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Kiera
Drake is acautious driver. His massive hands, calloused by countless hockey games, grip the steering wheel. Being the dad of three boys makes him treat those in his vehicle as precious cargo. I tease him often that he drives like a little old lady and then enjoy the way he glares at me.
Despite his colossal build and gruff exterior, there’s a softness in his voice as he asks, “How were things while I was gone? You okay?”
Drake got back into Pittsburgh late last night from the long road trip that had the Titans playing games in San Francisco, Anchorage, Calgary and Edmonton. Before he left, he asked me to keep today free as he wanted me to help him shop for an engagement ring for Brienne and I’ve been so excited to do my sisterly duty.
I laugh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Contrary to popular belief, I can survive without my big brother.”
“I know you can.” He spares me a glance, then it’s eyes back on the road. “It’s just… since I’ve moved in with Brienne, I worry about you being all alone. Are you sure you don’t want to move in with us? God knows Brienne’s house is large enough to accommodate and you wouldn’t get lonely.”
“I’m not lonely,” I assure him, and then internally grimace as I think about how much my lifestyle would be cramped by moving in with them. There would be an upside in being able to see my nephews more often, but the downside would be no naked nights with Bain and no way I’m going to give that up.
Another quick look before he prods. “You seeing anyone these days?”
I stifle a laugh, opting instead for a noncommittal shrug. “No. Not seeing anyone.” I hope that sounds casual to him and not an out-and-out lie.
I most certainly can’t tell him I’ve been letting Bain fuck me silly when we can arrange the time together. While I, in no way, subscribe to Drake’s belief that he can control my life or that he can tell his teammates they can’t date me, it’s best to keep this secret. Besides, what Bain and I have won’t last forever. The shine will wear off and we’ll go our separate ways.
I rub at my breastbone because the thought of that doesn’t sit well with me.
Unaware of my internal musing, Drake looks over at me and it’s long enough to see his expression is serious and thoughtful. It means he’s been cooking something up. “You remember Grady from Brienne’s executive office, right? Tall guy, brown hair, always dressed in a designer suit and maybe a little too much hair gel?”
I cast him a suspicious glance. “Yeah, I remember him. Why?”
Drake flashes me a smile. “He’s asked Brienne if you’re dating anyone and we were thinking we could set you two up on a date.”
“No thank you,” I reply, holding out my hand as if to ward off any future discussion.
Drake isn’t quelled. “He’s a decent guy. Ivy League educated, successful. You know, not a puckhead like the rest of us.”
I snort and roll my eyes at the same time. “And you think I should go on a date with him? Because he’s not a puckhead?”
“Because he’s a successful guy. Give it a shot,” Drake insists as he pulls into the parking garage. He winds up to the third level and his eyes narrow on an empty spot ahead. Drake puts on his left signal and starts to turn, but a sleek BMW cuts him off, whipping into the spot Drake had wanted. The driver hops out—late twenties, wearing a crisp suit and aviator sunglasses, smirking arrogantly at us. The very picture of the man Drake was trying to sell me on moments ago.
The irony is not lost on me.
Drake’s face hardens, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he rolls down the window. “Hey, asshole! You saw I was turning into that space.”
The suited man doesn’t even pause, lifting his hand high and flipping Drake the bird.
“Oh, fuck no, he didn’t,” Drake snarls as he slams the Tahoe into park. He jumps out and takes off after the guy. I follow at a more sedate pace as I know Drake won’t hurt him, but he’s going to scare the fuck out of him.
The man hears Drake’s thundering footsteps, glances over his shoulder and only sees a hulking figure bearing down on him. I see the panic on his face as he makes a run for the stairwell door, but just as he tries to jerk it open, Drake is there and slams his hand against it so it stays shut.
The man no longer looks so full of himself as he takes in Drake’s large frame, the tattoos, the scowl etched on his bearded face. I lean against the passenger door, watching with interest.
“Wait a minute,” the man stammers as his eyes go round as saucers. “You’re Drake McGinn.”
“Or as some like to call me, the man who’s going to stomp your ass if you don’t move your car from that spot.”
I snicker.
“Oh, shit, man, I didn’t realize… here, let me move my car.” The dude babbles, practically tripping over his words in his haste to get to his BMW. “I wasn’t thinking. I was in a hurry and there were more spots just on the next level—”
“Less talk,” Drake growls. “More moving of your car.”
It takes only a minute for the BMW to back out and jet out of sight and for Drake to pull in. “You’re so badass,” I say, a true compliment to my brother.
