“Leanon me all you want. I’ll hold you up. I’ve got hockey legs, remember? Andyou’re not lame.”
Heavingin a breath, she pulled away and swiped at her cheeks. “Well, you’re right. Itwas final.”
A jawmuscle jumped, but otherwise Beckett didn’t move. He just watched her. Downwent another greedy gulp, and the wine warmed its way to her belly.
Shegave him a half-smile. “Is final.”
Cockinghis head, he stared at her for a few beats, but she couldn’t read his thoughts.He set his glass down and wrapped his fingers around her arm, his thumb strokingher skin, warming it through the cloth. “And now you move on.”
As shereturned his gaze, a flare ignited deep inside her and spread, shootingdelicious tremors that fired every nerve in her body. God, he had beautifuleyes. She wanted to lose herself in them.
ButI’ll get hurt. Don’t go there, girlfriend. Keep your heart safe.
With anod, she broke the spell, and his hand fell away. “Thank you, Beck, for alwaysbeing there. For being a good friend. I’ll be fine.”
Uncertainty had driven her to him.And if she were honest, desire was keeping her there.
CHAPTER 22
(I Just) Died in Your Arms
She shook off aberrant thoughts. “Your place is gorgeous.Why have you never brought lady friends here?”
Heshrugged. “It’s my sanctuary, my place to escape and recharge.”
“Won’tI be keeping you from that?” She twisted a hand in her hair.
“No. Infact, you being here only makes it better.” He gave her a warm smile, and hertummy cartwheeled. “Want a tour?”
“Definitely!I’d love one.”
“Yougot it, pixie. Then we’ll figure out dinner.”
Therest of the interior was as spectacular as the great room and master suite. Ashe led her through hallways and spaces, she realized the house was evidence, aremnant, of his once lavish lifestyle, and a twinge of sadness pinched her.
“Beck,you were being modest when you called this place a cabin. It should be featuredin Mountain Homes Beautiful.”
“Yeah,well, I wanted a family retreat where we could all stay without bumping intoeach other.”
“Awhole hockey team could stay here and not bump into each other!” Too late, sherealized her goof. His eyes dimmed as though a cloud blocked the sun, but hequickly masked it.
“I gota call from my agent yesterday.” He didn’t look happy.
“And?Which teams are clamoring to sign the best defenseman of all time?”
“Ha.None. Some advertising company wants me for a men’s line.”
Shefrowned. “Come again?”
“Theywant me to model clothes for a Grant Paul ad campaign, and they called Herb toreach me. That was my weird news.”
Paigewhistled softly.
“Whatdo you think, pixie?”
“If youget ‘the call,’ will the modeling job interfere with reporting to a team?”
“Itshouldn’t. The trade deadline’s a month away, and that’s when teams are settingtheir rosters for the playoffs. If one still needs a defenseman after all thetrades, they’ll be in the market for someone like me. The modeling shoothappens before that.”
“Andyou’ve been keeping your nose clean.”
“In themost literal of ways. Thanks for noticing, pixie. My tests are up to date, andI’m cleared to play. I’m ready.”
Hescrolled his phone screen; soon soft jazz filled the space.
“If youagree to model, do you have to do anything weird, like dye your skin blue?”
Hechuckled. “No, just let my hair grow out a little so they can style it their way.”
“Thebad-boy underwear look?”
“Ha!That was a loooong time ago, when I was a kid. This is a ‘mature’ men’s line.Way different look.” He sipped his wine. “It’s a boatload of money, but I’mtorn. You’re a savvy businesswoman. What would you do?”
I’dtell you to model the underwear! Paige straightened, casting out the dirty thought whilewarming to Beckett’s compliment. “It sounds like a win-win, Beck. It’s a goodpaycheck and doesn’t conflict with hockey. Besides, it might put a little shineon your public image—unless you’re posing with scantily clad women.”
Openingthe fridge, he shook his head. “No, only fully clothed ones, so I’ve beentold.” He pulled out a carton of eggs, milk, cheese, and veggies. “Hungry? Imake a mean omelet.”
“I’mstarving. Do you need help?”
“Nope,just your company.”
Thecounter was L-shaped, and she hopped on the side perpendicular to hisworkspace, dangling her legs over the edge. “I’ll supervise from here.” Sherefilled both their wineglasses and took a long gulp. “Storm or not, I’m glad Icame.”
A smilelifted his face as he chopped onions and peppers. The music and wineinfiltrated her muscles and leisurely uncoiled every taut nerve. They chattedabout benign topics, and she studied Beckett as he worked, his knife rising andfalling. Chop, chop. The strapping man before her had become less of amystery as he’d burrowed his way into her heart, and yet so much still layhidden. Their conversation quietened, allowing a question to bubble up in herbrain.
“Beck,what scares you the most?”
Pausinga moment, he darted his eyes to the fireplace. His gaze returned to the cuttingboard, and he resumed dicing. “That I’ll never play pro again. I’m not ready tobe done. Hell, guys who’ve had longer careers than mine aren’t ready to quit,but their bodies give out. I’ve had my share of injuries, but I can still takethe punishment, and it kills me not to play.”
“Youmiss the physical contact.”
Hishand stilled, and his unfocused eyes slid to the side.
“I missthe satisfaction of beating my opponent. If I flatten him in the process, evensweeter. But mostly I miss the camaraderie, being part of a team, somethingbigger than myself. Contributing. Winning.” He spoke as if he was watching agame reel in his head.
Heblinked, seeming to awaken. “I just thought I had more time. If I’d been smart,I’d have listened to guys brighter than me and invested my dough wisely. I’vegot nothing to show for all those paychecks.” He washed a handful of mushrooms.His shoulders at ease, he sliced in even strokes.
“Sowhere did your money go?”
He lita burner under a skillet. “Up my nose. Up my friends’ noses. My money went todrugs and good times, killer bourbon, gambling, bad investments, and crookslining their pockets. When you’re raking in the cash, people crawl out of thewoodwork like fucking cockroaches, claiming to be your