Page 86 of Something Like That

Alex stood in the archway to the foyer, her hand on Nate’s arm. His brother leaned down, bringing his ear closer to hear whatever she was saying.

Nick was halfway across the room before he even realized he was going to move. It was like he was drawn to her, like she was the sun in the center of his universe.

She looked over at him. He damn near heard angels singing. They’d only been apart for a couple of days, but it felt like eons since he’d last seen her.

She wore a black dress, simple and understated, but elegant, just like her, along with a black cardigan. A pair of black heeled boots hugged her calves. Her hair was loose, hanging around her shoulders. She had on just a touch of makeup—some mascara, a touch of lip gloss—and her cheeks were pink from the frigid temperature outside.

He slid to a stop in front of her, shoved his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. What he really wanted to do was grab her, maybe shake her, maybe hold her. Tell her how he felt about her, that he knew he didn’t deserve her. Ask her if maybe, just maybe, she could see beyond the fuck up he’d become and take a chance.

But he didn’t. Because he was a coward.

She’d already made herself crystal clear back in Seattle. Whatever was between them had been casual, temporary, unimportant. And there was no way he was setting himself up to get kicked in the teeth again. He might be a fuck up, but he wasn’t a fool.

Keep telling yourself that.

He pushed the snarky thought away, tried to relax his shoulders. Set his expression to something as neutral as possible. Not let her know just how much seeing her again was both ecstasy and agony.

“Hi,” she said, placing her hand on his forearm. Her fingers brushed against him in a sweeping motion, which she probably thought was soothing. It wasn’t. Her touch burned.

Part of him wanted to snatch his arm back, to get away from her and her sweet, coconut scent. And the terrible sympathy in her glassy eyes. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner. My flight out of Denver got postponed due to the weather.”

“Thank you for coming.” His voice sounded like he’d been hit in the chest with a rogue elbow. He cleared his throat and pointed at his brother, who was standing way too close to her. “You remember my brother, Nate?”

She gave Nate a shaky smile. “I do, although I don’t remember him being quite so tall.”

A small smile played at the edges of Nate’s lips. “Yeah, my growth spurt kicked in after you left.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Thank you for coming, Alexandra. It really means a lot.”

And that was enough of that.

“Come on.” Nick grabbed her hand and dragged her through the sea of people milling around the living room. Not that there was much dragging. She came along pretty willingly.

Without conscious thought, he headed for the stairs and the relative safety of upstairs. Although it was just as hot on the second floor—he had no idea why his mother kept it hovering around four hundred degrees in the house, other than to maybe try and melt her icy heart—but at least he felt like he could breathe again.

He pushed open the door to his old bedroom and pulled her inside. Flipping on the light, he closed the door and then leaned against it, his heart thumping like he’d just finished one of her grueling workouts.

She had her arms wrapped around herself and was wandering around the room, looking at all of his stuff. Nothing had changed in here in the last decade and a half. It was almost like a shrine to his younger self.

Trophies balanced on cheap shelves, medals hanging from nails hammered into the walls. His signed, framed Mario Lemieux jersey—one of the prizes for winning MVP at one of his tournaments—still hung on the wall across from his bed. Minor hockey team pictures were scattered around, all a virtual timeline of his life.

How fucking sad was that?

He shoved his hands in his pockets, afraid they might go rogue and do something stupid, like touch her. The feel of her hand in his, while he’d dragged her through the house, had been like a brand on his palm. “What are you doing here?”

She turned at the gruff, almost accusatory words, her arms tightening around herself. “I didn’t want you to do this alone.”

He tore his gaze away, unable to look at her any longer. It was like looking directly into the sun. Brilliant and warm, but oh so painful. He swallowed, the lump in his throat growing as big and as hard as a puck. He stared at the MVP trophy he’d won the first year he was in minor hockey. Back when he loved the game, before all the pressure. Before all the potential had been wasted. “Where’s Em?”

“She’s spending the next couple of weeks with her dad. For spring break.”

He could sense her moving toward him, but he didn’t look, just nodded. “Right, right. I forgot. I hope she has a good time.”

“She wanted me to tell you she’s sorry about your dad. She would have called, but she didn’t know what to say.”

He nodded again, keeping his focus on the cheap trophy. Her coconut scent surrounded him. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He was afraid that if he looked at her, he’d give in to his need to touch her, to hold her, to never let her go.

But he couldn’t do that. She was a distraction—had been since the moment he’d met her—and now, more than ever, he needed to focus.

“Nick?”