Page 88 of Lucky Puck

“Are you finished eating?”

I nod, and she takes my plate.

Taking in an unsteady breath, I force myself to acknowledge that I’m not looking forward to the end of our relationship—whatever it is. Following her to the kitchen counter, I line up next to her and help her load the dishwasher and clean up.

She accepts my help with a smile, and we work in silence, and it’s like we don’t need to talk because we’re both thinking the same things. I don’t know how I know, but I do. I feel the connection, the communication between us somehow, maybe through the air we breathe or the close proximity. Whatever it is, I know it’s there as sure as the damn wedding ring on my finger.

She finishes, drying her hands with a towel, and holds her left hand in front of her, glancing at her ring like she’s thinking the exact same thoughts I am. I cover her hand with mine, telling her I know.

When she looks up at me, the glisten of tears in her eyes and the sad smile make my chest nearly seize with the hard clench of my heart.

“Don’t be sad, Bianca. Even if I’m not your client—or your fake husband—I’ll still be there. We’ll still be…” And that’s where it all falls apart.

Because I have no fucking idea what we’ll be.

She lifts her hand from beneath mine and caresses my cheek. “I know what you mean.”

Then she turns and walks away down the hall to the bedroom, and I know not to follow. I know this is the end of our marriage, our sleeping together, our lovemaking.

Because without saying a word, she’s drawn a line in the sand, and I’m not enough of an asshole to cross it. She’s a serious, permanent relationship kind of girl, and I had no business fooling with her no matter how persuasive she was.

But I was absolutely serious when I said I have noble intentions. Now that I know she has romantic feelings, I’m not going to take advantage of her by sleeping with her again.

I wish I wasn’t, but I’m not ready to give her what she deserves. And the hell of it is that I don’t know if I’ll ever be because I’m too broken. Other guys in their bachelor era have visions of someday settling down, but not me.

Those visions were wiped out of my soul when I was too young and impressionable to know better, too inexperienced to hold back and protect myself.

That’s what I owe to Nora Shade. The funny thing is, on some level, I used to feel grateful to her for it. Until today.

Chapter Thirty

BIANCA

Brody should skip the morning skate. He may not think I noticed that he was off balance when he got out of bed, but I did. I lie in bed fussing with the sheets and contemplating what else I can say or do to change his mind, but he insists he needs to be there with the team whether he’s skating or not.

How can I argue with that without flat-out telling him I don’t trust him to tell the truth about how he’s feeling? I can’t.

The thought crosses my mind to try another tactic, but I’m not going to resort to seducing him. I chortle. As if that’s a good idea. The whole point is for him to not overexert himself.

He promised to take it easy on the ice. But I saw him take the Tylenol first thing before he got out of bed, swallowing who knows how many tablets, dry.

I shudder.

When he emerges from the en-suite, he looks fresh and mind-bendingly sexy in sweats with those blue eyes and that dimpled grin, and not to mention his manly unshaven jawline that makes me⁠—

“You look like you’re thinking something dirty, Brooks.” He sits on the edge of the bed and leans down to kiss me. I don’t resist in spite of my morning breath. Who am I?

With a caress of my breast, he straightens and emits a deep sigh.

“You’re a temptation, but I’m a dedicated hockey player, so don’t try to stop me from leaving.”

I laugh. “Okay. But it’s tough, and I’m only relenting because I’m also your agent.”

He raises a brow as he stands. “Also my agent? What else are you, Brooks?” His voice comes out raspy, scraping against all my most sensitive nerve endings like the edge of a knife.

Heat flares to my cheeks, and unable to answer him, I wave a hand at the messy sheets.

“My lover?” he says, his voice still raspy and quiet, like he’s telling a secret.