Page 124

What she hasn’t been doing is looking at Steve.

My fault.

Damn.

So, the day also hasn’t been going well either.

Steve…well, I’ve braced for venom and angry words and shouting each time our paths have crossed—and considering there are still six people in the not so large house, our paths have crossed quite a bit. Instead, he’s hung back, kept his distance.

And scowled. A lot.

But when he isn’t scowling, he’s looking thoughtful.

Whether that thoughtful will turn into anything positive for Ace, Joan, or both I don’t know.

I do know I said my piece.

Maybe a mistake.

Likely a mistake.

But there’s no going back now.

Beck heard too, but his response was to go quiet and tense, watching Ace and me with something in his eyes I couldn’t decipher.

And Ace…well Ace has been quiet too. Though, I think it’s mostly because he’s thinking and processing all those things he thought were unquestionable truths but are actually bullshit his dad spun for him.

For my part, I’ve buried the fire, clung to easy-going and that means I’ve spent a lot of time prepping food with Joan or hiding out amongst her beautiful roses in the back yard.

Lex is the only one seemingly unaffected. He’s just being Lex, brooding like the broody hockey player he is—whether it’s while he’s stuffing a giant pile of my pancakes in his mouth, or downing two of the subs Joan and I pulled together for lunch (along with an entire bag of chips), or tearing through two burgers and a hot dog Steve grilled up along with a metric ton of macaroni salad Joan made (something else I got the recipe for because it’s delicious and I had, maybe, half a metric ton myself) for dinner.

Someday his metabolism will catch up for him.

But today is not that day.

Now, it’s after dinner, the temperature and humidity have died down, and I’m back to hiding in the rose bushes.

Alas, my hiding spot isn’t a great one, if Ace coming out with some sticks, pucks, and an old rusty goal is any indication. He’s hovered close, probably worried about blowback—or maybe needing to reassure himself after all that was said this morning.

And even though I left him and the boys inside playing a video game, Joan in the kitchen putting together her breakfast casserole that needs to sit overnight, and Steve in his study, doing more even more scowling as he makes his way through another book on WWII, he’s found his way to me.

“Wanna show me what you got, Lamour?” he calls.

“I’m in heels and a dress,” I call back even as I push out of the chair, put my paperback aside, and move over to him.

He taps me on the nose before he hands me a stick. “That’s no excuse and you know it, princess. You could climb Mt. Olympus in those heels.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “No peeking up my dress when I bend over to shoot.”

He comes close, drops a puck in front of my feet, and grins. “Why’d you think I called you over here?”

I swat at him, say, “I’m better at hockey than bowling,” as he maneuvers behind me, wrapping his arms around me and repositioning the stick.

“Mmm-hmm,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to my throat.

“So if you’re hoping to show me all those slick moves, I don’t need the tips, Ambrose.”

His chuckle glazes over my skin, but he just shifts my top hand a little bit and steps back. “Okay then, show me what you’ve got, princess.”