Shit.
It’s green.
Which is stupid. First,he left me. I can take being rejected, even if it hurt. I’mgratefulthat he rejected me. Made it easier to move on. Second, it’s been four damn years. And third, he has no say in who I see or sleep with, so why should the fact that I’ve seen him twice in a little over a week now mean I get any say in who he sees or sleeps with?
I’d question why I think it’s a foregone conclusion that any woman who wins a night of being a groupie while Duncan’s playing at a bar would end up in bed with him, except it’s obvious.
A strong, tall, green-eyed, curly-haired, dimple-cheeked hockey player strumming a guitar while that voice comes out of his mouth?
He’s sexy as hell when he’s playing.
Of course they’ll end up in bed together.
Maybe she’ll even be the marrying type, and they’ll settle down together and he’ll retire from hockey to support all of her hopes and dreams and goals and they’ll have three perfect children and two perfect dogs and one perfect cat and they’ll live perfectly ever after.
Andwhat is wrong with me?
I don’t care.
Or, I’m not supposed to care. I do a very good job of actively not caring most of the time.
Tonight, I care. It’s like all of the feelings and longings that scared the shit out of me when I started to feel them towardDuncan four years ago have sprouted new wings, tumbled free of their cages, and are flopping around this ballroom on full display.
I picture them like flying fishes and I almost giggle.
Again,what the hell is wrong with me?
A microphone screeches, and we all look toward the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, please refill your glasses, visit the buffet if you need any more food, and then take your seats,” Levi Wilson, tonight’s emcee, says. “The bidding will begin in fifteen minutes.”
“Oh, wait,” Waverly says. “Paisley, let’s get a picture before you go sit down.”
I shift away.
I’d like to shift farther away, but the VIP section has gotten more crowded than I realized as the night’s gone on.
And I finally let myself steal a full look at Duncan while he snaps a photo of Waverly and Paisley on a pink-cased phone that I assume belongs to his niece.
His rugged jawline is clean-shaven.
Fresh haircut that only hints at how curly his hair will be when it grows out another half-inch again.
Dark blue suit that fits him like a glove, right down to his powerful hockey thighs and ass, built up from a lifetime of being on skates.
Tie featuring the rocket-powered bratwurst mascot of the Thrusters hockey team. And I’d bet the socks match.
Soft smile on his face as he looks at the phone.
He’s not just hot as hell, he’s also a good guy.
In the short time we spent together, I would’ve said he was one of the best men, in fact.
Until he couldn’t handle my utter terror at the idea of my life becoming what my mother’s was. I couldn’t explain it to him either.
Not that I tried.
And I don’t know if I kept it to myself because I was afraid of what other truths would tumble out of my mouth if I’d started with that one or if I was afraid he wouldn’t understand.
Probably both.
