Page 11

Holy fuck, Becca is kissing me.

Becca is kissing me.

It takes me a second to wrap my head around it, and I realize I’m not kissing her back. I fix that immediately, sliding my fingers gently into her hair and holding her head against mine, but being careful not to hurt her bruised face. Her lips are as soft as I’d imagined them to be, and when I feel her sigh softly against me, I groan. All of the blood in my body is quickly running to my dick, and I’m two seconds away from rolling on top of her and taking control of the situation. But I can’t do that. I made the decision weeks ago that if anything were to happen with Becca, she’d be in control.

So, even though I’m fairly certain I can hear my cock cussing me out as he attempts to break through my boxer briefs and pants, I continue to let Becca run the show, moving my lips softly against hers.

But when her tongue tentatively slides out to skirt against mine, I clench her hair tightly in my fist and break off the kiss. I rest my head against the side of hers, taking a deep breath and attempting to calm my rapid heartbeat.

“Did I …” she stammers breathlessly. “Did I do something wrong?”

“What?” I ask incredulously, whipping my head up to stare at her. “No. Fuck no. You did nothing wrong.”

“Then why did you stop?” she asks quietly. I can see the uncertainty in her eyes. The emotion. The fear. I let out a long exhale as I rest my forehead against hers. There’s a calming scent of lavender in the air, and I know it has to be a product she uses. Obviously this shitty ass hotel would have picked a pink flower to dump in this room, so I know the lovely lavender scent is coming from Becca.

“I don’t want to push you too far,” I confess.

Becca’s eyes widen. “What? Why? How?”

A grin tugs at my lips. She’s pretty fucking cute when she stammers like this. “I know it’s been a really emotional day, and your head is all over the place. I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret later.”

“You think I’ll do … you,” she says with a tiny giggle, “and I might regret it?”

“Well, yeah,” I answer. “Listen. I’ve been trying to get you to give me a chance for weeks, darlin’. I don’t want this to happen because you’re wanting to feel anything but sadness. I want you to want me for me.”

Understanding dawns in her eyes. “Do you get that a lot? Women who want the celebrity of it all?”

“More often than I ever thought possible. At first, it was cool. Not gonna lie, I enjoyed it. But it gets old. I’ve been in the league for over a decade. I have no interest being a notch on a puck bunny’s bedpost. And I’ve been lied to so many times. Fucking can’t stand liars.” People came out of the woodwork when I made the NHL. I became famous. But they weren’t interested in me. Just the status it came with. And definitely my paycheck.

I feel Becca stiffen slightly against me, and I wonder what triggered her. Before I can ask, she sits up. “Are you StickUM92? I feel like you are, and I should have said something about it when you told me your name and that you play hockey, but I didn’t know how to handle it. I couldn’t process how the hot hockey guy and the online friend I had were the same person, you know? And then we had that really nice dinner, and you sent me flowers, and I got all up in my head. So, are you?”

“I am, in fact, StickUM92. Hello, NerdGirl1025.”

Becca lets out a whoosh of breath as her shoulders slump. “You knew it was me? For how long?”

“I realized it the day I told you my name. Well, actually it was after our pizza date. You had told me your favorite flower was a hyacinth, and when I went to order you a bouquet, I thought of your ChatBook profile picture. The convo where I told you my name was me trying to sleuth out if it was really you or not.”

“And then I just left you on ‘read’ for weeks,” she breathes, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m so sorry, Jacob.”

“I didn’t think you’d ghost me for as long as you did, but now I can understand how surprising that must have been for you,” I explain. “Looking back, I can hear your voice. I should have realized it earlier.”

“I thought you lived in Texas,” she blurts out, her neck reddening. “It never occurred to me I had befriended someone local.”

“For a self-described nerd, we should probably work on your understanding of algorithms, Spitfire. They tend to lump people together by region,” I tease.

Becca rolls her eyes as she lets out a light laugh. “I’m nerdy in science , not social media technology.”

“Were you freaked out when you realized it was me?” I ask quietly.

Becca hesitates, looking down at her hands as she waits to answer. “I wasn’t sure how to combine the two of you in my head. It was easier to shut the door, ignoring that it was something I had to deal with. Not that you gave me much time to think, though. The weekly flowers must have cost a fortune. I wanted to tell you to stop sending them, but secretly it was the highlight of my week.”

“I’m glad,” I whisper, reaching up to tuck an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m the same man, darlin’. Just a Texan who loves hockey, cowboy hats, and pizza. And I’d really like to take you out on a proper date.”

The corner of her mouth turns up in a soft smile. “I think I’d like that.”

“So when we’re back in Denver, you promise not to ghost me again?”

Becca laughs. “I promise.”

I’m about to lean in to kiss her when Becca’s phone blares with an awful ringtone. “What the fuck is that for?”

“The sound I have for my brother. Undoubtedly he’s reminding me about the rules for the evening. I have to go get changed for their stupid dinner.”

“Why? You look fine,” I comment. She’s wearing fitted black pants, a slate blue silk blouse, and black heels. I walked next to her, but I didn’t realize she had heels on. I want to see where her height puts her now.

“It’s expected to wear cocktail attire to this kind of dinner,” Becca says snottily, flipping her hair over her shoulder to regard me with a dramatic roll of the eyes.

“But I’m okay like this?” I ask, standing to retrieve my suit jacket.

“They won’t say anything to you. You could come in cutoff jean shorts and a bikini top, and they wouldn’t care. You’re a big deal. I’m a nobody,” she says bitterly.

“Hey,” I say, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward me. “You aren’t a nobody. And I’m not a big deal. Yeah, I whip a puck around with a stick. So what? I’m not better than anyone just because I happen to play hockey well.”

Becca gives me a hesitant smile as she nods. “Okay.”

“Let’s get you back to your parents’ house,” I say, placing my hand on the small of her back, ready to walk her down to my car. “Unless you want to skip the whole thing. We can head to the airport right now if you want, darlin’. I’m here for whatever you need.”

“Oh, I’m not staying there. Not only because they’d never let me, but I don’t want to. They’d probably go through my stuff and purposely antagonize me every minute of the day,” she says with an exaggerated shudder. “I’m staying here, too. Right next door, actually.”

“Seriously?” She nods. “Right next door? That’s convenient.”

“Convenient?” she asks with a breathy laugh. I’m seeing a little bit of sparkle come back to her eyes, and I let out a small exhale of relief. Becca is strong and resilient. Sure, she’s got an expression sometimes that tells me she’s dealt with some rough times. But a fully broken Becca is new to me, and I wanted to promise her I’d burn down the world for her to make her smile again.

I’m honestly wondering what I wouldn’t do to make her smile.

“What time is dinner?” I ask, changing the topic. I feel like Becca is an injured bird, always a flight risk. If I tell her anything that I’m thinking — including how I’m probably going to have to get myself off tonight knowing she’s asleep one wall away — I’ll have her running for the hills again.

“Seven o’clock on the dot. We aren’t allowed to be late. Punctuality is a strength,” Becca says, standing tall with her chin high in the air. I feel my lips tug up with a smirk.

“Punctuality.”

“Yes. The Stephens motto is four pillars: punctuality, oppression, discrimination, and psychological warfare,” she says, deadpan.

I can’t help the loud bark of laughter that bursts from my lips as Becca fights the urge to giggle. “Do we drink at dinner?”

“Oh, yes. There’s no way any of us are making it through this monstrosity without more alcohol.”

“I’ll stay sober. I’ll protect you, Spitfire.”

She gives me a beautiful smile. “I know you will, Jacob. And thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being here. For offering to go with me, or go to the airport. It’s … refreshing to have someone support me,” she tells me shyly, her eyes trained on the floor by my feet.

“Hey,” I say quietly, gently lifting her chin between my thumb and forefinger. Waiting until her eyes meet mine, I continue. “Whatever you need, Becca. I’m here for you.”

Becca’s hand trembles in mine as we walk up the brick walkway. She’s changed into a modest pale pink dress, and has half her hair pulled back, allowing pearl earrings to appear. She applied a light layer of makeup — I assume to cover the bruises I am absolutely going to talk to her motherfucking brother about — and nervousness emanates from her body. She didn’t speak on the short drive to her parents’ home, instead choosing to wring her hands in her lap, and chew on her bottom lip.

“Pick an odd word,” I blurt out. “A weather word.”

“Cyclogenesis.”

“What the hell is tha — you know what? Never mind. You can explain it later. Use cyclogenesis in conversation, or just say the word to me, Spitfire, and we’ll leave immediately. I don’t care who we piss off. You want outta there, at any point, and I’ll get you out. Alright?” Reaching the door, I knock, then turn to Becca. “I got you, darlin’.”

“Okay,” she whispers. Someone answers the door stiffly, gesturing for us to walk into the home. Letting Becca lead the way, I follow her down a hallway and into a very large and stately dining room. Two obnoxiously large chandeliers hang over an ornate, dark wood table. I quickly count the chairs. Eighteen. Who the hell has a table for eighteen in their home? Insanity.

This entire room is horrid. The walls appear to be covered in fabric. Baroque style, featuring burnt orange, denim blue, and canary yellow. I have no doubt if I complemented Becca’s mother on the walls, she’d undoubtedly boast about the cost of the materials. Even across the room, I can tell she’s a woman who only responds to money.

“Would you like me to play your mother’s game and flaunt my money? Or I can disregard her. Act like she’s nothing better than the dog poop on my shoe. Or I can be a pompous asshole. Really, this can go a lot of ways, Spitfire. You tell me what you’d like me to do.”

Becca’s eyes whip to me, and panic is evident. “You don’t want to be just you?”

My heart breaks wide open for this woman. So downtrodden, she thinks I don’t want to be me with her. “No, baby. I’m definitely me. But I can flaunt my money. Talk about my NHL contract. Or I can treat your mother like trash, which honestly, is my first choice. I can also go to the good ole boys club over there,” I tell her, pointing nonchalantly toward the group of men surrounding a small man who I assume is Becca’s brother, “and begin talking about stocks, bonds, and any other ridiculous talking point I can come up with. They’re all gonna know my name, and that I’m with you, by the end of the evening, though.”

“My fake boyfriend, you mean,” she whispers.

I gently take her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “How about you stop using the word fake? Let a man dream.”

She gives me a soft smile as she nods, and I take the opportunity to kiss her temple. I have a feeling kissing Becca’s lips would make her feel a twinge of embarrassment, and undoubtedly it would set off either her brother or mother. I don’t want to bring any more drama and heartache to Becca tonight. My girl has had enough to last a lifetime.

My girl.

One way or another, I’m gonna make this girl mine.

After no more than thirty minutes of every person in the room ignoring me, barely speaking to Becca, and talking loudly about business acquisitions that really shouldn’t be discussed at a wake — funeral dinner? What the hell is this supposed to be, anyway? — I’m ready to go the minute Becca says so.

These people are horrid .

I’ve been around my fair share of wealthy people. You don’t own hockey teams unless you’ve got a tremendous amount of zeroes in your net worth. Our team regularly attends fundraisers and galas in the area, and Jamie always wants me to make an appearance at his events when I can. I’ve rubbed elbows with celebrities, politicians, and even foreign dignitaries. Yet none of them have ever gone out of their way to make me feel small.

Even worse is the fact that they’re doing it to Becca, too. I can feel her getting smaller, pushing in against my side, as if I will somehow be able to hide her from the miserable looks we’ve gotten from every snake in this gaudy joint. Baroque tapestries, oversized dark furniture that looks as uncomfortable as it is, and paintings depicting unsmiling faces from centuries ago, tell me that even those people are unhappy here.

When some pretentious ass announces dinner is finally ready, I notice there are name plates at each seat. It’s not lost on me that I’ve been placed as far away from Becca as possible. She’s next to her brother, and across from her mother. Her brother is, of course, at the head of the table.

“They did that on purpose. They’ll say it was due to not knowing about your attendance until earlier,” she whispers, her voice trembling. I can hear how close she is to tears, and I’m two seconds away from pulling the garish tasseled tablecloth completely off the table to end this stupid dinner.

“I’m not having it, darlin’,” I tell her, pulling her around the table. I grab my place holder, then swiftly walk to where hers is. I switch mine with hers so I’m next to her brother, then put hers next to me. Grabbing some random dude’s name plate, I toss it across the table.

“I do believe my dear sister is sitting beside me,” a nasally voice pipes up from behind us. “I don’t think we’ve met. Rodney Stephens, Junior.”

I turn, ready to meet someone eye-to-eye. Instead, I have to look down quite a bit at a man with a badly receding hairline, an incredibly large nose, and one hell of an overbite. It would appear Becca got all of the looks.

As Rodney attempts to squeeze between me and Becca to switch our name plates, I pull out Becca’s chair for her. Once she’s seated, I slam down in the chair next to Rodney. “We’re good, Rod.”

“You may call me Mister Stephens.”

“Nah,” I drawl, casually draping my arm on the back of Becca’s chair. “Nice that you wanted to separate us, though. Good try.”

Rodney’s eyes narrow. “Presenting a unified family front at a meal to honor the life of our father has nothing to do with you. We didn’t know about you until a couple hours ago.”

“So?” I raise my eyebrows at him, sending a silent challenge.

Rodney glares as he slowly sits down. Becca’s mother glides to her seat, her lips pursed so tightly I think she could cut glass if she wanted to. Honestly, I’m surprised she has the ability to move her face that much.

A line of servers walk in, each with one lidded plate. Once the plates are in front of us, the servers dramatically remove the domed lids to reveal … three pieces of romaine lettuce, and a dot of dressing? What the fuck is this?

Rodney carefully taps his fork against a glass of champagne, getting everyone’s attention. Champagne. At a meal to ‘honor’ a dead man. I’ll bet anything the champagne doesn’t even go with anything at the meal. Rod’s celebrating his father’s death, and the look of superiority on his face only cements my hatred for him.

“Thank you all for coming. It is wonderful to have all of dad’s esteemed friends here to celebrate his life,” Rodney begins, his voice bordering on whining. How old is he? It’s no wonder there doesn’t appear to be a woman on his arm. No one could put up with that voice.

“Your father was a brilliant man,” old fart number one calls out from my original seat.

“Here, here,” old fart number two says loudly, pushing his almost empty glass of champagne into the air. Everyone follows suit, except for me and Becca. For the most part, I’m taking my cues from her. If she drinks, I will.

“Rebecca!” her mother hisses, her eyes bugging out of her head. When the woman next to Mrs. Stephens turns toward all of us, Becca’s mother attempts a smile, and I jerk backward. This must be what a demon looks like as it tries to lure the unsuspecting into hell.

Becca giggles lightly next to me, and it breaks a little bit of the tension. I move my arm from around her shoulder, sliding my hand down her arm, and covering her hand with mine. She makes no move to eat the pieces of grass on her plate, nor do I.

So, Rebecca,” the woman next to Mrs. Stephens says, “I hear you’re moving back home.”

“What?” Becca gasps. “No. No, I’m not moving back here.”

The woman frowns. “I was told —”

“I don’t know what you were told, Mrs. Betterson. I am not moving.”

“How will you plan the wedding?” Mrs. Betterson asks.

“What wedding?” Becca asks.

Becca’s mother jumps in. “Rebecca, may I speak with you outside?”

“No,” I interject. “Anything you have to say can be said right here.”

“You will not tell me how to deal with my daughter,” Mrs. Stephens says stiffly. “You mean nothing. You are nothing. Probably just some trash Rebecca picked up to try and disappoint me.”

Jesus. Is this the shit Becca had to deal with growing up? No wonder she got the hell out of here. “If you think you’re going to make me feel bad about myself, ma’am, you’ve got another thing coming. I couldn’t care less about your opinions of me.”

“Oh, please,” Rodney says with a stuffy laugh. “That’s just because you don’t know how much money we have.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “You also don’t know how much money I have.”

“Nothing, undoubtedly. That’s why you sidled up to my unsuspecting sister,” Rodney sneers. “You saw her on television and figured she’s rich. Then a quick Google search of her family, and suddenly, you think you’ve hit the jackpot.”

Mrs. Betterson glances warily between us. “This is hardly a topic for dinner. I don’t understand why he’s even here if she’s marrying Benjamin Gaines’ son.”

“The fuck?” I blurt out.

“I’m not marrying him!” Becca shouts. She stands suddenly, knocking her chair over, dropping my hand in the process. She turns toward the end of the table, pointing toward old fart number two and a smarmy man grinning next to him. “I am not marrying you!”

“Rebecca, sit down!” Rodney booms. “You will marry who I tell you to.”

“I will not!” she cries out. “Besides, I can’t marry him. First of all, because I don’t even know him, but also …”

She trails off, looking down at me, and I know exactly what she’s about to say before she says it.

“I’m already married. To Jacob.”