The rival, p.5
The Rival, page 5
Aspen nods. “It must have been nice to come here and get away from the world.”
“It was. It’s the perfect place to escape from reality.”
Normally, talking with someone about the breakup is difficult. They want all the juicy details, the stuff that didn’t make the tabloids. But Aspen isn’t giving me that impression. Instead, she seems to get it. She’s been working with Eden for months now, but she’s not picking sides, and I appreciate that more than she’ll ever know.
Unexpected questions about my ex teeter on the tip of my tongue. I’ve moved on, for sure, but sitting here across from Aspen, it’s only natural for the topic to shift to Eden.
“Is . . . is she happy?” My words come out quiet. Stilted.
“You mean with Holt?” Aspen asks softly, and I nod. “Yeah, she’s really happy.”
“Good,” I say, and I mean it.
Breakups suck, of course. But I’m glad Eden is happy. One of us should be after the hell we put each other through.
“So, what about you?” I ask Aspen.
I’m not sure if this is a door I should open, but she’s willing to listen to my shit without complaint, so I want to offer that to her as well. The least I can do is ask her about her own troubles.
“What about me?”
“I’m not the only one who had a rough breakup. Although yours is a lot fresher than mine. I guess I just wondered . . .” I pick up my wineglass, hesitating. Maybe this wasn’t the best topic to bring up. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.”
Aspen contemplates this for a moment, her pink lips downturned in a slight frown. “No,” she finally murmurs. “I should talk about it. I need to get better at talking about it.”
But she doesn’t continue. Instead, her mouth seals into a firm line, and she stares at her plate with empty eyes. It would be completely silent if not for the faint chirping of crickets outside.
“What was his name?” I ask, because maybe Aspen needs someone to ask questions instead of navigating this topic on her own.
She blinks up at me, a pained look on her face. “Dale.”
I want to make a joke about all the Dales I’ve known being smelly old dudes at the gym, but this isn’t the moment for wiseass comments. “How long were you together?”
“We met at Harvard. He was studying political science, and I was majoring in business. We were together for two years at school, and two years after graduation.”
Harvard? Wow. I knew she was smart, but . . . damn.
“What ended things?”
“Oh, it’s a long story.” She sighs. “I was always really forgiving of him. He had a tough childhood, middle child of four other siblings, parents always on the brink of divorce. He was really depressed in school, didn’t have a lot of meaningful friendships. So I kind of became everything to him . . . his friend, his girlfriend, his therapist, his personal bank account. It was exhausting, but I loved him, so that made it worth it.”
Aspen has a far-off look in her eye. My chest tightens as I watch her reaction to remembering Dale the dick and the hell he obviously put her through. She’s a nice girl—Saint was right about that. It pisses me off to know that some guys out there would take advantage of such kindness.
“Then we graduated and began to meet new people out in the ‘real world.’ I encouraged him to make new friends. And he did, and he seemed really happy and well-adjusted for about a year. But then he told me he had feelings for one of those new friends. At first, he pitched an open relationship, which kind of—um, broke me, but I loved him, so I tried to make it work. I did a ton of research on polyamory and nonconventional relationships, even interviewed some friends of friends. I learned that those kinds of relationships are contingent on trust. The golden rule is to set rules, respect them, lead with love. It seemed doable, but he kept lying. So . . . I ended it.”
A heavy silence follows, and I wait for her to add anything else if she wants to. I personally hope that’s the extent of it. From even just the SparkNotes version, it sounds like she’s endured enough heartache to last a lifetime.
How do guys like fucking Dale get away with hurting girls like Aspen? I clench a fist under the table. I don’t even know what the guy looks like, but I want to smash his face through the back of his skull.
When she doesn’t continue, I finally speak up. “I’m sorry. He sounds like a piece of shit.”
“I should have seen it coming. He refused to talk about the future, and he’d broken up with me twice before. There was a rumor in college that he was cheating on me. The signs were all there. I was just blinded by love, stupidly defending him at every turn.”
Wait. Is she seriously blaming herself?
“No, no. None of that is your fault, Aspen. I’ll listen to you vent all you want, but none of this self-pity stuff, no should-haves or regrets. They’re a waste of time, time that you deserve to spend healing. Got it?”
She swallows hard, looking up at me with glassy eyes.
If she cries right now, I’m gonna kick my own ass for bringing this shit up. I’m a fucking idiot. Night one, and I’m making the pretty girl cry. Fuck, Braun.
Finally, she nods. “Got it. That kind of talk is for brokenhearted losers anyway. And we are not losers.”
I grin, leaning over my plate. “Nope. Is this the point where I’m supposed to insert some dumb line about us being birds with broken wings or something?”
Aspen throws her head back with a giggling groan. “Please, no awful poetry attempts. Stay in your lane, Braun.”
“Fine.” I chuckle, raising my hands in surrender. “I’ll stick to what I know. Hockey.”
“And cooking,” she says, mirroring me by leaning over her plate with a smile.
Damn, she’s cute.
“Let’s not end dinner on such a sad subject.” Aspen scrunches her lips into a pout, tapping one finger on her chin. “Okay, here’s my question for you. If you could do anything, anything you wanted to, what would it be?”
“Well—”
“Something other than hockey,” she says before waving for me to continue.
I pause, a little taken aback. I don’t think I’ve ever been asked this question before. Most of my conversations revolve around the season, getting ready for the season, winning the season, winding down from the season, etc. Lather, rinse, repeat.
People usually assume that hockey is my entire life. Because how dare I have any interests outside of the sport that’s made me wealthy and successful?
But the truth is, I think about this topic a lot. I know I won’t play hockey forever. And I know there’s a lot more to me than who I am on the ice, even if others don’t care to see it. Aspen does. So her question and her interest startles me for a second.
I meet her eyes. “I guess it would revolve around cooking. I like making food—for myself, and for others.”
“Hmm. Suits you,” she says with a knowing smile, swirling the wine in her glass.
“And I’m pretty good at it.”
“I’d say you are.”
And just because things are starting to feel a little too date-like, which according to Saint is going to lead to unwanted ass tattoos, I let out a large belch as I rise from the table.
“Gross.” Aspen laughs, shaking her head at me.
Smooth, Braun.
It’s official. I’m an idiot.
When she stands to clear our plates, I take her hand. “I’ve got these.”
“No way. You cooked. I can clean up.” She stacks the plates and carries them to the kitchen.
I follow her. No way she’s cleaning up all the mess on her own. I’m a messy cook. The kitchen typically looks like a bomb went off when I’m done.
“My turn to ask a question,” I say, rinsing our dishes and stacking them in the dishwasher while Aspen replaces the salt and pepper in their resting place by the stove. “Before, when we were swapping battle scars. Did you drop the h-bomb?”
“The . . . w-what?”
“Harvard.”
She chuckles. “That’s your big question?”
I don’t even want to know what my face looks like right now. “Uh, yeah. It’s impressive as hell.”
“Yes.” She rolls her eyes, but her smile stays fixed between her rosy cheeks. “Does that intimidate you? That I’m smarter than you?” Her mouth twitches.
“Honestly? A little.”
Aspen narrows her gaze at me, assessing. “I won’t apologize.”
“I’d never expect you to.”
We grin at each other, the air between us buzzing with the joy of good conversation, delicious food, and great wine. I don’t remember the last time I felt this at ease. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever—
“All right, Braun,” she murmurs, placing one hand briefly on my shoulder before pulling back. “I think it’s time for me to turn in for the night.”
“What? It’s only just past seven.” I laugh in disbelief, checking my phone.
Her gaze drifts from mine over to her book, where it sits on the kitchen island. “I like to read before bed. Thanks for bringing my book back in, by the way.”
I can’t help but wonder if she feels the snapping chemistry between us like I do. Is that the reason she wants to extricate herself from spending more time with me? Maybe she knows drinking a second glass of wine together could lead us into dangerous territory.
Conceding, I sigh. “I’ll walk you up.”
Once the counters are wiped down, I sling my duffel over my shoulder and lead the way up the stairs. Normally I’m a “ladies first” kind of man. But I’m not about to play that game where I try not to stare at Aspen’s ass in those shorts. This time, it’s not just out of common decency. It’s out of self-preservation.
Just as I’m about to say good night, Aspen pauses at her door, a contemplative look in her eye.
“Why did you stick your neck out for me?” she asks, holding her book tightly against her chest. “Granted, it was super thoughtful of you, but I just want to understand. Why me?”
I lean against the door frame and cross my arms so I don’t have to worry about what to do with my hands. “Well, it was gonna be me. Not as a caretaker, per se, but I needed a getaway. I was going to be the one here all summer, doing the chores as a favor for Saint letting me stay here. But then you told me that you were practically homeless and . . . I don’t know. It just clicked. Seemed like the right thing to do.”
She blinks at me, her pretty mouth opening and closing as she weighs my words against some inner dispute. Aspen strikes me as the kind of woman who doesn’t accept favors easily—from anyone. She’s obviously got an independent spirit, and I respect that. But I’m also glad she let me help.
“Thank you,” she eventually says with a curious tilt to her head, like she’s trying to read me.
I want to point to the book in her arms and say, You’ll have better luck solving that mystery. Instead, I just stare at the enticing line of her cleavage peeking over the pages.
“That was a weird night, wasn’t it?” She laughs a little breathlessly.
The hallway is narrow, and we’re standing closer than what’s considered appropriate for colleagues. Friends. Whatever it is that we’re becoming.
“It definitely turned around,” I murmur, my gaze traveling up the line of Aspen’s neck to her plush lips, which she wets with a quick dart of her pink tongue.
I remember exactly what her mouth tasted like . . . ginger ale and lime. I wonder if she tastes like red wine now. My breath hitches in my throat and my heart rate quickens, pumping blood and a flood of desire to my groin.
“For me too.” Her voice is low, her pupils wide.
All signs are pointing toward her being interested. And while I know I shouldn’t even allow myself to entertain the idea, I can’t help but wonder what she’d be like in bed.
I take a step toward her, towering over her petite frame. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of her breath when she sighs.
“One hot kiss aside,” she says, her tone casual, “nothing more can happen between us. Okay?”
“You think our kiss was hot?”
She smirks. “Alex, focus.”
“Focusing,” I say, my voice rough.
“I’m serious.” Aspen chews her lower lip. Damn, that’s distracting. “There’s too many people involved.”
I nod once. “Understood.”
Her gaze lingers on my lips even as she steps into her room. With one last unreadable look, she closes the door softly behind her.
Fucking hell. If my pants were tight before, now they’re downright uncomfortable. I scratch the stubble on my cheek that’s suddenly itching to get out of my skin.
I retreat into the bedroom across the hall and toss my bag on the bed. There’s no way I can possibly go to bed this early. What do I do now? Watch some porn, try to jerk off? That doesn’t appeal to me in the slightest.
In the adjoining bathroom, I twist the shower knobs, turning the water on full blast. Then I pull my shirt over my head in one rough movement and kick off my shoes, socks, jeans, and boxer briefs. When I step into the shower and take my dick in my hand, I’m already hard as a rock. No surprise there.
I let the hot spray ease the tense muscles of my shoulders, coaxing me into some semblance of calm as I rub my shaft up and down slowly, until I can’t take slow anymore and begin moving my closed fist faster. Shamelessly, I think of Aspen, the soft push and pull of her lips that night we kissed, the moan she made with my meat in her mouth at dinner, the thought of having a rebound fling with my ex’s assistant . . .
Fuck.
A wave of pleasure shoots down my spine as I work my cock. I feel the spark closing in on me, the telltale thrust of my hips against my pumping hand.
When I come, hot and thick over my knuckles, it’s her name that comes desperately, silently, from my lips. And when I wash the evidence down the drain, it’s with an unspoken prayer that this will be the end of it. One hot kiss and a quick jerk-off in the shower, and I’m cured.
But deep down, I know better than that. It’ll take a hell of a lot more to cure me of Aspen Ford.
6
* * *
ASPEN
After an exceptionally restful night’s sleep, I awake to the smell of bacon and cinnamon. Alex must be cooking again, and that makes me smile more than it should.
Last night, I lay in bed thinking about all the things I’ve been told about him. Arrogant. Selfish. Asshole. Player. Unreliable. But none of them line up with the man I shared dinner with.
He cooked for me. He was thoughtful enough to rescue my book from the deck. And he cleaned up all the dishes, despite my protests that I could handle the kitchen. Plus, he made me smile, and he called my ex a piece of shit for breaking my heart.
I fell asleep with a smile on my lips for the first time in months.
Who would have thought that Alex Braun would be the one to give me a little freaking hope in my life?
I stretch before I get out of bed and make a note to ask Saint what brand of pillows he buys, because these aren’t just pillows, they’re little clouds of heaven. Then again, I probably couldn’t afford them, so I guess I’ll just enjoy them while I can.
In the bathroom, I inspect myself in the mirror. I look rested, and I guess I should be. I went to bed awfully early last night because I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself. Hanging out with my boss’s ex seemed a little weird, especially after he made me a delicious dinner.
But dinner wasn’t weird, so maybe hanging out wouldn’t have been weird at all. But it should have been. Right?
Briefly, I wonder if I should feel embarrassed about my breakup confession last night. But any idea of embarrassment quickly fades when I remember the kind look in Alex’s eyes, the insistence in his voice, and his supportive words of encouragement.
“I’ll listen to you vent all you want,” he said, his eyes stormy, “but none of this self-pity stuff, no should-haves or regrets. They’re a waste of time, time that you deserve to spend healing.”
Who knew Alex Braun was so emotionally mature? Hockey god by day, therapist by night. And some part of me needed to hear those words. I just would have never guessed they’d come from Alex, someone I barely know.
I have friends, of course, but I’m not as close to any of them as I probably could be. I don’t have that ride-or-die tribe that social media memes like to tell me I should have. Not many people know the real me, but I have a feeling . . . maybe Alex could. It felt so natural opening up to him last night. It was wonderful not having to try to be someone I’m not.
After I brush my teeth and secure my long hair into a messy bun, I follow the smell of breakfast downstairs to a suspiciously empty kitchen. A casserole dish sitting on top of the stove is the source of the cinnamony goodness. The rolls are large and gooey, everything a girl could want in a dessert posing as a breakfast item. Two are missing, which makes me smile. A plate is also on the counter, covered in a cloth napkin. Underneath? Six fat slices of deliciously fried bacon.
Being a late riser doesn’t seem half bad. At least, not with Alex around.
I snag a ceramic mug from one of the cabinets and pour myself a cup of coffee, which he was thoughtful enough to brew as well. I don’t bother with the cream or sugar he left out for me. All-nighters at Harvard taught me to respect coffee in its undiluted form. I settle in with my breakfast next to the windows that face the backyard.
My belly flips when I spot Alex outside.
I pause in mid-chew, drinking in the long lines of his body, from his muscled arms bulging under the short sleeves of his white shirt, to the tight stretch of his jeans against his powerful legs. A large ax rests on a chopping block, and he’s made an impressive pile of split logs in a nearby wheelbarrow.
There’s something about this sexy lumberjack look that has all my attention. Is lumberjack porn a thing? If not, it is now, and I’m thoroughly enjoying it.
