Page 28

CHAPTER 27

ALEXEI

Emery’s family doesn’t do quiet, ever, and it escalates when her mom decides to get her other three brothers on a group video chat.

“Mom, we’re about to have dinner,” Emery protests.

“Just for a minute, I want to see all my babies together.”

Emery huffs and turns around, turning a little pink when she sees that I’m watching her. I like the way her gaze holds mine and everything else fades away.

She re-braided her hair after I took it down earlier to kiss her, and I’m already thinking about scattering those glitter clips once everyone is gone.

Which isn’t helpful when we’re surrounded by her family. I clear my throat. “What do you need help with?”

“There’s a salad…” She steps around my dad, who has crowded in to wave at her brothers on camera. Then she picks up Inessa, meeting me in front of the fridge.

“I don’t like salad,” Inessa tells me in Russian.

Emery tickles her. “No Russian secrets, baby girl.”

“Sorry,” Inessa says in English, burying her face in Emery’s shoulder.

“She wants extra lettuce,” I say.

“Papa!”

“What?” I switch to Russian.

“We don’t like salad,” Inessa protests.

“But we will like Emery’s salads because she is an amazing chef.”

“I heard my name.” Emery narrows her eyes at me.

“Only good things, I promise.” I gesture for Inessa. “Give me the troublemaker. I’ll be the prison guard who traps her in her highchair.”

Inessa protests, but Emery needs both hands to take the chicken she’s prepped over to the grill pan on the stove.

I distract my daughter with the rainbow veggie tray.

“Look at that plating,” I say loudly, for the chef’s benefit. Emery rewards me with a secret smile. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Uh huh.” Inessa nods enthusiastically.

Once we’re all settled around the table, Emery turns to my dad. “How do you say bon appetit in Russian?”

“Priyatnogo appetita,” he says quickly, then slows it down.

She repeats the syllables, then speeds it up. Her accent is unmistakably American, but the effort is A+.

I want to know what else she’d like to learn in Russian.

Beside me, Inessa picks up a purple carrot and dabs it in her special pink dip and then tries feeding it to Forrest. He plays along. Emery watches them, one elbow on the table, eyes bright.

For a second, it feels like the last two years didn’t happen, that we’re on an alternate timeline where this is our table. Our family, combined, instead of two families connected primarily by hockey and crisis.

And then Emery’s mother turns to me with a big, wide smile and says, “And how is Tatyana, Alexei?”

Emery’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth.

As if I needed a clearer reminder from the universe about why our two families will never be one. Regret churns in my chest as I force a polite smile. “She’s fine, I believe. We haven’t spoken recently.”

“Because she is infantile,” my mother adds in Russian. “She only cares about her jet-setting yacht life.”

“Mama.”

“What? I almost died. I can say what I think now and you can’t stop me.”

My father laughs. “She has a point.”

“Excuse us for speaking in Russian,” I say to the Grangers.

“I’m sure it’s very complicated,” Emery says under her breath, and if nobody else notices the jealousy-tinged sarcasm, that’s a miracle.

I narrow my eyes at her. She knows exactly how complicated it is, because I bloody well told her.

My mother keeps going in Russian. “You don’t need to be polite about her to these people. They are like family.”

I wish they were.

But the way a simple dinner has so quickly gone off the rails, I don’t have much hope of that happening. My chance for that was two years ago and I blew it.

“Rice?” Emery asks brightly, picking up the bowl and passing it along.

I wish I’d sat next to her, so I could take it from her and make sure our fingers brush in the contact.

I crave connection with her and am irritated that tomorrow’s game has brought everyone here, when we could otherwise have a quiet night together.

How many of those will we have before she leaves us behind?

Not enough.

I grab the salad, following her lead. I take some, then pass it along, and everyone follows suit. Our plates fill with the delicious dinner, and the conversation turns to the game tomorrow, and the rest of the season.

* * *

I’m on edge until everyone is gone. My parents have retired for the night. Emery’s family has left for the hotel.

Now it’s just the three of us.

Inessa has brought her favourite blanket to the edge of the living room, where the carpet stops before the kitchen tile, and she’s spread it out for some of her toys to have a rest. Tucking them in for the night as she hums to herself.

Emery moves around the kitchen, barefoot and quiet, scraping plates and loading the dishwasher. A few wavy strands of hair have tumbled free from her braids.

“I should apologize,” I start to say, then stop.

She goes still, her head tipping to the side. Not quite looking at me, but listening.

I laugh a little, under my breath. “Fuck, I have so much to apologize for, Emery. But also, dinner was…” I trail off, searching for the right word. “Really fucking good.”

Her expression softens just a touch.

And yes, I need to apologize again and again and again, but I probably need to praise her even more. I lean into that, liking the way it lifts her chin. “You’re a spectacular cook. As good a chef as you are a hockey player.”

Her laugh comes quiet and unexpected, like I caught her off guard. And now we’re both smiling, at least a little.

“It wasn’t fancy,” she says.

“That’s not what I said. I know you like fancy food. I wish we had more time for you to introduce me to more of it. But you make regular food special. With the little flower garnishes and the sauces and secret techniques and devices and—” I drag in a breath because my chest is tight. “I see how fucking good at it you are. I want you to know that.”

She finally looks at me.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say. “You don’t have to do any of this. So it means a lot that you do.”

Her mouth opens, then closes again. Her eyes flick toward the living room, where Inessa is now lying flat on her back.

“I’m going to get her to bed,” I say after a moment, pushing away from the counter. “But when I get back down here, I want to see you sitting in the living room, scrolling your phone. Leave the rest of the clean-up for me.”

“It’s fine.”

“Emery. Go sit. You’ve done more than enough. I’ll clean.”

She holds my gaze, and I think she’s going to argue again, but then she shrugs. “Okay. That’s fair.”

I exhale and nod. “Inessa, say good night to Emery.”

“Night night,” my daughter says, waving as I pick her up. Her gaze stays locked on our favourite person as I carry her out of the room, and she whines a bit when we start to climb the stairs.

“I know, little one,” I say in Russian. I’d like Emery to come upstairs with us, too, but that would be asking even more labour from someone who has given us enough already.

Despite the whining, Inessa brushes her teeth almost entirely by herself, then picks out her own pyjamas. She’s rubbing her eyes by the time I get her tucked in, and as soon as I start to read her a story in English, she rolls onto her side and falls asleep.

I turn her lamp down and put the book away, my pulse picking up.

There are no clattering kitchen noises from downstairs, so Emery has followed my stern instructions and taken a break. Good. A muscle in my jaw ticks at the thought of finding her cozy on the couch, her legs tucked underneath her.

I’d be lying to myself if I pretended that she isn’t the reason I’m grabbing the baby monitor and heading for the stairs.

Yes, I want to carry some of the load tonight. She cooked. I can clean.

But I want to spend time with her, too.

I want— I need to heal some of the wounds that keep getting picked at.

In the living room, I see that Emery has turned on the TV and found a game that one of her brothers is playing in—Utah is at Montreal.

“What’s the score?”

“Tied at one, top of the second.”

I set the baby monitor on the counter and tackle the remaining dishes. I get everything clean and put away, then wipe down the counters.

By the time I join her on the couch, the second period is over and she’s muted the talking heads on the panel in the intermission.

“I’m not sure I put the pots away in the right spot,” I confess as I lean back against the cushions. Her toes are a half foot away from me, and when I stretch my arm out across the back of the sofa, I almost reach her shoulder.

Almost, but not quite.

She slides a glance my way. “How do you not know where your own pots go?”

“I’m spoiled?”

Her eyes spark with undisguised amusement. “You think?”

I inch my fingers closer to her. “Come here.”

“Why, so you can undo my braids and kiss me again?” She catches her lower lip between her teeth, and fuck, yes, I want to do that. I think she wants me to as well.

But I need to do something else, first.

I snag one of her hair clips and flip it to the coffee table. “Nope.”

“You’re literally—” She gasps as I wrap my long arms around her and haul her up, pulling her onto my lap for a second, just a glorious fucking second where I feel the warm press of her ass against my thighs, and then I slide her to the floor in front of me.

She spins around and gapes at me. “What are you doing?”

I pluck the other clip and toss it to join its friend. “I want to learn how to braid hair. I know it’s asking you to help me again, but if you teach me now, then you won’t need to do Inessa’s hair when I’m here.”

Her expression softens. “You don’t need to do this. Your mom is going to be able to take that over soon enough.”

“I should be able to braid my daughter’s hair,” I say stubbornly. “And maybe learn where my own pots go, too.”

“Maybe,” she says dryly. “But I’ll warn you, it’s not as easy as it looks.”

That might be true, but actions speak louder than words, and apologies sound hollow when I try to just say them. I want to show her I can be better than she expects.

“I can stop a slap shot traveling a hundred miles an hour with two guys screening me. I can learn to braid.”

She smiles. This time it’s real. “Fair point.” She straightens out her head and shakes her hair with her fingers. “Okay, I’ll show you how I do it on myself, first. Your hands will be in different positions, but this is the basic pattern. Split the hair into three sections—like this—and then cross one of the outside pieces over the middle chunk, then under the opposite side. Always keep the tension even. And as you reset your hands, you draw a little more hair into the section that just did the braiding motion. Over, under, keep it tight. Add a bit. Over, under…”

I watch as she plaits a neat braid over the crown of her head and down, until there’s no more hair to add, and then she’s just twisting the three strands a few more times to complete the braid.

“Got it?”

“Umm…”

She laughs and shakes her hair loose again. “Let’s start with a simple braid, with just three sections, no adding hair.”

She shows me how she braids three pieces of hair together, then gets me to try with her hair.

My braid doesn’t look anything like hers. It’s loose in places, and lopsided as well.

“Tension is the game changer,” she says as she runs her fingers over my effort. “It’s…” She twists and looks up at me, then plants her hand on my thigh— whoa —and pushes herself up, climbing onto the couch. “Sit in front of me.”

“What are you…”

“I’m going to braid your hair so you can feel what I mean,” she says, shoving at my shoulder.

I slide to the floor and she scoots around behind me.

Her fingertips brush the back of my neck, and I go completely still.

“Relax,” she murmurs. “It doesn’t hurt.”

That’s where she’s wrong. Hurt might not be the right word, but it’s in the right territory. Sladkaya bol . Sweet pain.

Her hands are warm and steady as she gathers a chunk of my hair, then divides it in three, her thumb gliding against my scalp.

“Like this,” she says, tugging on the strands. “Keep it taut.”

Oh, I’m fucking taut all right.

I nod like I’m absorbing it, but mostly I’m just trying not to moan out loud.

She leans closer, breath brushing my ear. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“Can you feel that? How I pull on it, keeping the pressure?—”

I twist and catch her face in my hands, kissing her hard before pushing up to my knees.

I like how glassy-eyed she is, and speechless, and when I pat her hip, it takes all of my control to not keep my hands on her and haul her against me. But I’ve asked her to teach me a thing and I’m going to learn it. “Let me try again.”

This time when she’s sitting between my legs, I’m painfully aware of how soft and warm her body is. I take my time gathering her hair into three chunks, and I tug firmly, making her gasp—and then sigh.

“Tension all right?” I ask innocently.

“Mmm,” she manages to get out.

I lead with my thumb, the same way she did, stroking against her scalp as I weave her hair together. Always holding taut, trying to be good even as my mind is half-distracted by being very, very bad.

The little noises she makes aren’t helping.

“Ahh…”

I twist the strand in my right hand up and over and under, moving it to my left hand. Grazing my pinky finger along her neck, too, because I can multitask.

“How does it feel?” she manages to ask.

Incredible. Like silk. Like trembling, needy, horny silk. I clear my throat. “Good.”

She reaches back, her fingers blindly tracing my work. “Oh, yeah, you’ve got it!”

I tug on the end of the braid. “Excellent.”

She tries to lean forward to grab a clip, but I don’t give her any slack.

She squeaks.

“Come here,” I say roughly, low. I’m needy, too.

The braid starts to fall apart as she twists, as I let go and grab hold of her body instead, lifting her up to straddle my lap.

“Alexei,” she breathes.

“Just a kiss,” I promise.

It’s not, of course.

She sinks down, her warm little centre finding my cock immediately, and I buck my hips at the perfection of the contact. Jesus Christ, she feels good.

My kisses trail over her jaw, and down her neck. I lick at her collarbone, tasting the day on her. All her hard work. She smells warm and sweet, all turned on, her private musk rising between us as she works her clit against the ridge in my pants.

I cup her ass, squeezing her cheeks in my palms, and I’m about to mouth my way down to her pointy little tits when the baby monitor in the kitchen goes off, a staticky cry breaking the mood with painful success.

“Fuck,” Emery breathes, panting against my temple.

Not tonight, no.

“Papa…”

“Go,” Emery whispers. “It’s okay.”

It’s not, though.

She climbs off my lap and pats me on the head.

Pats me on the fucking head.

The worst part is I know I’ll be jerking off to this in the morning, head pat and all.