Page 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Royal

She hums as she stirs the pot, hips swaying, hair having slipped from the holder to skate down her back.

Blond strands spread out on a pillow behind her head while she was naked beneath me.

Falling into her face as I’d fucked her from behind.

Long enough to hold on to when?—

“Can you check and see if the chef left some basil?” she asks absently.

I tear my gaze from her ass, which is encased in a pair of tight jeans. Her feet are bare, her toes painted a pale pink that matches the color of her lips. Of both lips?—

“Royal?” she prompts.

I shake myself. “Yeah,” I say gruffly as I go to the fridge. But after staring at the contents for near on a minute, I have to admit, “What does basil look like?”

Her giggle is like a fucking ray of sunlight, so bright that I’m nearly blinded.

Or maybe it’s the contact of her body against mine as she nudges me out of the way. “When you said you didn’t cook…”

“I meant I didn’t cook,” I say, my voice more than a little rough. “Briar, my assistant,” I add when Jade’s brows pull together, “is in charge of cooking when I eat food that’s not take out or something frozen my chef left for me to reheat.”

Like the quiche this morning.

“I’m excellent at peeling potatoes,” I add hopefully.

Her lips quirk. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Damn right, you will.”

Another of those giggles I want to taste on my tongue, the bright humor I want to bask in. I’ve been in the shadows for so fucking long…

Pain and numbness. Loneliness but unable to let anyone close, not even my family. A gnawing ache because?—

I grind my teeth together.

Because I lost my purpose.

Fucking pathetic.

I’m rich. Famous. Have so much privilege I’m practically drowning in it. The last thing anyone needs to be concerned about is me being unhappy.

I’m fine.

“I’ll look for the basil,” Jade murmurs and nods to the pot. “You go stir the sauce.”

“On it,” I say, doing just that. “What are you making, anyway?”

“My grandma’s famous—or at least, famous to me, marinara sauce.” She closes the fridge and holds up something green and leafy—that I presume to be basil—up. “We’re not Italian.” A shrug. “But it was one of my favorite things she cooked.”

“What were some of the others?” I ask, genuinely interested in what makes this woman tick.

Music. A farm in Tennessee. Marinara sauce. Coffee.

“Lemon drizzle cake,” she says. “And popcorn balls. Chicken ’n dumplin’s.” A sigh. “The absolute best scalloped potatoes and meatloaf you would have ever tasted.”

“You miss her.”

She settles the basil on the cutting board, starts tearing the leaves into chunks that she adds to the sauce. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “My parents…well, she was my parent, for all intents and purposes. I was so young when I lost my dad, and then losing my mom…” Her throat works. “I needed her a lot then, and my grandma stepped in.”

“I’m glad you had that,” I tell her.

Her gaze slides to mine, face gentling. “And you didn’t?”

I freeze. “I just know a little bit about parents who weren’t all that great at parenting is all.”

Her eyes soften further. “What does that mean?”

I shrug. “Usual shit. Toxic people. Extra toxic together. My dad was a serial cheater and workaholic. My mom shopped her feelings away.”

“Did they ever get divorced?”

I shake my head. “Nope. They were still together till the end, still living to make each other miserable.”

“They’re gone now?”

“Mom to cancer. Dad to a heart attack,” I say. “And maybe it makes me an asshole, but it was a relief, in a way, when they were gone. No more phone calls bitching about each other. No more drama. No more mistresses to pay off for my dad or credit cards for my mom. My real family is far more peaceful.”

She snags the spoon from me, takes over stirring, and is quiet for a long moment. “What do you mean, your real family?”

“I firmly believe that you can pick the people you deem family.”

More stirring.

“You disagree?” I ask.

The spoon pauses, and she glances up at me with those gorgeous gray eyes. “No,” she says slowly. “Not exactly. I just…I just never really thought about it that way, I guess. But with my grandma being gone and Farrah doing what she did, I just realized I don’t have a bio family, and I don’t have a work one either.”

My cold, dead heart squeezes. “You have the chance to make your own. Get people around you who you trust. Connect with those who fulfill you.” I wink at her, hating to see the sadness in her eyes. “Maybe find someone who can make a really good marinara?”

The corners of her mouth turn up. “Is that how you made yours?”

“Nope,” I say, “I was dragged kicking and screaming into my family.”

She laughs, but it sounds as though it’s been torn out of her, the sad not completely erased from the corners of her expression, and maybe that’s why I keep talking.

“I played hockey with the guys in college—Banks, who you saw when you went to the Vipers’ game?—”

She nods.

“He, Atlas, Dash, Colt, and I. We were really good together—though Banks was the best of us. It’s why he made it to the NHL while the rest of us had to find other things to do.”

Her smile this time is genuine, and it warms that place where her giggles touched earlier. “Other things to do meaning …being part of the biggest rock band on the planet, and”—she taps her bottom lip—“being friends with…Atlas Delarosa?”

I nod.

“The billionaire who has his hands in all sorts of successful companies?”

I grunt. “He’s always been a show-off.”

She grins. “I don’t know a famous Dash though.”

“He prefers it that way. Hudson—or Dash as they called him on the ice, a nickname that stuck—runs a security firm for the rich and famous.”

“Handy.” A strand of hair falls into her face, and I tuck it behind her ear.

I know I shouldn’t.

But touching her?—

Nope. Not going there.

“Definitely handy,” I say. “He handles security for Banks, Atlas, and I as necessary, and has loads of other clients in Hollywood.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“It can be.”

She touches my shoulder. “You must worry about him.”

“He’s very good at his job.”

“You still worry.” She’s not wrong, and I find that I can’t lie to her.

“We all worry. After we lost Colt?—”

She gasps, and I remember she couldn’t know that.

“It was four years ago now,” I tell her. “He and Dash were in the military. A mission went very wrong and Colt died. After…well, Dash was so cut up about it, we thought we’d lose him too. But we managed to find something to keep us together.”

“What?”

“The Sapphire Room.”

“That…sounds familiar.”

“It’s a private club down in L.A.,” I explain. “Colt was a big partier, and he would have gotten a huge kick out of owning a club, especially one with a drink named after him.”

Jade touches my arm. “That’s really cool of you guys to do that.”

A blip of guilt slides through me.

Because, yeah, I kicked in some money, but I haven’t exactly been hands on. I’ve been relying on Atlas and Banks—and now, Aspen, since she became manager—to run the club. I need to pull my weight more, need to not be such a grumpy, useless asshole.

“Colt was important to us all,” I tell her and hold up my arm, showing her the tattoo we all got memorializing him. “Each of the guys has this, albeit in different spots, and the club…” I exhale, the pain of losing him still almost excruciating. “We get together often, but we always make sure to do it on his birthday—to tie one on and drink Gamebreakers in his honor. There are girls and food and…” I shrug. “It’s a tribute to him.”

“That’s beautiful,” she murmurs.

“Yeah,” I agree.

The quiet that falls between us isn’t tense.

It’s…contemplative.

At least until the pasta water almost boils over. Then Jade’s snagging the pot, draining off the water. I step back as she dumps the pasta into the pot of sauce, stirring it so it’s completely covered before handing me a loaf of French bread.

“Would you mind slicing this?” She scowls, swatting at that errant strand of hair that’s escaped again.

She’s cute as hell.

“Slicing is well within my skill set,” I tell her as I take the bread.

A laugh. “Glad to hear it.”

In short order, we’ve—well, Jade —has made up plates and I bring the bread and butter to the table. There’s a container of salad in the fridge, so I snag that too so we can pretend to be healthy. But really, I’ve got my eye on the tiramisu.

The silence falls between us again, and I can’t help but feel…

Well, like sandpaper has been rubbed along my skin.

Raw and a little vulnerable.

I don’t talk about this shit with people.

Let alone with people I barely know.

And here I am, spilling my guts to Jade.

Christ. I jab at a leaf of spinach, wondering how the hell I’m going to put the genie back in the bottle.

“What do you think if, right before the chorus, we change the progression to…” She names a series of chords.

It’s a good tweak.

A great one, actually.

But something tells me that it’s not just about the music right now.

Something tells me she sees right fucking through me.

It should be terrifying…

Only, as I look into those storm cloud gray eyes, that’s not what I’m feeling.

“Jade?”

Her face falls. “You hate it?”

Music. Just music.

Thank God.

“No,” I say. “I think it’s perfect.”

Like her.