Page 7 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
Chapter 2
Ryan
The high speed ferry pulls into Nantucket alongside Straight Wharf and the middle of the action in town. The ferry isn’t too crowded and, with my baseball cap pulled down and the collar of my nondescript jacket turned up, no one recognizes me. It’s too late in the evening to wear sunglasses or I would be.
Finishing my beer, I wait until the small crowd clears out before I head to the exit and walk down the ramp. The quaintness of the village strikes me, relaxing muscles I didn’t know were tense. Looking around, I smile, relax into the island party vibe. Even on a Wednesday night, before the busy summer season starts, the place bustles with a comfortable crowd of people out for the night.
Spotting a tall woman alone and limping, I lose the smile. She spins around and when I catch sight of her face, my chest and everything else clenches up like I’ve had a seizure. It’s Chelsea fucking Wilde limping with one high-heeled sandal on, wandering around the deck outside Cru. Hitting the pavement with my duffel bag in hand, I weave through the sprinkling of people, mostly couples, heading in her direction. With my baseball cap still in place and my head down, I spot her shoe stuck in the boards of the deck and I pry it out.
She’s still hunting around and I take another few seconds to look my fill of her, tall and shapely, wavy blond locks and those plump lips now in a gorgeously innocent pout. Jesus, she’s a stunner. And sure enough, I see a couple of guys checking her out. No way am I going to let them near her, so I move.
I tap her on the shoulder and she spins around. Before she can react, I hand her the shoe.
“Cinderella, I presume? Call me Prince Charming.”
Her face goes from puzzled to shocked and then she laughs. She grabs the shoe from my hand.
“You have your fairy tales mixed up. Prince Charming is from Sleeping Beauty.”
“Isn’t one prince the same as another?”
“Only if you’re an indiscriminate—”
“Player? Like me?”
“I was going to say man-whore, but player fits.”
I shouldn’t want to laugh, but I do.
“Or what was it you called me on air today—playboy? I should be angry with you.”
She flinches, then recovers. “Why do you bother listening to that crap anyway?”
She sounds guilty, like she doesn’t cares much for her job—or for me. Big difference from the last time I had a conversation with her, when she had tears in her eyes, barely held in, her chin quivering but held high. I feel that sick punch to the gut I always get when I remember it.
“I watch the show. I care,” I say. What the hell am I admitting that for? At least I stop short of telling her I listen because it’s her. I have no idea what I’m feeling, except it’s throwing me off seeing her unexpectedly like this, tipsy and adorable and . . . grown up? Clearly not the young naive wild child who let her passion run free without a thought. An innocent back then, a girl who would swear and beat up boys and still be demure and blushing in a crowd because she never liked being in the spotlight.
But she’s not a kid anymore, that’s for damn certain. She might even be disillusioned by now. Slipping her shoe back on, she wobbles. I catch her, realizing she’s tipsier than I thought. Maybe that explains the attitude. False courage in a bottle. I don’t want to think she dislikes me as much as it seems.
“I don’t believe you.” She looks up at me and then down at my hand on her arm as I hold her close. I let her go, though awareness of her body heat, her scent, that essence I’ve remembered ever since that night, reaches me, stirs my cock. That much about her hasn’t changed. Her power to make me lust-crazy is still there in spades. I’m not reassured.
“I don’t blame you,” I say. “I wouldn’t believe me either.”
Then she smiles. There’s nothing I can do but smile back and tense against the interest in my damn cock. It doesn’t matter how old she is, or how much she’s grown up, she’s still Maggie’s best friend, too much like a kid sister.Jason’s kid sister.
That hasn’t changed. She’s not someone I can fool around with and that will never change. My family would never forgive me if I hurt her—again—though they don’t know about the last time. I would never forgive myself. I already made a mistake—or almost did—four years ago and I have no intentions of compounding it now.
Chelsea Wilde, no matter how temptingly sophisticated and not kid-sisterlike she seems, isn’t someone I can play with. There’s not another woman on the planet more off-limits than she is. And not another woman I can recall that interests my cock—or the rest of me right now, if I’m being honest—as much as she does.
“You’re still a man-whore, then, aren’t you?” She bites her bottom lip, looking like temptation incarnate.
I shrug, not about to continue this topic of conversation. Not about to let her know her harshness is hitting home, deep down to a place no one usually gets to except family. Probably because she is like family.
“Think of me as your next-door neighbor, your honorary big brother.”
She rolls her eyes, more than skeptical, and I see a glimmer of something that tells me she may still be harboring that crush. The idea does things to my gut, makes my chest tighten against that damn thumping heartbeat of anticipation. She’s right about me being a man-whore. I should have enough self-control to resist my kid sister’s best friend. She’s enough like my sister, isn’t she?
No, she’s not.
