Last summer I tagged along with Brooks and his parents to Italy for a couple weeks. The Weston family owns a villa in Positano, one of the wealthier regions on the Amalfi Coast. The coast was stunning, but Brooks and I explored other areas as well, including Naples and Pompeii and the infamous Mount Vesuvius. I imagine living anywhere near a volcano would be insanely stressful. I’d constantly be shooting wary glances at it, wondering when it was going to erupt—and knowing it can erupt. Knowing it has the power to wipe away an entire civilization, because it happened to Pompeii.
Tonight Brenna is that volcano.
The amount of times that steam has practically rolled out of her ears is almost comical. I’d laugh at her barely checked rage if it didn’t match my own.
Theo Nilsson is a cool dude, but the Mulder brothers? Not so much. Ed, in particular, is the supreme jackass that Brenna claimed he was. He cuts his wife down at every chance. He’s rude to the catering staff. And worst of all, he’s dismissive of Brenna and every word she says.
On the bright side, dinner is fantastic. I love to eat, so I’m all about this menu: fried scallops, stuffed cod cakes, roasted cauliflower. Jesus. And the pan-roasted white fish that serves as our entrée is to die for. Though if it were up to Brenna, Ed Mulder would be choking on his fish and dropping dead at the table.
“How long have you and Jake been together?” Lena Nilsson asks Brenna.
My fake girlfriend manages to find a smile for Nils’s wife. “Not long at all. Just a few months.”
“We started dating at the start of winter semester,” I supply.
“And how does her father feel about that?” Mulder says with a chuckle.
Her father. Rather than pose the question to Brenna herself, he asks me, and I notice Brenna’s fingers tighten around her fork. She looks like she wants to take that fork and stab Mulder in the eye with it.
Instead, she answers for me. “My father doesn’t know.”
His eyebrows sweep upward. “Why’s that?”
“We’re keeping the relationship under wraps for now. Our hockey teams have been competing against each other all year, and now we’ll be facing off in the conference championship.” Brenna reaches for her crystal water glass. “We decided it was best not to make waves at the moment.”
I look around the table with a grin. “So I’m sure it goes without saying, but on the off chance you run into Coach Chad Jensen, don’t mention you saw me with his daughter.”
Lena smiles broadly. “That’s so romantic! Forbidden love.”
Brenna tenses at the L-word. I wink at my soon-to-be-teammate’s wife and say, “The best kind.”
“Lindsay, these centerpieces are gorgeous,” Karen Mulder remarks, changing the subject. “Did you make them yourself?”
Mulder’s silent, elegant wife nods demurely. I get the feeling she doesn’t talk much. I also get the feeling that’s the way Mulder prefers it.
“They’re beautiful,” Brenna agrees, eyeing the three stained-glass bowls that contain an array of fresh flowers and sprigs of baby’s breath.
“It’s flowers,” Mulder cracks. “Hardly deserving of this fanfare.”
His brother Dave guffaws.
“Ed,” Lindsay says tightly, and it’s the first time she’s conveyed any negative emotion toward her husband. Any emotion at all, frankly.
“What?” He polishes off the rest of his white wine. “It’s a centerpiece, sweetheart. Who cares? It amazes me the crap that you deem important.”
Brenna puts her fork down. I see her nostrils flare, her lips part, and I slide my hand under the table to cup her thigh.
Her mouth closes. She turns toward me, but I can’t decipher her expression. Meanwhile, her thigh is warm and firm beneath my palm. I can’t help myself. I give it a slight caress.
I hide a smile. Then I stroke her thigh again. I wish I could stroke other parts of her, too. That tight sweater looks so good on her, and my fingers are itching to play with her tits.
Fuck me. I’m desperately hoping this night ends with a hookup. That’s why I asked for a real date, because I’m wildly attracted to her and want nothing more than to sleep with her. The last few times I’ve seen her, my body has responded on a primal level.
And I’m not even hurting for sex, for chrissake. I fooled around with a chick from Boston College last week. We met at a party, hit it off, and she offered me a ride home and proceeded to suck me off in her car. Afterward, we found ourselves in the backseat, and judging by the stars in her eyes when I finally lifted my head from between her legs, I think she was pretty satisfied.
I thought I was satisfied, too. But I’ve been horny as hell ever since Brenna showed up at the Dime in her sexy halter top and grinded all over my teammate. And then the indecent dress she wore to Danny’s metal show? Christ. I’m aching for this girl.
For the rest of the dinner, we mostly discuss hockey. Brenna wasn’t kidding—Ed Mulder is obsessed with the Oilers and knows everything about them. Over dessert, he goes on and on about the most recent draft, grilling Nils about the latest picks and what Nils thinks of all the new talent.
Although I feel bad about it, I start paying more attention to Mulder than Brenna.
Her accusatory gaze bores into my cheek as Mulder, Nils, and I dissect the incoming rookie class. But I pretend not to notice her displeasure, because, hell, this is my career, too. I’m literally having dinner with my future teammate. Of course I’m going to give him priority.
Brenna’s volcanic anger is beginning to feel almost stifling, while the Oilers details that Nils is spilling are energizing and interesting as hell. Maybe it makes me an ass, but my attention is becoming increasingly focused on the good stuff about my future, rather than the bad shit about Brenna and Mulder.
The girls I dated in high school constantly accused me of being selfish and obsessed with hockey, but what’s wrong with that? I’ve worked my entire life to become a professional hockey player. I haven’t led women on or made them any promises. I’m always clear from the get-go that hockey is my main focus.
So when Mulder suggests we retire to his den for after-dinner drinks, I’m faced with a decision. I can tell that Brenna doesn’t like the segregation of the sexes, and I don’t blame her. This isn’t the olden days.
But Theo Nilsson is gesturing for me to come along, and this is a man I’ll be skating with in the fall, and at the end of the day, I’m a selfish prick.
So I follow him.
“You’re pissed,” I say.
“Whatever do you mean, Jake? Why on earth would I be pissed?”
The sarcasm is strong with this one, my friends.
And I completely deserve it. I spent more than an hour in Mulder’s man-cave tonight. Now it’s ten o’clock and we’re outside waiting for our car, and Brenna refuses to even look at me.
“Oh, I know!” she continues, scorn dripping from her tone. “You mean because I was banished to the sitting room with the other women, where we clutched our pearls and fainted a whole bunch just so we could wake each other up with smelling salts?”
“That is super fucked up. Is that what you think they did back in the day?”
“They may as well have!” Her cheeks are flushed with anger. “Do you realize what a slap in the face that was? Watching you waltz off to talk about sports with the man who’s interviewing me for a position in sports?”
Remorse ripples inside me. “I know.” I let out a breath. “I knew it was a dick move when I did it.”
“And yet you did it anyway.” Her eyes blaze. “Because you’re a dick.”
“Hey, one dick move doesn’t make me a dick,” I protest. “And look, you have to admit, self-interest was your sole motivation tonight, too. You wanted to talk to Mulder about the internship and prove that you were fit for the job. Well, I wanted to prove that I was fit for my job.”
“Self-interest was never your motivation, though. You didn’t even know Theo Nilsson was going to be there tonight.”
“Yeah, it’s called adapting. Nils was there, and I decided to take advantage. You would’ve done the same thing.”
“You were supposed to be my hype man, Connelly. And instead you hyped yourself up the whole time. This was such a waste of time,” she grumbles. “I should’ve asked somebody else to come with me. I should’ve brought McCarthy.”
“First off, you wouldn’t have even been invited if you hadn’t name-dropped me,” I point out. “So there’d have been no need to ask anybody. And secondly, I’m pretty sure the McCarthy train has left the station. Last I heard, he hooked up with some girl after the semifinals and has seen her every day since.”
Brenna glowers at me.
“What?” I say with a shrug. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“You think I care that McCarthy is seeing someone else?” She gives me an incredulous look. “I was over that guy the second he let you decide what he could do with his dick. What I care about is the fact that you didn’t have my back in there.”
“Only at the end,” I argue. “The rest of the time, I was totally hyping you up. You know I was.”
She doesn’t answer. And then our car arrives and she stomps toward it. Originally I set the drop-off location as the train station for Brenna, but now I lean into the front seat and tap the driver’s shoulder. “Hey, we’re actually going somewhere else first. Could you drop us at O’Malley’s on Boylston?”
Brenna swivels her head. “No. We’re going to the station.”
The man’s gaze shifts back and forth between us.
“Come on,” I murmur to Brenna. “You know you need a drink.” I don’t think she consumed a single drop of alcohol tonight. The other women were all sipping on rosé. “A real drink,” I coax.
“Fine. O’Malley’s,” she mutters to the driver.
A short while later, we’re sitting across from each other in a cramped booth. The pub is stuffed to the gills with the Friday-night crowd, but we lucked out and showed up at the same time another couple was leaving. Neither of us says a word as we wait for the waitress to come and take our order. It’s so loud in here that the curly-haired redhead has to shout just to say hello.
Brenna examines the menu, then lifts her head. “What did you guys drink in Mulder’s study?” she says tersely.
“Cognac,” I admit.
“Remy Martin?”
“Hennessy, neat.”
“We’ll take two of those, please,” she tells the waitress.
“Coming right up,” the redhead chirps.
Once the server’s gone, I gaze at Brenna with genuine regret. “I’m sorry I went to the man-cave without you. I really do feel bad for that.”
“Sure,” she says.
Her tone is lacking in sarcasm, so I think she’s being sincere. Only I’m not clear on what she’s being sincere about. “Is that you accepting the apology or just acknowledging it?” I demand.
“It’s whatever you want it to be, Jakey.”
Thank God. The Jensen I’ve come to appreciate is back in full form, complete with the tiny smirk curving her lips. I missed seeing it tonight.
“Mulder was a douchebag,” I say frankly. “Do you honestly want to work for someone like him?”
“I guarantee you that every network in the world employs a douchebag or two. And I wouldn’t be working directly under him. I’d report to one of the lower-level producers and probably wouldn’t have much contact with Mulder. I hope.” Her expression becomes bittersweet. “They gave me a tour of the station on Monday and I got to see the Hockey Corner set. It was so cool.”
“Kip and Trevor? I love those guys! Imagine how sick it would be to guest on their show?”
“Hey, a guest spot might very well be in your future, Mr. Hockey Star.”
“What about you? Would you want to be on camera or behind it?” I wink. “I recommend on camera. Think of all the boners you’d inspire in the male demographic.”
“Gee, the idea of all those hockey fans jerking off to me is so thrilling! Every little girl’s dream.”
I’m gratified to see that she’s starting to relax. Her shoulders are finally loosening after being stiffer than boards all evening. When the waitress returns with two tumblers of cognac, I raise my glass to Brenna’s.
After a beat of hesitation, she taps my glass with hers. “Cheers,” she echoes.
We drink, eyeing each other over the rims of our respective glasses.
“I’m curious,” I say.
She takes another sip. “About what?”
“Is your father the reason you want this internship so bad? Did he push you into it? Or maybe you’re hoping to impress him?”
Brenna rolls her eyes. “No, no, and no. Obviously my dad is the reason I started watching hockey, but he couldn’t make me love it. The game itself was responsible for that.”
“What was it like growing up with him? He seems like such a hard-ass.”
“He is.”
She doesn’t elaborate, which triggers a rush of wariness.
When she notices my face, she says, “Relax, my childhood was normal. Dad wasn’t abusive or anything like that. We’re just not as close as we used to be. And yeah, he can be a total ass sometimes. His way or the highway, you know? I guess it’s a coach thing.”
I think of my own coach and the expression he gets any time someone mentions Chad Jensen. “Coach Pedersen hates your dad.”
“The feeling is mutual. They have history, though.”
“History,” I echo, shaking my head at the concept. “History is such bullshit. I don’t get why people can’t let things go. Why can’t they leave the past in the past? It’s over—what do we gain from stewing about it?”
“That’s true.” A pensive glimmer crosses her gaze. “I try not to think about the past, ever.”
“Didn’t you just tell me that your past wasn’t dark and twisted?”
“No, I told you my childhood was normal. I never said there was nothing dark and twisted in my past.”
Because that’s not intriguing. “Let me guess. You’re not going to tell me about it.”
“Good guess.”
We sip our cognac. I watch her lips, the way the bottom one clings to the rim of her glass before she sets it down. Her tongue peeks out to lick at the drop of moisture left on that lip. I’m obsessed with her lips.
“What are you thinking about right now?” Brenna asks.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Try me.”
“I’m thinking about your lips.”
The lips in question curve slowly. “What about them?”
“I’m wondering what they taste like.”
“Probably like cognac.”
I put down my glass and slide out of the booth.
“Where are you—” She halts when I squeeze my big frame in beside her. “I’m not in the mood, Connelly.”
“Not in the mood for what?” We’re sitting so close that our thighs are touching. I stretch one arm along the top of the booth, rest my other forearm on the table, and angle my body towards hers. “Come on, don’t you want to find out?”
“Find out what?”
“If there’s sparks.”
“Sparks are overrated.”
“I disagree.” I lick my bottom lip, and her gaze tracks the movement of my tongue.
Brenna sighs. “You’re very sexy.”
I grin. “I know.”
“You’re very cocky.”
“I know that, too.”
She sweeps her hair over one shoulder. I don’t know if she’s intentionally trying to draw my attention to her neck, but that’s where it goes. I want to bury my face against that long, sleek column and breathe her in.
“You’re very sexy.” I echo her previous remark, my voice coming out hoarse.
She smirks. “I know.”
“And cocky.”
“That, too.”
“Guess that makes us two peas in a pod?”
“Maybe. And that’s probably why we’d never work.”
I tip my head. “Work…what do you mean, work?”
“As a couple.”
My answering laugh is low, seductive. “Who says I want us to be a couple? Right now I want to see if there’s chemistry.”
Brenna leans in closer, her warm breath tickling my jaw. She places one hand on my knee and strokes me with her thumb before gliding her hand very slowly toward my crotch. There’s no possible way she can miss the bulge in my pants. She doesn’t cup or squeeze it. But one fingernail scrapes along the edge of the hard ridge, and I groan out loud.
“Of course we have chemistry,” she says, her perfect mouth inches from my face. “We both know we have chemistry. There’s never been a single doubt as to whether or not we have chemistry.” She flicks up an eyebrow. “So why don’t you cut this bullshit about needing to find out, and just tell me what you really want.”
“Fine,” I answer, because I’m not one to back down from a challenge. “I want to kiss you.”
