Page 132 of Hot As Ice

Reluctantly, I nod.

“Thank you,” she says. She pulls her hand out of mine. “Now, let’s finish these pancakes, shall we?”

I muster up a smile. “Let’s.”

We eat and drink and talk about other things. It’s a bit awkward, and the sadness in Celeste’s eyes never fully leaves even when she laughs at something I’ve said. My heart aches for her. It’s so heartbreaking to sit with someone who is obviously hurting and be forced to pretend that everything is fine. It’s so painful to not be able to fix everything for them. And it’s deeply depressing when they reject your help.

If I had a magic wand, I would wave it and fix everything for her.

forty-three

hunter

“ARE YOU SURE you don’t want me to come with you to your grandfather’s?” Stevie asks as I lace up my Timberlands.

“I’m sure, princess.”

“But it might help if he hears about Celeste from me,” she insists. She looks so cute and angelic sitting on the bed. I wish I could eat her up. I ate her out this morning on the bathroom counter, but I can’t get enough of her. She’s an addiction, and I love it.

“It’s not your problem. It’s mine. I will take care of it, alright?” I walk towards her and grab her beautiful face in both hands, giving her a deep, dirty kiss. She moans and my cock wakes up. With a lot of effort and willpower, I step away from her.

“I hope Celeste doesn’t hate me for telling you what she told me,” she says, worrying her bottom lip.

“Of course, she won’t,” I assure her. “Don’t worry about anything, okay? Everything is going to be fine.”

She nods, still looking kind of nervous. Then she takes a deep breath. “I know,” she says.

“Good.” I grab her chin and kiss her quickly on the lips. “I’ll be back soon.” I almost say I love you, but something holds me back. I’ve been wanting to say it for weeks. Sometimes we both stop and stare at each other and it’s like those three words are bubbling up underneath the surface, desperate to rise and spill out. Then we both look away.

“Good luck,” she says, as I grab my keys and head out.

“Thanks.”

I can’t believe I’m actually on my way to my grandfather’s house. To confront him.

I never thought I’d see the day.

As a boy, I worshipped him. After he told me to forget that I’d seen my father push my mother down the stairs, I had cried for days, hidden under the covers of my bed. Sometimes I’d cried hidden in the closet. I remember I had made a sort of small fort in there, complete with a tiny tent and those glow-in-the-dark stars stuck onto the ceiling. It had served as my safe space for years.

The only distraction I had in those days was hockey. It’s the only thing that kept me sane. And still does. I could take my aggression out on my family by playing hard on the ice. I’m not the most aggressive player out there, but skating hard and battling for the puck, deking people out still helps rein in my anger, and my pain.

I’ll never get over my mother’s death.

The only thing I can do now is prevent Celeste from having a similar fate, and that starts with confronting the Cruise family patriarch. When Stevie told me last night that Celeste had a bruised eye and was too scared to file for divorce, I felt unusually calm. It was similar to the feeling I tend to get when we’re losing a hockey game and I know I have to lock in and get my teammates to do the same. Instead of panicking, I’ll enter a Zen state of mind. Everything comes into sharper focus and I know exactly what to do.

That’s how I feel as I drive to see my grandfather.

I’m not an eight-year-old boy anymore. I don’t have to hide inside my fort, in the closet. I don’t have to feel weak or small. I don’t have to feel intimidated like I always have before. Being with Stevie, and seeing her come into her own strength, has helped me, for lack of a better word, man up and face my fears head-on.

It’s snowing lightly as I reach the gates to my grandfather’s mansion.

He lives in an 18,000 square foot English Manor with formal gardens, a guest house, and a coachman’s cottage. Built in the 1890s, it sits on three meticulously landscaped acres. Grandad loves to complain that it’s not big enough for him. I used to love to run around the grounds. I made the coachman’s cottage my own little palace where I felt like a king. Now, my childhood feels so far away, I wonder if it ever even happened.

I park my Bentley directly in front of the entrance on the circular driveway. Grandad’s butler, Norris, opens the door as I climb up the front steps. He takes my coat as he greets me.

“Good evening, Mr. Cruise,” he says. “Your grandfather is in the study.”

“Thank you, Norris.”