Page 26 of Famous Last Words (New York Thunder #1)

CHAPTER 26

ROBBIE

M y new place feels a hell of a lot bigger now that it’s empty—cold, vast, and really fucking white. White floors, white walls, white cabinetry in the kitchen. How did I not realize it was so damn white? It’s giving me a headache. Or maybe the headache is a result of last night’s shitty decision to end a loss with a fight. Sure, it felt good to beat the shit of Jake Danowski—the guy who has the biggest fucking mouth in the league—but I’m paying for it this morning, that’s for sure.

The team doctor said my nose isn’t broken, but man, does it hurt like a motherfucker. Everything hurts. I look down at my busted knuckles, flexing my fingers, shaking out my right hand that’s still throbbing.

It’s been a long time between games like the one last night. I knew New York had a long-standing beef with New Jersey, I just hadn’t realized it was that serious. Even Rusty got into the action, and that guy’s avoided on-ice conflict his entire career.

It didn’t help that I’ve been so fucking keyed up the last week over a certain blue-eyed girl. Last night I’d been out for blood, and man, did I get it.

I blame the kiss. In fact, no. I blame my stupid decision to go to Fran’s house the night she was sick. It was one thing to stop by and check in—make sure she wasn’t dead—but staying to take care of her? That was the beginning of my demise. I mean, yeah, I tried to kiss her that night in my hotel room. And the thoughts I’ve had of her since then have been borderline obsessive, but I really felt something change between us after that night in her bed. It even flowed through in the conversations we shared after. I told Fran things I’ve never told anyone. Because for the first time in my life, it actually felt as if I was connecting with someone on a level deeper than just physically.

But then we kissed. And everything changed.

I didn’t know kissing could feel like that; I didn’t know it was possible to feel connected to someone on an existential level through the sheer act of mouths touching. And I was so sure she felt it too. But clearly, I was wrong. And every time I’ve closed my eyes since that moment, all I keep seeing is that look on her face before she quickly turned away from me—blatantly indifferent—because she felt nothing. It had been all part of the plan to fool everyone into thinking we’re together. But we’re not together. And that was the proverbial slap to the face I needed. A wake-up call. Reminding me exactly what it is we’re doing. I’m nothing to Fran. Nothing more than her old high school enemy who reappeared in the right place, at the right time, to save her ass from losing her job.

Man, I’m such a fucking idiot.

The security panel dings, indicating a call from downstairs, and I jog across to answer it, muttering under my breath, “It’s about fucking time.”

The furniture delivery is more than an hour late. Andy organized it all, and I don’t even know what they’re bringing. Only that I’m sixty grand out of pocket, but whatever. It’s not like I can sleep on the floor.

“Y eah,” I answer the call gruffly.

“Mr. Mason, there’s a delivery for you,” the guy on the front desk says.

“Yeah, that’s fine. You can let ‘em up.”

“Yes, sir.”

I adjust the cap on my head, turning it backwards. I’d been hiding beneath the peak on my way here from the hotel because the last thing I wanted was people gawking at my matching black eyes and fat lip.

Pushing up the sleeves of my sweatshirt, I hurry across the foyer at the sound of a knock, but as I pull open the door, I’m not met with a couple of burly movers like I expected; I’m met with a five-foot-four blonde, holding a plant almost as big as she is.The bushy foliage parts and a pair of blue eyes find mine, widening the moment they do.

Immediately, I’m on edge. Spine stiffening, shoulders tensing. Folding my arms across my chest, I grit my teeth, remaining stoic.

“Oh my God, Robbie,” Fran gasps. “Your face!”

I shrug a nonchalant shoulder. “You should see the other guy…”

She doesn’t seem to care much for my bravado, nor does she appear to be even remotely deterred by my iciness. And in true Fran Keller form, she steps around me and invites herself inside.

I roll my eyes, closing the door, but I don’t move. I just stand in the entryway, watching her as she places the giant plant on the floor.

She removes her jean jacket and, unfortunately, that’s when I get a good look at her—Nikes, black yoga pants that leave fucking nothing to the imagination, and a white t-shirt that hugs her tits and Fuck. Me. Her nipples are hard. I’m forced to avert my eyes to the plant like it’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen.

“It’s a ficus,” Fran says, like I care. “The guy at the lot said it’s one of the easiest plants to care fo r. Great for people who travel often.”

I arch a brow, glancing at her. “You… bought me a plant?”

“It’s a housewarming gift,” she says matter-of-factly, placing her hands on her hips.

Don’t look at her hips. Don’t look at her hips . My jaw ticks, but I say nothing.

“Or maybe a peace offering?” Her brows climb a little higher, like she’s unsure.

I tear my gaze from her, giving a wide berth to her and the plant, moving behind the kitchen island. I don’t know why. There’s nothing here. I don’t even have any fucking food or drinks in the place. But I needed to do something, and the island offers a decent amount of distance between us.

“Thanks,” I say, dragging my hand along the smooth countertop.

Silence ensues, and although my focus is wholeheartedly fixed on the intricate marbling in the stone, I can feel Fran’s eyes on me. After a few seconds, she turns and heads for the windows, and I lift my gaze at the wrong fucking time, catching the perfect view of her ass as her hips sway side to side in those pants. Goddammit . I shake my head, staring down into the gleaming sink.

“So, what do you think?”

“About what?” I ask, eyes now fixed on the faucet.

“This place,” she laughs. “Do you love it?”

“It’s okay.” I lift a shoulder. “Whiter than I realized.”

More silence.

“The Allora designer chose to keep the interior neutral so as not to take away from the view.”

I glance upwards. She’s facing the glass, looking out at the bright, sunny Manhattan morning, and again, my eyes betray me, tracking the generous curve of her ass.

“You don’t need to try sell me anymore, Keller,” I say with a scoff. “Been there. Done that. The place is mine now.”

She looks at me over her shoulder, and I catch something there in her eyes. A flash of hurt, maybe? I’m not sure. I check my watch. Where the fuck is the fucking furniture delivery?

“Robbie?”

I hear her sneakers approach, squeaking on the shiny floor.

I don’t chance looking at her. Instead, I pull open one of the kitchen drawers, looking inside for some unknown reason. “What’s up?” I ask, casually.

She’s right there. Beside me. I can feel her. Sense her. Smell her. God, she smells good. Like vanilla and maybe lemons. I don’t know. But it’s a scent I could drown in. And it’s all Fran Keller.

“I don’t know what happened… Are–are we okay?”

Still looking in the drawers, crouching down to inspect the runners like I have any idea of the mechanics of a fucking drawer, I offer a noncommitting sound.

“Jesus, will you stop!” Fran shouts, slamming the drawer closed with such force she almost jams my damn fingers.

Standing to my full height, I tuck my hands into the pockets of my jeans, forcing myself to meet her eyes. And I’m a little shocked to find that her gaze no longer holds any hint of sadness; she’s totally pissed.

“What the fuck, Robbie?” Fran throws her hands in the air. “You’ve barely said more than two words to me all week, and now you won’t even look at me!”

And of course she’s hot when she’s pissed; I swear the universe is against me.

“What. Is. Going. On?” she presses, annunciating each word.

I stare at her, blinking once. “What do you expect me to say?”

“You flipped a switch!” she exclaims incredulously. “We were… I don’t know… friends.”

I snort. “We were never friends, Keller.”

She looks at me like I’ve just slapped her, and I snap my stupid mouth shut because even I know that was uncalled for.

“W as it the kiss?” Her voice is small. Reluctant.

I scoff. “No.” Lies .

She continues watching me, saying nothing, and I assume she wants more.

“We’re fake dating. Why wouldn’t we fake-kiss? It’d be weird if we didn’t.” I shrug another shoulder. “It’s all part of the deal, right?”

The anger in Fran’s eyes makes way for something else, but before I can figure out what it is, she looks down, tucking a loose lock of her blonde hair behind her ear. “Maybe we should forget it.”

Panic consumes me. “Forget what?”

This time, it’s Fran who lifts a shoulder, looking up at me, her blue eyes seemingly bigger. “This.” She waves a finger between us. “I mean, you’re back to being the revered hockey star everyone loves. And I… well, I sold a property. I’m not fired… yet .” With another heaving sigh, she looks around at the apartment before meeting my eyes again.

I’m shaking my head before I even realize. “No.”

She balks, clearly surprised by my response. “Excuse me?”

“We have an agreement,” I remind her. “A legally binding agreement.”

Her cheeks flush and that anger is back, eyes narrowed, gaze steely.

“The deal was to stay together until my probation is up.” I drag my teeth over my bottom lip.

She glares at me, folding her arms across her chest, and I force myself not to look at the way it makes her tits even more pronounced.

“This is bullshit.”

I shrug. “A deal’s a deal, Keller.”

She laughs, but there’s little to no humor in the sound. “You are fucking delusional if you think I’m going to put up with this.”

“Suit yourself. But you’re mine until the holidays.” And I know I’m being an ass, but I can ’t stop myself as I add, “I’ll have Andy send you a copy of the agreement so you can read it again.”

Fran stares at me long and hard. And if looks could kill, I’d be nothing more than a pile of smoking ash on the gleaming white floor. But I remain impassive, staring down at her.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” she finally mutters, pushing past me.

I turn, watching as she collects her bag and her jacket before storming for the door.

“Bye, baby !” I call out after her.

She pauses, glowering back at me as she flips me off with her middle finger, right before the door slams shut behind her.

I huff a ragged breath, sagging onto the kitchen island, butting my stupid head against the marble. “Fuck my life,” I groan against the cold, hard stone.

Fran Keller is a goddamn piece of work. So why the fuck do I want her more than I want air?