Page 25

Chapter

Twenty-Five

André

André welded the final corner, sparks spitting like fireworks against the sheet metal floor, the acrid tang of burning steel clinging to his tongue. He didn’t flinch anymore. Not from the heat. Not from the sound.

But today he was distracted. His bead line wobbled slightly, just enough to piss him off. He stopped, leaned back, and yanked his welding helmet up, blinking through the sweat slicking his temples.

The gate was a beast. Seven feet wide. Arching across the top in a precise curve that took two full hours of coaxing out of the raw stock, not to mention the forged embellishments—a scrollwork of vines and thistles that his client wanted to match the crest on their summer property. He’d already spent sixteen hours on the damned thing. Should’ve taken ten.

He should’ve been proud of it. It was clean work. Elegant. A little gaudy, if he was being honest. But he couldn’t feel any sense of accomplishment.

His body was finally starting to regulate, not feeling quite so desperate from nicotine withdrawals, but Grace was in his head like a fever. He didn’t know which was worse.

Because after all his fantasizing, now he knew what she tasted like. What she sounded like when he pulled her out of her head. What she looked like beneath him, around him, on top of him.

It had been two days since they drove home Sunday morning. It felt like six months.

He reached for the shop towel slung over the edge of the bench and wiped the sweat from the back of his neck, glancing toward the office door where his laptop sat open. A new commission had come in that morning. A big one. A hand-forged balcony railing for a restored heritage house in Banff. The kind of project he used to dream about.

He felt nothing.

Pathetic.

He tossed the rag onto the bench and went back to the gate, running a gloved hand over the metal scrolls, checking for snags. The detail work was tight. He’d used a new radius bender for the curves, set the vines to wrap through the vertical bars in a perfectly asymmetrical pattern.

It was beautiful. So why did he feel like throwing a wrench through the wall?

There wasn’t a damn thing he could do about any of it, so he went back to work, blasting Counting Crows high enough, he hoped a neighbor showed up to complain.

André locked up the workshop as the last swipe of orange glowed on the horizon. The tools were wiped down, clamps stacked, workbench swept. The gate leaned against the far wall, perfect and gleaming under the fluorescents, but even that little rush of satisfaction didn’t stick.

He showered fast, scrubbing off the day with scalding water and charcoal soap, then threw on jeans and a Henley, grabbed a six-pack from the fridge, and hit the road for Country’s place. The farmhouse looked like a Norman Rockwell painting. The wraparound porch was lit with strings of warm bulbs, and laughter already rolled out beneath the front door. Inside, the place smelled like pizza and beer and something sugary Jenna likely whipped up.

André barely got his boots off before Suraj called out, “Nobody told me I had to look pretty.”

“Don’t be jealous I shower, Raj,” Andre shot back, breezing into the kitchen where the crew had already staked their usual places.

Curtis was at the head of the table, dealing cards like he moonlighted in Vegas. Tyler and Vargo were arguing about whether or not Jack Harrison was overrated while Jack sat right there with his feet up, giving zero shits since he was the only one there with a contract.

Fly—former captain, current hockey dad—sipped a soda and muttered to Brett about the blueline pressure in the last Habs game, while Sean sat with his half-empty beer looking like someone had stolen his damn lunch.

André slapped the six-pack on the counter. “Alright. Who’s ready to get humiliated?”

Brett barely looked up as he shuffled chips. “By the guy who bluffed with a limp pair of threes for half the damn night last week? Yeah, I’m shaking.”

“You folded to that limp pair, Brett. Let’s not rewrite history.”

Jenna breezed over from behind the island. “Drinks? We’ve got beer, margaritas, and my own creation: a blueberry bourbon smash. The cookies will be cool in a sec.”

“I always love a good smash.” André sat in the chair between Country and Suraj.

“Hmm.” Jenna gave him a look as she handed over a glass that looked like it could strip varnish off a truck bumper.

“So. You and Grace.” Tyler leaned back in his chair.

André forced a grin to his face. “You know something I don’t know?”

Tyler nodded to Jenna. “Heard you two had to share a room in E-town.”

“Did Jenna tell you I was a perfect gentleman?” He called over his shoulder. He could play this game all day.

Sean slammed a stack of chips down. “Can we play, or what?”

Curtis took a drink of his dirty soda. “Someone’s happy tonight.”

“Kelty still with her parents?” Suraj asked, and André frowned. Wasn’t Kelty in Edmonton? Had he seen her Sunday morning?

Sean’s eyes darkened. “Can. We. Play?”

André didn’t push it, but he clocked the twitch in Sean’s jaw and felt a twinge of guilt. He’d noticed Sean was quiet at the waterpark, but he’d been so caught up in his own shit, he hadn’t stopped to question it.

They played for two hours straight. André lost three rounds in a row and made up for it by emptying half the jar of pickled jalapenos Jenna left out for snacks. “You clowns are cheating.”

“You can’t bluff for shit.” Vargo grinned. “What’s her name?”

André flipped him off and took another chip.

Curtis won, as usual. He always did. Something about having four kids made the man impossible to read.

“Alright, boys,” Jenna called from the kitchen, holding a cookie sheet piled high with peanut butter bars. André took one, thanked her, then brushed past to step out onto the porch.

Simply existing was so much damn work. The cold air bit at his lungs, sharp and grounding, just the way he needed. He dragged a hand down his face and leaned against the railing, his fingers curling around the rough wood.

The sky stretched wide overhead, dark and velvet blue, pricked with stars. Everything felt too tight in his chest. He was doing everything right. Everything good. And he was so damn tired.

The door creaked behind him. Boots scuffed the porch.

“Didn’t peg you for the dramatic storm-out-onto-the-porch type.” Country stepped up beside him.

“Shut the hell up. You know I’m dramatic.”

Country laughed. He offered up a beer without looking. André took it. For a while, they stood in silence.

Then Country said, “You love her?” André snorted, but Country gave him a sideways glance. “I’m serious.”

André took a long pull from the beer. “She drives me batshit crazy, bud.”

Country didn’t even blink, and André turned his head, not able to keep eye contact.

After a few moments, Country cleared his throat. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if we lose her.” André sucked in a breath and held it. Country’s voice caught as he continued, “If she goes back to Amey . . . I don’t know if Jenna’ll come back from that. I don’t know if I will.”

André turned to look at him. Country. The man who was all-in on and off the ice. Who played for broke. Who gave every shit and didn’t apologize for it.

He stood there with his eyes glassy.

André’s throat tightened. “Maybe all of this isn’t worth it.”

Country breathed a laugh. “Mm. No, I’ve lived that life. The one where I couldn’t hurt because I didn’t have anything to lose.” He leaned sideways on the railing. “I’d take this any day of the week.”

Country straightened, stretching one arm over his head, then switching his beer so he could stretch the other. “I heard Grace’s permits came through. Last week, apparently. They’re moving full speed ahead.”

“Hmm.” André’s eyes narrowed.

“Should be finished in a week or two, I guess.” Country let out a slow breath, then turned toward the house. “Once the charity game is over on the twenty-second, seems like all her strings will be cut loose.”

André stared out at the frosted barn, taking another swig of beer and swishing it in his mouth. The porch door creaked open and swung shut.