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Kiera.
The crowd parts, almost as if Moses were lending a hand, and my eyes slide over her. She’s wearing a jersey and while I can’t see the back, there’s no doubt it’s her brother’s name and number on it. Her hair is in a long, loose braid that hangs over one shoulder with chunky pieces of blond falling around her face.
She’s been to Mario’s before and she heads right our way, knowing that her hockey family is within the velvet ropes. I’m the only one who sees her coming and her eyes lock right on me.
I can’t read a damn thing within them, her expression schooled to keep her feelings a secret.
“…told me that it would be fine and to stop worrying.”
“Huh? What?” I turn to Coen who had been speaking to me, breaking the eye contact with Kiera.
“I said Tillie told me to quit worrying about the housewarming party, but I don’t want her doing all the work, you know? I know her schedule isn’t as hectic as mine…”
I tune Coen out, although I nod every once in a while as I pretend to let my gaze roam around the bar. But I’m really checking on Kiera, getting a little jolt of pleasure every time my eyes pass over her. She moved to Stevie and they have their heads bent in close talking, no doubt about their drunken exploits at Camden’s birthday party last week.
Draining the last of my beer, I clap Coen on the shoulder. “I’m going to get another beer. Want one?”
“I’m good,” he says. I ask the same question around the table. I look directly at Kiera. “Want anything?”
I’m hoping she reads into the message, which sayscome up to the bar with me to order so we can have a few minutes alone. Instead, she smiles. “Yeah… whatever looks good on tap. Thanks.”
Then she turns her attention back to Stevie.
Jesus, fucking kill me now.
I take back all those wishes I threw out a few hours ago asking that Kiera show up at Mario’s, now wishing she’d never come. We’ve both fallen into this polite sort of distant acquaintance with each other, both too fearful we might give ourselves away. It’s painful, to say the least.
Eventually, I drift from the table. I can’t concentrate on what others are saying because all I can think about is getting Kiera out of here so I can have her to myself. Boone follows me and we circulate around the bar, posing with fans for pictures and signing autographs. For a good fifteen or twenty minutes, I actually get immersed in talking to fans and it’s a welcome respite from my obsessive thoughts.
A group congregates around us, a crowd of twenty-somethings, all beautifully dressed as if they’re going out clubbing. Both men and women, all wanting to pose for pictures. The men ask questions about hockey and the women flirt.
Some of them in a very handsy way. I’m talking to a curvy brunette who keeps putting her hand on my chest to punctuate her innuendo. I’m polite and don’t say anything, knowing that the conversation will soon be over. She asks for a picture. I agree. She moves in so close she’s plastered to my side and wraps both her arms around me. My arm goes to her shoulder in a friendly way, but as her friend is taking our picture, her hand drops super low, almost below my belt.
And wouldn’t you know it my eyes drift across to the bar area where I see Kiera standing talking to some people and she’s staring right at me.
Rather… glaring.
And she looks… hurt?
According to the terms of our agreement, this shouldn’t mean anything to Kiera and I should feel no guilt. As long as I’m not fucking the brunette, I’m doing nothing wrong. But fuck if the look Kiera gives me doesn’t make me feel like I’m a shit. I do my best to extricate myself from not only the woman but her group of friends.
“Let’s get a beer,” I say to Boone, but he looks content with his own handsy female.
Fuck it… I’m about ready to leave, anyway.
I search for Kiera, wanting to give her a signal that it’s time to go. At first I don’t see her, but then the crowd shifts and there she is. Still at the bar, but the reason I didn’t see her is that a large guy is talking to her and he’s angled in such a way that he blocks most of her from me. He’s got his elbow on the bar and whatever he’s saying makes Kiera laugh.
He laughs, too, and then reaches out to tug on her braid playfully.
She bats at his chest, grinning and shaking her head, and I’d bet a million dollars he propositioned her but in a charming way. She clearly turned him down, but she makes no move to leave. Instead, she continues to talk with him, and again, they make each other laugh.
My blood pressure spikes so fast, I feel like the top of my head is about to explode. Rage darkens my vision and I move their way. I don’t weave delicately through the crowd, instead knocking into people as I barrel toward Kiera.
Just as I reach them, the fucker tugs on her braid again and my hand shoots out to lock onto his wrist. The guy’s so surprised, he lets it go and I give him a hard push back.
“Bain,” Kiera exclaims, her hand coming to rest on my forearm. I spare her a glance—take in her mortified expression—and then look back to the dude. He’s over his shock and now bowing up like he wants to fight. “Keep your motherfucking hands to yourself or I’m going to break them.”
“Fuck off, asshole,” the guy says, stepping into me. “The lady and I were just talking.”
