Grace stared at the screen. “This exists? People watch this?”

“Look at the lighting. This is art." He shifted to face her. "Someone’s mom just said she wants a man with stamina. These women are advocating for themselves."

Grace gave him a sidelong glance. "Well. We don't always get what we want."

André's blood rushed south. He'd said that to her. Was it a random comment or did she remember?"

Grace adjusted the pillows and crossed her legs under her. “They overdid the slow-motion hairflips.”

"How many is the right number of hair flips? In your professional opinion."

"Three. Everything's better in threes."

He grinned. "I agree."

Grace rolled her eyes as the host appeared, disturbingly enthusiastic, saying something about age being a number and explaining the potential of your son being your roommate. "Gross."

André's jaw tightened. "Please. Hammer home your disgust with younger men a little harder."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged. "You just seem to bring it up a lot."

"No, I don't."

"Is it something with your upbringing? Daddy issues?"

Grace turned her head. "I never said I didn't like younger men, only immature ones."

André wet his lips. "Right. Sorry, I misunderstood."

"Are you really making MILF Island about you right now?" She swivelled on the bed and leaned forward.

Elbows up. "Hey, I've never made your age a thing. That's all you."

"André, our age difference is the last reason you and I would never work."

"What's the first?"

"Uh, try the fact that we can't even sit and watch an episode of the stupidest reality show ever without getting into a fight."

"This isn't a fight. It's an inquiry."

"I don't usually interrogate my boyfriends."

André lowered the volume and turned to look at her. "What do you do with them, then?"

A knock sounded at the door. “Room service,” came the muffled voice.

André stood, stretching, knowing full well his shirt lifted above his waistline. Grace's eyes snapped back to the TV. Andre opened the door and brought in the tray. He walked to the bed and set it down between them, then sat back in his spot. The scent of melted cheese, seasoned beef, and herbs filled the room as he lifted the first plastic lid.

André dug in. He was starving and had a morning practice plus a doubleheader tomorrow evening. He needed to eat at least six thousand calories by noon.

He watched Grace out of the corner of his eye. She didn't reach for anything, and for a moment, he wondered if he'd misjudged. He could finish everything on the plates in front of them himself, but he didn't especially want to. Not while she sat there and watched.

He grabbed a slider, painfully aware of every second she didn't move. But then, finally, she reached for a marinated olive and popped it into her mouth. He didn’t grin. Not outwardly. But a small amount of satisfaction settled deep in his chest. Grace was like a cat—skittish, proud, and far too good at pretending not to be interested until you stopped trying.

She chewed, her back straight as a board, ankles crossed, posture all defence. Buttoned-up to the point of implosion. It made him want to rattle her. Especially when she licked her bottom lip after finally taking a bite of the nachos.

What would she look like experiencing pleasure? Would she let herself go then? Would she turn to putty? Would she talk to him or make small noises to lead him on?

"What are you looking at?" Grace asked, and André blinked.

"Uh. I thought there was a nick out of that drawer."

"Hmm. Where?"

"It was just the light from this angle, I think."

Grace nodded, picking up a slider. They watched the rest of the episode in companionable silence. Then another. And another. Eventually, André pushed off the bed, his eyes bleary. “If I don’t brush my teeth, I’m going to fall asleep with jalapeno breath and wake up wondering why my mouth tastes like ass.”

Grace laughed and followed him into the bathroom. The counter was long enough for them both. They stood side by side, brushing quietly, trading looks in the mirror.

André spit, took a drink straight from the tap, then moved so she could use the sink. Grace frowned and looked for a cup. When she couldn't find it, she walked out to the bedroom and returned with a glass.

André watched with amusement. When she stood, he pointed. “You have toothpaste on your lip."

"Maybe I like it that way."

"Doubtful."

Grace swiped at it with her finger, then rinsed it off, and dried her hand and face on a towel. "Who volunteers for a show like that? Those guys are so young."

"Here we go again."

She scoffed. "No, not like that. I mean, they have plenty of options. Why would they volunteer to basically be a cabana boy?"

André waited. When she stood there blinking at him, he grinned. "I think every twenty-year-old man has a secret cabana boy fantasy."

"They do not."

"And you're the expert on twenty-year-old men? Considering how gross you think they are?—"

"Okay, just get out so I can pee please."

André moved past her, purposefully brushing her shoulder. She shivered, and he grinned to himself. She wanted him. She was trying so damn hard to convince herself she didn't, and he had yet to break down all the reasons for that, but her hands had been desperate in that locker room.

But what was this for him? Was he only locking in because she wouldn't give him what he wanted?

The bathroom door clicked shut, and André set their tray of empty plates out in the hall. He turned off the overhead light and flicked on the bedside lamp. Grace exited a few moments later.

She walked to her side of the bed and pulled back the sheets, then froze when she slipped in and looked up. "Oh, damn."

"Just noticed that?" André leaned back, watching her in the mirror.

"It's . . . comprehensive."

"Yeah."

Grace wet her lips. "Maybe shut off the light?"

"I sleep with the light on."

Grace looked at him like he was a serial killer.

André laughed. "Kidding." He reached out and flicked it off. They lay there in silence for a moment, the image of her lying beside him, her hair splayed on the pillow, imprinted in his mind’s eye. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep anytime soon, and he had to do something with the I-need-my-hands-on-your-body energy, or he was going to burst at the seams.

He shifted on the mattress. “Why did you go to law school?”

She was quiet for a beat, maybe longer. Then, softly, she answered, “I wanted to help people.”

André turned his head toward her voice, trying to piece together her silhouette in the dark. He was tempted to make a joke but refrained. He was sure that was a real answer. The last thing he wanted to do was make her feel mocked for it. “Have you always done commercial and property law?”

She moved, her body brushing against the sheets. “No, I started in family.”

“Didn’t like it?”

“Too close to home.”

What did that mean? “Are your parents divorced?” Every short answer felt like a hook snapping into his skin. He wanted more. Needed to know more.

She gave a small laugh. “No, they’re happily married.”

André waited, and when she didn’t say more, he grunted. “You going to make me dig for every detail?”

“I didn’t know you wanted every detail.”

He swallowed hard, his heart swelling until he could barely breathe. Potential smart-ass comments filled his head, but something about lying in the pitch-black made it easier to be brave. “Maybe I do.”

Her breath caught, then she said, “I was adopted. Not the kind of story you make into a Lifetime movie. My parents were amazing. Stable. Kind. But I always wondered what would’ve happened if I hadn’t ended up with them. What if I’d gone into foster care? What if nobody had wanted me? So I thought I could make a difference there. And maybe I did, a little. But it gutted me. Every day. So I shifted focus.”

André lay still, blinking up at the darkness. She swallowed at the end of her words. Her breathing came quicker.

“That’s why you’re doing this for Jenna and Country.”

“It was supposed to be simple.”

“Yeah.”

Another moment of silence.

“I can’t fix what’s happening,” she murmured. “But I can fight for them.”

He visualized her face, imagined the way her brows pulled together when she got serious, the tight line of her mouth when she was trying not to show any emotion. “Well. That sucks.”

“What?”

He exhaled. “Turns out you were right.”

“About what?” she asked, and he heard the grin in her voice.

“That’s the real reason you and I would never work.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm. You’re altruistic and I’m an asshole.”

She laughed. “Self-aware, at least. That’s something.”

He smiled, turning onto his back. He could almost convince himself he could see her move in the mirror.

“When did you start smoking?”

He scoffed. “Wow. Doubling down.” She could’ve asked him about a hundred different things. His career for one, which he’d love an opportunity to talk about since women were always impressed. She’d never been curious about it. Slightly emasculating.

She exhaled. “No, not judging, just?—”

“You can’t say ‘not judging’ when you told me exactly how you feel about smokers.”

“I said that before I knew?—”

“That I didn’t taste like Nicotine?” He turned back to his side, propping his head on his pillow.

“No. Before I knew . . . you.”

His lungs tightened. “Hm. And that changes things?”

“Not . . . things. I—” She blew out a breath. “I answered your question.”

He was so giddy and nervous that his hands were trembling. “Fair.” André breathed, trying to keep his voice steady. “I started because of my brother.”

“As kids?”

André nodded against his pillow. “Teenagers. Our dad smoked, so it wasn’t hard to get cigarettes. Had to be careful, though. Couldn’t take more than one at a time.”

“Did he ever catch you?”

André’s hands tensed. He thought of the scar above Luc’s left eye. How he told everyone it was from dropping gloves with McGillick at provincials. “Yeah.”

That old anger simmered in his gut. His father didn’t give a shit that Luc had three concussions by the time he was fifteen. If he’d done something about it, that hit wouldn’t have caused the damage it did.

“Daddy issues?”

André let out a sharp laugh. “You could say that.”

Grace moved her legs under the sheets. André held perfectly still, wondering if any part of her would brush his skin. “So that’s why you haven’t quit.”

He frowned. “Uh, not following.”

“You’re still smoking because it’s like an eff you to your old man. He didn’t like that you took his Marlboros, so now you do it whenever the hell you want.”

André adjusted his arm under his pillow. “Love that you’ve become a therapist in the past ten minutes, but no. I don’t think so.” He didn’t bother telling her that he hadn’t smoked all week. That would only incite more questions, and the night hadn’t made him quite that bold. Admitting you wanted to sleep with someone was one thing. Admitting you were making lifestyle changes? Too deep when the only date you’d been on was self-proclaimed and with your sister in attendance.

“What is it then?” Grace asked.

“I thought you’d already figured that out. I’m immature, remember? I think I’m invincible?”

She made a soft sound in her throat. “Right.” She didn’t sound as convinced as she had on the street in front of Curtis’s house.

“You changing your mind about me, Fairbanks?”

She scoffed. “No, I just wondered what your explanation was.”

“Interested in how deeply delusional I am?”

“Exactly. I need more fodder for my ongoing psychoanalysis.”

His mouth curled. “Psychoanalysis? That’s Freud, right? Wasn’t he convinced that sexuality was key to understanding the human mind?”

Grace laughed. “His philosophies are very outdated.”

“Well, how do we know that? How do we know you can learn anything about my deeply traumatized and twisted psyche unless you observe me sexually?”

She snorted. “Observe?”

“Experience. That’s the technical term.”

“Mm. I see Psych 101 is paying off for you.”

“First time ever.” He propped himself up on his elbow. “Wait, Freud thought all men wanted to sleep with their mothers. He had a term for it?—”

“Oedipus complex.”

André sighed. “I can’t believe you, Grace. You’ve been setting this up all along. Shaming me for wanting you despite our age gap, suggesting we watch MILF island, and?—”

She reached over and shoved his shoulder. “I did not suggest we watch that!”

He caught her wrist, pulling her closer. “I didn’t force you to watch two hours of it.”

Grace struggled, laughing herself breathless. “I was asking a question, you’re the one who brought up Freud.”

“You’ve been incepting me with these thoughts of being with an older woman, I can’t believe—” He grunted as Grace’s free hand dug into his ribs, trying to force him to let go.

Instead he dragged her against him and rolled, pinning her to the bed. She laughed so hard, she couldn’t breathe. She tried to twist her wrists out of his grip, but her body betrayed her, and her arms went limp. “André, I can’t—” She gasped, and he shifted onto his hip, taking the pressure off her ribcage. She hyperventilated, then finally succeeded in drawing a full lungful of air.

They lay there panting, their bodies pressed tight, his hands still binding hers. Grace’s body was soft and pliant beneath him, no longer tense. He thought about adjusting his position a second time to keep her from noticing the response his body had to hers, but didn’t.

Grace swallowed, the sound deafening in the silence. “I should—we should get some sleep.”

“Mm. Exactly what I was thinking.”

She let out a breathy laugh. When she tugged away from him, he loosened his grip. But just before she rolled out from under him, he dragged his hand up the inside of her arm. Her breath caught as he leaned in closer. “Eighty-twenty.”

Her breathing quickened. “See? Delusional.”

He grinned. “Goodnight, Grace.” Then let her go.