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“Hey, Mr. VanMeyer. Trimming the tree?” I asked.
He rubbed his mostly bald head and grinned. “Chopping this sucker down.”
I looked up at the big, bare tree and wasn’t sure how he was going to do that. He liked to take on adventurous do-it-yourself projects and then ended up calling in the professionals to finish up. Like replacing the back steps off his deck. Or when he decided to repave his driveway. Or put in the new mailbox post.
“Careful on a ladder getting those low limbs.” The tree was at least thirty feet tall with lots of long, sweeping branches. There were a few small ones he’d already been able to cut off that were scattered around him in the grass.
Shaking his head, he patted the handle of the chainsaw. “Oh, I’m not getting on a ladder.”
“Good.” I didn’t want him to fall because it would definitely lead to him breaking something. And with a working chainsaw, maybe cut something off. At least he called in the pros first thing this time. “Then there will be more for the tree trimming service. I’m off to Van’s. Need anything?”
“I’m not hiring a– Wait. You’re going to Van’s?” His eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning at the mention of the grocery store. “I like those brownies they have.”
I laughed. “I know you do. I’ll get you some.”
He offered a thanks only after reminding me he liked the ones with nuts sprinkled on top, then pulled the cord to start the chainsaw again.
Hopefully the brownies would be enough to lure him away from the chainsaw and I could get a thousand more words in before it got too late. I’d finish the sex scene with Dex… with the hero, before bed.
And my date with my vibrator.
3
DEX
* * *
The music in grocery stores was the worst. No matter which one I went to, no matter which state, or hell, which country, it was all the same.
Saxophone remakes that became permanently stuck in my head.
I couldn’t help but hum along to an Adele disaster–sorry, Adele–when I brought my cart to a halt by the produce island of bananas. There, standing in front of the squash was Lindy Beckett.
“God, I love small towns,” I murmured to myself, tossing a bunch into my cart. They landed on top of a few peach yogurt containers.
The chances of running into Lindy were greater here in Hunter Valley than in Denver and worked to my advantage, especially with her. The woman of my dreams. And when I was awake.
I pushed my cart with the rogue wheel over to her. I was famous for being a top scorer on the ice. Lately, for the one time I was called an enforcer off it when I beat up an asshole at a bar. Pro hockey enforcers were known for using their fists on the ice, not off. And me? I was the nice one. The one the enforcers protected. I was too valuable to get into ice fights. So when I took a guy down for being a dick to a woman, they made it into a big deal.
Still, no matter how the media painted me with their ruthless brush, women literally tossed their panties at me. I handled puck bunnies like they were no big deal. To me, they weren’t, because I didn’t want any of them. Not if they thought I was the good boy they wanted to tarnish, or the bad boy they wanted to reform. Either way, they only wanted to fuck.
Sure, maybe back in my rookie season when I was first exposed to the insane lifestyle when I’d been up for a little casual fun, but only for a few months. It wore off quickly, especially when I caught on that me sleeping with those shallow women wasn’t any better than my father working his way through the intern pool at the office.
Meaningless. Empty. He’d needed pussy to feel validated. To get off. No connection. Hell, I doubted he even knew any of the women’s names he fucked.
I sure as shit didn’t remember the names of those women that first year. Of course, they’d wanted to fuck a hockey player, so the quickies were evenly balanced. Consensual anonymity.
Since then, I practiced and played. Hard. As a kid, hockey was what got me out of the house–or in my case, dysfunctional mansion. I spent as much time as I could at the local rink for endless practices and games. Then when I got older and in the travel league, away games, even ones out of state, kept me sane. The sport had kept me away from joining James Corp, the family business, because we all knew I’d go pro. My brothers Mav, Silas, and Theo encouraged me to play my ass off because I was fucking good. It wasn’t cocky to say, but the truth.
But it was lonely.
My life was fucking lonely. I was constantly surrounded by trainers and players and coaches. I shared rooms with teammates at the away-game hotels. I was rarely alone. Yet I didn’t have a family–a real family of my own–to come home to. To play for. To have in the WAG section cheering me on. No wife, no girlfriend in the special box.
Until now. Until Lindy, because I could picture her at my games. In my–our–house. In our bed. She was why I was lingering here in Hunter Valley in the off season.
I didn’t know what it was about her that had hearts throb out of my eyes like in cartoons. Why I was obsessed with her. The day we met, she wasn’t the… nicest. To others, she may be seen as a bitch or cranky. To me, it seemed… standoffish.
She didn’t have to fly to Denver with us last weekend, but she had. Maybe she was worried about Bridget and how Mav had treated her. Maybe she was mad at him. Not maybe, probably. Maybe it was because she left town with five minutes notice. Maybe… well, who knew?
