She pours some of the Pinot Noir and hands it out. Everyone raises their glass, except me, because it seems awfully weird to be toasting myself.

  Tears shimmer in Rach’s eyes, and she swallows slowly, like she’s trying to force down some emotion clogging her throat. “To Jameson, who finally got his shit together.”

  I groan as we all clink glasses. “Jesus, thanks.”

  She grins at me, the true depth of how proud she is of me shining back. “Anytime.”

  Movement at the propped-open front door catches my attention, but by the time I shift my focus, there’s nothing but an empty sidewalk visible. On a gorgeous summer night like this, it wouldn’t surprise me if there are people out walking the neighborhood and trying to catch an early peek at what’s happening in here since we have the door ajar.

  Rachel squeezes my arm and motions to the table. “We can set the table while you’re finishing up. Where are all the place settings and cutlery?”

  I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I meant to talk to you about that. I have some temporary stuff in the kitchen we can use tonight, but it’s one of the last things I’ve been dragging my ass on—choosing place settings, cutlery, wine glasses, and all the other little shit. Grant says I need a woman’s touch.”

  She chuckles and nudges me with her hip with an eyebrow raised playfully. “Are you asking for my help?”

  Everyone, including her, knows exactly how much I hate to admit that. The glee growing on her face while she waits for my response makes me twist my lips into a frown. But if I want her help, I’m going to have to concede.

  “Yes. Would you be willing to go shopping with me tomorrow during the day? I have something going on tomorrow night, and I don’t think we’ll have time before the game Thursday.”

  “Was that really so hard?”

  I scowl at her. “Yes.”

  She tickles my side just like she used to when we were little and she was trying to get me to laugh. “Of course, I’ll help you.”

  Greer pouts. “Dammit. I want to go shopping, too. But I’m going to be tied up with pregame stuff all day tomorrow.”

  Bash presses a kiss to her temple. “You could always step down as coach and let me do it. It would free you up.”

  She elbows him in the ribs, and he feigns injury. Greer rolls her eyes. “That’s never going to happen, buddy.”

  It’s still hard to believe that Bash is here now. And so happy. Same with Rach. These two have managed to get their shit together in a way I never will, to get past what we all experienced as children to let someone in and let someone love them.

  How do they do that?

  I almost broke into hives just offering that tiny insight to Izzy the other night, yet these two have given themselves completely to someone else.

  It’s insanity. I want no part of it.

  Another flash of movement at the door has several of us turning toward it. Bash’s gaze meets mine, and he raises an eyebrow. I shrug. It could be anything, but he can’t just let it go and heads in that direction to check it out.

  He always was the protective one. When he was around, that is. When he wasn’t out on the ice with Dad, getting trained to become one of the greatest hockey players of all time by one of the greatest hockey players of all time.

  Bash can check it out. I’m confident he can handle anything he finds out there. Instead of worrying about some nosy neighbors, I turn to head back into the kitchen to grab plates and silverware for Rachel, but multiple sets of footsteps behind me stop me in my tracks.

  Shit.

  I sense her before I see her. Even with my back to them, Isabella’s presence fills the room and makes my skin heat and cock stir.

  “Jamo! Look who I found outside.”

  The last person I want to see right now because she’s the only person I do want to see. I can’t let the family witness that. That would raise too many questions I don’t have answers to. Open up discussions I am not prepared to have.

  I plaster on my most neutral expression and turn to face them. Izzy looks naturally beautiful as always, in a flowing black tank-top, black and white yoga pants, Chuck Taylor’s, and her blond hair piled high on her head in a messy bun more like a crown fit for a queen.

  She smiles nervously, twisting her hands in front of her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just walking by, and…”

  Just walking by…

  A tiny grin pulls at my lips despite my best efforts to remain unaffected by her. “Everyone…this is Izzy. She’s opening the restaurant directly next door.”

  Everyone’s eyes widen. Even Flynn and Greer. Clearly, Bash and Rach have informed them of our recent conversations about the chef next door and our antics. Though no one has any idea what that all led to the other night.

  Bash flashes her a grin. “It’s wonderful to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you already.”

  Izzy’s head whips toward him. “What? Where would you have heard…”

  Her eyes dart over to me, and I chug my wine and swallow what suddenly feels like cement.

  “Guys, I need to get to work if we want to eat anytime soon.”

  Rachel scoots over to Isabella and extends a hand. “I’m Rachel. These two assholes are my brothers. Want to join us for dinner?”

  Thank God I had already swallowed my wine; otherwise, I would have just choked on it.

  What the hell is Rachel doing? Trying to torture me?

  Izzy throws up her hands. “Oh, no.” She shakes her head with wide eyes. “I couldn’t intrude on a family dinner.”

  Greer waves a hand dismissively and approaches them to slip her arm through Izzy’s. “Nonsense. I’m Greer—this one’s wife.” She motions to Bash with the hand holding her wine glass. “The more, the merrier. Right, Jameson?”

  Shit. I’m going to need something stronger than wine tonight. A lot stronger.

  IZZY

  I wasn't trying to spy on them.

  Yeah, right, Iz. Go ahead and tell yourself that…

  The laughter and voices from inside drew me to the door, even though I had only intended to run into my place to grab a few things and then go right back home tonight.

  So maybe it was spying…a little. Or a lot. But I couldn’t not check it out. Not after the way Jameson and I left things. Not after that awkward few moments of finding pants and underwear and pulling them back on in silence while he tugged up his jeans and stood there rubbing at the back of his neck like he’d never been in a more uncomfortable position in his life. Not after he finally motioned to the remainder of the food on the plate and said, “Well, enjoy it,” and then hustled out like his damn ass was on fire.

  It has to be the single worst post-sex moment of my life. Not that I’ve had a lot of those to speak of, but it was, by far, the one that left me reeling the most. Because the sex was incredible. He was incredible. Even with the way he toyed with me and made me want to simultaneously punch him and ride him, he was just…magnificent.

  And I let him walk out of there with no sort of resolution or discussion about what anything that had just happened meant.

  Maybe it meant nothing. That would certainly make things easier for both of us if we mutually felt that way. And I, honest to God, don’t know how I feel about Jameson. All I do know is that whatever he did to me that night wore me out so much that I’ve barely been able to get out of bed since. Even days later, I can still feel him between my legs every time I take a step.

  So yeah, after all that…curiosity has gotten the better of me.

  And…maybe a little hint of jealousy came into play when I heard a woman's voice filled with affection say his name. The name of the man who gave me the best night of my life. The man who, until only minutes before that, I thought I would always be at odds against even though I denied not wanting to be.

  How fucking insane is that? Me. Jealous over Jameson Fury.

  It’s not like I have some sort of claim on him just because we banged it out once in my kitchen. That wasn’t anything special—just two people who had a bit of tension figuring a way to work it out so we can continue to be neighbors and rivals without so much animosity.

  At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

  But now, my spying got me caught, and Jameson’s family has invited me to what will surely be a very awkward dinner. If Jameson agrees, that is.

  He stands, staring at me, his darkening eyes never wavering from mine. Completely unreadable. He lifts his wine glass and drains it in one gulp, then swallows hard. “Of course. The more, the merrier.”

  He doesn’t mean that.

  It’s written in the tic of his jaw and the way his knuckles whiten where they clench around his wine glass.

  Jameson doesn’t want me here.

  That realization makes acid crawl up my throat. I fight to swallow it back down. It never occurred to me that he might regret what we did; that he might be sitting over here wishing he had never brought over that plate of food, that he had never kissed me, that he had never touched me…

  It made things a bit awkward, yeah, but regret? That hadn’t crossed my mind until seeing the way he’s looking at me now.

  “I-I really shouldn’t. I need to get over to my place and check—”

  “Nonsense!” Greer guides me forward with her arm looped through mine until we’re mere feet in front of Jameson. “Why don’t you go help Jameson in the kitchen? That might get things moving a little quicker. We’re all starved!”

  She doesn’t even bother to try to hide the wink she tosses at Jameson, nor does he make any attempt to hide his scowl back at her. But when his focus finally lands on me again, his lips shift slightly into a weak smile.

  He inclines his head toward Greer and motions toward the kitchen. “Come on, Izzy. We have a few things to finish up.”

  I almost say no. The word sits on the tip of my tongue, threatening to spill out. It would be so much easier to walk away now. To turn and race from his beautiful restaurant and back over to my totally lame one where I can drown myself in mac and cheese and wallow in self-pity.

  But I’ve never been someone who runs away from anything. I’m not going to start now. So, I pull my arm from Greer’s and prepare myself to follow Jameson into the kitchen.

  He glances over my shoulder at the group gathered around the table and sets his empty glass on it. “Rach, come grab the plates and stuff.”

  Thank God we won’t be alone back there.

  The thought of being in his kitchen. His domain. Within his physical reach. Without anyone to act as a barrier against the weirdness between us…

  I don’t even want to consider it. It makes my body shudder with anticipation for something I’m not even sure I want again.

  Who are you kidding, Izzy? You want it again. And again. And again.

  I blow out a deep breath as we step into the kitchen, and Rachel turns toward me with a concerned raised brow. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh…” I wave her off and watch Jameson move to the range to check something on one of the burners. “Yes, perfectly fine.”

  She considers my answer for a moment like she’s trying to read me and determine if I’m lying through my teeth or not, but then she shrugs and grabs the dishes and silverware off the corner of the counter before she scurries out of the kitchen with a wink at me and a, “Have fun!” called over her shoulder.

  Leaving me exactly where I didn’t want to be. Where I am not anywhere near ready to be. Alone. With Jameson. In his hot kitchen. With a dozen delicious scents enveloping us.

  My mouth waters—and not just remembering the incredible taste of what he fed me that night. More the taste of him—his kiss, his lips, his tongue.

  I wonder what he really tastes like?

  That question has my gaze drifting down to his ass since I can’t see the object of my inquiry when he’s facing the stove. But just my luck, he turns to face me at exactly the right time to catch me staring inappropriately.

  Because of course he does.

  “My eyes are up here, Iz.”

  I jerk my head up and scowl at him, hands on my hips. This man will not embarrass me. I refuse to give him that satisfaction.

  Pretend everything is normal and totally fine. That’s the only logical way to proceed here. The alternative is unthinkable—actually talking about the fact that we fucked like rabbits?

  I’d rather not.

  He smirks at me and leans back against the counter next to the range. “I need your help. Come over here and stir the risotto while I get the lamb out of the oven to let it rest.”

  Stir. I can do that.

  Quite competently, actually. Even if my brain is half fried from being in the same vicinity as this man when only days ago, he had me bent over a similar counter while he plowed into me.

  Still, I approach the stove with trepidation. It brings me dangerously close to being too close to Jameson. He turns and pulls the lamb out of the oven, then tents it and sets it aside on the counter.

  I stir meticulously, sure to scrape the sides of the pot and bottom. Concentrating on doing just that so I won’t think about the fact that he’s only a foot away from me.

  Stir. Stir. Stir.

  A warm hand slides slowly down my upper arm, and Jameson presses the front of his body against my back. I swallow a tiny moan at the contact, and while one hand closes around mine on the spoon, the other wraps around my waist and pulls me back even tighter against him.

  Don’t think about where his hand is, Iz.

  I can’t. Not right now. If I do, I’ll let all those fears I try so hard to keep locked in the deep recesses of my mind free to wreak havoc on my psyche. And I need my wits about me now.

  Jameson presses his lips against the exposed skin at the back of my neck. It’s all it takes for me to practically melt against him. His strong arm wrapped around me keeps me steady, the wobble in my legs both embarrassing and incredibly hot.

  This man can literally make me weak-kneed with a single kiss to an oh-so-sensitive place. He uses his hand wrapped around mine to continue stirring.

  Thank God he’s thinking to do it because God knows I have suddenly lost my innate ability to stir.

  His warm breath flutters against my ear, and with each inhalation he takes, my body shifts back with his moving chest, desperate not to lose that connection.

  Pathetic, Iz.

  But he doesn’t give me any time to consider just how much. He nips playfully at my ear, sending a little zing straight between my legs. “I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight. I thought you were avoiding me.”

  Avoiding him?

  Definitely not. Though I may have extended my stay in bed a little longer than needed because I just wasn’t sure what to say to him when I did see him.

  “Uh, nope. Not avoiding you. I wasn’t feeling well.”

  Shit.

  That just slipped out. More than I wanted him to know, for sure. If this man smells weakness, he’ll pounce on it like a lion who finds an injured gazelle in the Sahara.

  He stills behind me, then his hand leaves mine on the spoon, and he uses it to turn my head to the side to meet his gaze. “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  Gosh, that almost sounded sweet.

  “Oh, God no. Nothing like that. Just tired. Needed to recharge a bit.”

  A tiny grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Good.” He glances over his shoulder toward the door out into the restaurant. “And you’ll probably need to do it again after spending the night with my family. I’m apologizing ahead of time for anything they say or do that’s going to be wildly inappropriate. I wasn’t really prepared to have you thrown into this mix.”

  I chuckle and stir. “I doubt they can do or say anything that bad.”

  He laughs into my ear, his chest vibrating against my back before he steps away from me. “You don’t know Bash.”

  The loss of his body heat radiating through me is like getting doused with a bucket of ice water.

  Jameson pressed against me shouldn’t feel so good. I shouldn’t let it. This whole thing is a recipe for disaster. And just because he kissed my neck doesn’t mean he wants a repeat of the other night. Or that I should want one.

  Dammit. This was so much easier when I tried to hate the guy.

  13

  IZZY

  “I’m sorry. I don’t really follow sports.” I shrug in apology and take a sip of my water. “I never would have known if you hadn’t mentioned it.”

  Greer laughs and smacks Bash in the chest. “Oh, stop it. Don’t apologize. I wouldn’t expect anyone to know who I am.” She hitches her thumb toward Jameson’s brother. “But this guy, he’s the one with the ego. You may have mortally wounded him.”

  I chuckle, relieving a bit of the tension that had formed in my shoulders when everyone was discussing “the game” they’re in town for and I had absolutely no clue what they were talking about.

  Now knowing Bash played in the NHL and Greer coaches, I vaguely remember hearing at least his name at one point in time. Probably Ashley ogling him on the cover of some sports magazine or something.

  But I never would have put two and two together on my own, let alone recognized either Bash or Greer without Flynn jumping in to rescue me with some basic knowledge about the Fury legacy and how Bash and Greer ended up together—somewhat scandalously apparently.

  Hockey royalty.

  I never would have guessed it. Jameson seems about the least likely person I’ve ever met to go play a violent sport like hockey, yet apparently, his father was one of the best in the game and his brother was at the top of his when he retired. “Jameson, how come you didn’t end up in the NHL?”

  Rachel and Bash exchange a look and laugh, but Jameson’s face almost immediately hardens, and he goes stiff in his chair beside me. I hadn’t missed the tension radiating off him when the conversation turned this direction, but my question seems to have struck some sort of nerve I didn’t intend.

  He swallows whatever was in his mouth and takes a long drink of his wine. “I was never very interested in it. That was Dad and Bash’s thing.”

 

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