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A shiver ran down my back. I knew what he meant. The bleak expression on his face made it clear he was having second thoughts about us plunging headlong into a relationship, which seemed as real as the act we put on in front of the journalist earlier… Which hadn’t been an act at all, either. In fact, since we commenced this farce, nothing is as it seems.
He said I was his fake fiancé, yet he gave me a ring that belonged to his grandmother. He said it was a pretend relationship, yet the way he kissed me was so intense, I was sure he was catching feelings for me. There are no half measures with Rick. Everything he does, he puts his entire self behind it. Both on the ice and off, especially when he held my gaze and never looked away as he made me come.
And now, he’s talking about boundaries? After breaking every possible rule, spoken and unspoken, between us.
I glare at the rat’s ass of a man who’s bent over his grandmother. Rosemary is nothing like I imagined she would be. She's not the stereotypical little grandma who loves to knit and wears old-fashioned clothing. Rick’s grandma is sprightly, with silver hair cut in a fashionable blunt cut that set off her features. Her eyes are bright and only a little less faded blue than Rick’s. She’s also wearing a Chanel suit, complete with a string of pearls and a pair ofManolo Blahninks. Yep, the woman is sporting a pair of black pumps that are both stylish and comfortable. She hadn't seemed surprised at all to have found us kissing in the car parked outside her house. If anything, I have a sneaking suspicion I went up in her estimation for being found making out with her grandson.
She embraced me, then hooked her arm with mine and walked me inside her home. We'd barely stepped in when the pony… I mean, Tiny, came dancing over to us. He stayed quiet and waited for Rosemary to pat him, then looked at me with his big melting grey-brown eyes—so different from the cold-fire eyes that are Rick’s—until I gave in and rubbed his big head. He pushed his big body into my hand and turned to present his hind quarters.
When I looked around in confusion, Rosemary chuckled. "Clever boy, he wants you to scratch his back; he can't reach there." So, I did.
He woofed his happiness and let me pet him. Until Rick walked into the house, that is. Then, forgetting all about me, he barked out a greeting and threw himself at Rick.
To Rick’s credit, he took the brunt of what was, surely, a hundred and fifty plus pounds of Great Dane planting his paws on his chest. Rick scratched Tiny behind his ears, massaged him under his jowls, and patted him with sweeping strokes that sent the mutt into an ecstasy of happy woofs. He flopped onto his back and Rick tickled his tummy. When Rick hit the sweet spot, his leg shook, prompting a laugh from everyone. That prompted Tiny to straighten and lick Rick’s face until Grams called him to heel.
Rick excused himself to go wash up, with Tiny on his heels. I was sure Grams would use that alone time to quiz me about my relationship with Rick, but she didn't. Instead, she led me to the sunroom and invited me to take a seat. She introduced me to her companion, a young woman called India who hugged me and said she’d already heard so much about me, before setting off to lay the table for dinner. When Rick returned, he’d walked over and embraced Grams properly.
Now, India walks in to announce dinner is ready. Grams rises to her feet; so do Rick and I. Grams walks over to me, hooks her arm through mine again and pronounces, "Walk with me."
India leads Tiny into the kitchen, and I let Grams lead me in the direction of what I assume is the dining space. We walk through a hallway decorated with pictures. My steps slow as I take in the family snapshots. A man whose height and build is very similar to Rick’s, and a woman who’s brilliant blue eyes and features resemble Rick’s. There are pictures of a baby Rick with his eyes closed, with his mother holding him and his father with his arm around the both of them. Rick, as a toddler with a mischievous grin on his face, those mesmerizing blue eyes, and curly dark hair on the beach with his mom holding his hand. The trio at a barbecue. Rick, when he must have been five, wearing a Santa hat and surrounded by Christmas gifts and wrapping paper. What looks like a ten-year-old Rick, with a face smeared with ice-cream. A teenaged Rick, almost as tall as a younger Grams with hair that hasn’t yet gone grey, wearing another Chanel suit with the same string of pearls she’s wearing now. An older teenaged Rick with a girl his age, both of them grinning in front of Grams’ house.
"That was his first girlfriend."
"She wasn’t." Rick comes up behind us.
"You dated her for six months," Grams points out.
"I hung out with her." He raises a shoulder.
"You took her to prom."
"Only because I had to go with someone. If it hadn’t been her, it would've been someone else."
I frown at him over my shoulder. "That’s not very nice."
"It’s true. I never did have feelings for anyone, until you."
Grams’ gaze bounces between us. She’s following our conversation with great interest. It’s the only reason I don’t respond to his comment. Instead, I walk forward and peer at another picture. This one is of a younger Rick, in his late teens or early twenties, dressed in full hockey gear. He’s on the ice, leaning on his hockey stick and grinning widely at the camera. He has his helmet tucked under one arm, and his hair is longer, curlier and falls over his forehead. He looks more carefree, more unguarded. His eyes are not shadowed, his gaze more open. "You look different in this picture," I murmur.
"I was different. That was before."
I shoot him another glance. "Before what?"
"Before I joined the Marines."
I want to ask him why he left the NHL, why he moved back to England, what made him decided to play hockey again. I don’t even know where he and his family lived in the US. There’s so much I don’t know about this man. And now, perhaps, I never will, considering he’s decided to re-impose the dividing lines between us.
I turn to Grams. "I’m hungry; what’s for dinner?"
34
Rick
"So how did you two meet?" Grams looks between us. "I read the interview but would prefer to hear it from you in person."
I exchange glances with Goldie. The look in her eyes says she’d rather I take this one. I nod and turn to Grams, but before I can reply, India walks in and serves Gio and me. Then she returns with another plate of food and places it in front of Grams.
“Grilled mackerel with mustard sauce on a cous-cous salad, enjoy,” India announces.
