Page 10 of Never Pucking Ending

Setting my bag down on the counter, I grab my notebook and start taking measurements of the space. This storefront is much smaller than Belle’s Place, so the furniture I have in storage probably won’t work for it. Not that it would matter. A speakeasy in downtown Fairbanks wouldn’t do as well. The stores and eateries surrounding the space would make it stick out like a sore thumb.

When my phone buzzes a while into my brainstorming session, nerves bubble in my stomach. Thankfully, it isn’t his name that I see on the screen.

Mama Mia: Hi, pretty girl! Are we still on for lunch tomorrow? We’ll be arriving early at the hotel, and I’d love to see you before the game. It can be a girls day!

Ugh. The game. Normally, I’m excited to wear my Clarkson jersey, grab an overpriced drink, and cheer the team on. I’m not so sure how Jesse would react if he saw me in the stands watching him like nothing happened. But our parents will be attending this home game, and it would be weirder if I didn’t go. Especially now that I don’t have Belle’s Place as an excuse not to.

Me: A girls day sounds nice. Let me know where you want to go. My treat

I know her better than to accept the offer. She’ll fight me for the check the second it comes to our table, smacking my hand away or pinching me until I squeak out in pain.

Mama Mia: Don’t even try that. I told you next time was on me. I’ll let you know when we get to town. Love you!

I can’t help but smile at her message as I sink onto the lonely barstool left behind. She’ll either be ecstatic to hear about my new business venture or lecture me on how I need to focus on taking better care of myself since I’m always busy. Then conversation always veers toward my lack of a dating life.

As I stare at my message threads, I can’t help but click on the one with Jesse’s contact photo set as a selfie we took at my high school graduation. It’s my favorite photo of us because he didn’t have a lot of time to visit, but he flew halfway across the country to attend it anyway. Then he had to get on a plane and go right back to the University of Denver where he got a full hockey scholarship. He’d been home for a day, and he’d come for me.

I stare at that picture, of the youthfulness on our faces, and can’t help but feel nostalgic. His arm was wound against my waist and a proud smile was spread across his scruffy face. Part of me is glad he abandoned the facial hair stage. I always thought he looked better clean shaven, even when he had a baby face like in this photo.

Throat thickening, I scan the last message I sent to him this morning that he never responded to. I really wish he had, or maybe I would have been a lot quieter while trying to relieve some pent-up energy. But what’s done is done.

Clicking off my phone, I gaze out the front window with my chin resting on the palm of my hand. I firmly believe that things happen for a reason, and I came to Fairbanks, Connecticut for something bigger and better. Not just for Jesse, but for me.

So I’ll do anything I can to make sure that homey feeling doesn’t go away. Which means not addressing the elephant in the room when I go home later. If said elephant is there. I’ll smile at him, make his protein shake, and ask how his day is like nothing ever happened.

We’ll move on like we always do and be those two young kids celebrating a high school graduation again.

Because deep down, I know the only versions of ourselves we can be are Jesse Clarkson the MVP award-winning hockey player, and his stepsister Belle.

CHAPTER FOUR

Jesse

My leg bounces as I stare at the front door when headlights flash past the windows. I’ve been sitting here for the past hour waiting for her to come home, wondering if this is what she did last night when I left without a word. I deserved it, no doubt about that. But this morning threw me off in more ways than one.

Because she called out my name when she came, and there was no denying what she was doing behind that closed door. I’m no stranger to the sound of ecstasy, and it’d taken me by complete surprise when I heard the breathy words fall from her mouth as she broke apart at whatever fantasy she was playing out in her head.

And I wish I saw it for myself.

I’d been so worked up I had to slip into a cold shower and fist my cock, coming hard to the sound of her orgasm on replay. I’d tried to think about anything else—anybody else with no luck. It’d been quick, but not painless. Because even after I washed away the evidence, the sound played over and over in my head and getting me half-hard within seconds.

Sitting up straighter when the front door code is punched in and the automatic deadbolt unlocks, I watch as the shadow of Belle’s figure casts on the wall when she enters the foyer.

My leg doesn’t stop bouncing as she walks down the hall and appears in the kitchen doorway, stopping when she sees me sitting at the island.

“Oh,” she says by greeting. Pink tints her cheeks as she quickly focuses on undoing the buttons of her winter jacket. “Hey.”

Hey. Hey. It’s said so casually that it strikes me stupid. How can she act like the last twenty-four-hours didn’t happen?

Shit. What if she doesn’t know I heard her? I hadn’t knocked. Hadn’t called out to her when I got home. I was going to when I’d heard the low rumble of the toy mixed with her moans of pleasure, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what she was doing.

Dammit. I need to stop thinking about it before she sees me with another fucking boner. I’m almost thirty-five-year-olds for Christ’s sake, not a teen around his first crush. I should have better control of my dick by now.

“Hi,” I reply, voice rougher than I want it to be. I clear it, taking a sip of my water and setting the glass down harder than intended. Belle’s eyebrows dart up as she examines the way I white-knuckle the cup, still not saying a word.

We stare at one another for a moment longer, neither of us willing to break the silence. Maybe we don’t know how. There’s a lot of tension thickening the air around us—tension that I don’t know how to cut or get rid of without crossing some serious lines. And even then, I don’t know if once would be enough to get it out of my system.

Belle isn’t some puck bunny who comes out to the clubs and bars and tries getting with a hockey player for a night of mindless fun. She doesn’t care about our status, money, or fame. If I were to cross that line with her, it would be the farthest thing from casual. It would mean everything. It would destroy everybody else for me. She isn’t a one-time kind of girl. It isn’t in her nature.