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“You’re stronger than you used to be, Joey. It almost hurts now.” His eyes dance with humor.
His hand envelops mine firmly and sends the exact same crushing emotion it always did when his skin was on mine. When he restrained me. It often happened this way. Him stopping me from laying into him. I started to lay my hands on him in elementary school and never grew out of it because when he’d get a hold of my sides, or my wrist to stop me from coming at him, his touch radiated right to the core in a way that was so desirable, I punched the guy a lot.
I refuse myself the same giddy pleasure and yank it away, but my appendage misses the warmth. I’ve been in the elements most of the day, and even my hot bath didn’t seem to relieve my hands of the rigid cold in their bones the way his skin does.
I slide both of my hands under my thighs to feel something on them other than his skin still lingering there. “It’s not my fault they’re so foamy.” I tilt my head toward my glass. “Look at that. There’s hardly any beer in there.”
He tips his chin. “Well then, you can help me with my beer mustache when I get one.”
“I will.” I think of what it would be like to skim his lipwith my thumb. His lip so soft. His stubble tiny, sensual pinpricks.
He takes a sip, but his boyish smirk comes away from the glass without anything to wipe. Damn. “Okay then. We’ll look out for each other. Like spinach in teeth kind of thing.”
I smirk. “Deal.”
We stare at each other for a while. I take another drink, careful to lick my top lip, and he doesn’t take his eyes off me. He’s always been an intense stare kind of guy, considering, searching your face for breadcrumbs that lead him to the places you’re hiding.
He always used to find me. Logan would never see when a joke went too far or I held back tears from a graze, but Ashton did. He always knew. And I wonder if he’ll see any of the things I have buried now.
The beat of silence that passes makes me wonder if I should punch him again. It’s more comfortable than sitting under his gaze feeling naked.
Finally, he drops his gaze to his beer and runs a finger along the rim of his pint glass. “How is being a vet going?”
It’s probably small talk or catching up on time; or did he see something just then? “Yeah.” I swipe some suddenly annoying hair behind my ear. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
Curiosity I would have rather avoided seeps into the space between us.
“You always wanted to be a vet. Is fine really the best it is? It would have been a huge bummer for me if the NHL turned out fine.”
I shrug. “Just like any job, it has good days and bad days. I’m sure you don’t love hockey every single day now that you do it for work.”
He resists the knee-jerk reaction most people would have to tell me I’m wrong or I’m right and considers what I just said. He presses his thumb to his index finger and then follows it down the pads of the rest of them, a habit he’s had since high school, or at least the one I noticed he started then.
“Fine still wouldn’t be a word I’d use. Even the bad days are better than fine. Plus, I’d never expect such a boring word from you.” He lifts his dark eyebrows.
A thin-lipped smile spreads across my face, and I change the subject. “Are you glad to be in the Canyon again?”
He narrows his eyes long enough for me to wonder if he’s not letting me off the hook. But he does, saying his words with a gaze that dives right down to my soul.
“I wish I never left.”
It should be a happy sentiment, but it’s laced with something melancholy. I understand. Sometimes I wish I never left, too.
Just then, a group near the door erupts with noise, and my brother, Logan, fist bumps two of the guys who pat his back and shower him with jubilation at his entrance fit for a Roman emperor.
My eyes track back to Ashton’s face that’s turned to watch the commotion. His jawline is sharper than the last time I saw it up close. His cheekbones are more defined. His stubble is thicker, and he has a small scar now that cuts through one of those enviable manly brows. It wasn’t there when we were younger. He’s always been a tough defender and he gets in fights in the rink. Big ones. But I never thought anyone would be tall enough to reach his face when helmets get thrown down. The fact that he wasn’t able to dodge that onetells me he didn’t think his opponent could reach him either.
My brother approaches, and Ashton messes with him.
“Your minions forgot their trumpets.”
I snatch my eyes from Ashton’s face and glance to my brother instead. I hope Logan didn’t catch me staring at his best friend like I did when I was fifteen. Because I’m over that now, and the last thing I need is a man, and Logan knows that, too. Even one as good as Ashton.
The guys fist bump, and Logan gives me a hug.
“Jojo, you made an effort. First time you haven’t smelled like cow shit in days.”
