“You never called me.”
“I lost your number.”
“What?”
“You wrote it on a napkin at the Empty Net but I couldn’t find it. I thought it was in my pocket only it wasn’t. I searched my apartment high and low, and couldn’t find it. I remember we talked about home and living in a new place and The Office. You loved that show and I hadn’t seen it but you kept telling me I had to watch it.” His brow furrowed. “You wouldn’t tell me your name.”
“Th-that’s not right.” Hold up. Doubts snuck in. He remembered details about that night yet he couldn’t remember her? And not telling him her name? None of this made any sense.
“Yes, I kept asking but you said you wanted to be someone else that night. And then you said I should call you …”
“Coco.” They both said it at the same time and her hand flew to her mouth in shock. She had forgotten that. The silly name, the number on the napkin, the red hair.
All she had remembered was the great sex and the hurt feelings when he didn’t call.
Then seven years later, the hurt coming back for a boomerang whammy to scoop out her chest cavity when she met his gaze in the Rebels’ front office, only to find it curious but unknowing.
He inhaled a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Casey. You’re right to be pissed off. I’m a jerk.”
She swallowed hard. He was a jerk, wasn’t he? She had invested a lot of time and energy into thinking so. First for ghosting her, then for blanking her. She wasn’t ready to give up on the feeling. A girl needed something to keep her warm, even if it was righteous anger at a man.
“Well, now you know.” She sounded so starchy. When had she become this person?
“Now I know.” He loomed over her. Even with her heels, he had to be at least eight inches taller than her. “So what are we going to do about it?”
His voice was different. Not apologetic, but more assured. Erik Jorgenson thought they were over the hump.
“About what?”
“The fact that we’ve made up. We are no longer enemies, though I’m not sure if people can be enemies if only one person knows why they are enemies—”
“No.” She put a hand on his chest, which felt like a plate of armor. A warm, breathing, sexy plate of armor.
It also felt like a mistake.
The best kind, a voice whispered.
“No?” he prompted.
“I’ll tell you what will happen. I won’t give you the evil eye the next time you’re at Rebels HQ and you can stop trying to talk to me. Because now you know and we can move on.”
He snorted. “Not sure I know anything except that you’re still mad at me.”
“It doesn’t just go away because it’s out there.”
“But it’s good to clear the air, yes? I’m not used to people being mad at me unless they’re wearing blades and padding.”
The air was anything but clear. It was thick, charged, sentient. Alive with potential.
Sexy potential.
“I’m sorry if I came off as unprofessional.” Ms. Prissy, come on down. “I’ll do my best to keep all future interactions on an even keel.”
“Casey, it’s okay. You have every right to be angry and if you need to continue with that, then fine. Take the time you need.”
Okay, more mature than she expected.
“Unless you don’t need time.”
And we’re back. “Excuse me?”
His hand covered hers, which somehow had remained on his chest during the last sixty seconds. She had left it there because she needed an anchor and he was the closest thing to ballast in this closet.
“Unless you want to move to the apology acceptance part of the process.”
“I already told you that the feeling doesn’t just go away.”
He rubbed a thumb over the pulse point of her wrist, such an intimate gesture. But then this whole experience was a bubble of intimacy in the most unexpected place.
“But how can I make it go away? How can I make up for it, Casey?”
The way he said her name had her regretting not giving it to him all those years ago. She would have liked to hear it from his lips as he thrust inside her …
No. Her brain would not be making that trip. It would not be thinking of how he could make the pain go away with his hands in places she had dreamed of for too many lonely nights since that one special time. It would not be thinking of how this man could make it up to her with his body rocking into hers, taking her down memory lane, but only the good parts. It would not be thinking of going home alone to her cat and her PJs and more Chex mix than was good for a one hundred and fifty pound woman.
“You-you can’t.” Her words were uncertain, her voice timid.
He raised their joined hands to his lips and placed a kiss on her palm. It was really too sweet for the moment, for this space, for all the dark thoughts she had about him.
The revenge she wanted.
Oh, yes. That felt good. The idea of it, the surge she needed.
“You sure?” He was doing an excellent job of not crowding her even though he was inches away from her. Assuring her she was in control. This was her circus. “I can’t make you forget about it?” His lips were close to hers, all she had to do was take another round of the pleasure she’d been seeking that night she went into the Empty Net and bagged herself a hockey player.
“I don’t want to forget about it,” she whispered, not because she wanted to hold onto the hate. It was the best night of her life. So it was nothing to him, just another fangirl in a bar. But it had meant something to her and even with the pain, it still meant something to her.
How ludicrous to give that night, this man, the moment, such power. But there it was.
She wanted to feel that again—and his mouth was right there. More than that, his heart was beating and his eyes, those Nordic blues, were pinpricks. He wanted her.
She had power in this moment.
“Apologize,” she murmured.
“I’m—”
She put a finger to his lips. “Not with words.” She traced his bottom lip, full and unbelievably sensual, and moved her hand to his jaw. He usually had a trim beard during the regular season, and it always looked so good on him. Now she let her fingertips enjoy the sensation of that rough facial hair.
Pulling their joined hands down to her side, he took another step in and cupped her hip with his free hand. Extended the fingers of that hand so it dug into the flesh at the top of her ass. It felt good.
Physical. Dirty.
When he pulled her toward him so their chests met and his mouth was half an inch from hers, it felt even better.
No words. She was tired of smooth talkers, men with weak excuses and false praise.
Tell me with your hands that you want me.
Tell me with your kisses that you desire me.
Tell me with no words because I won’t believe you anyway.
His lips brushed tentatively against hers, testing, teasing. She made a sound of frustration, but probably something closer to anticipation.
“I got you,” he whispered.
“Shut up,” she growled right back because she wanted to be got.
Then he shut her up, just like that, with his mouth where she needed it. Giving it good and taking her anger. Shaping and smoothing it to sweetness, when sweetness was a thing she knew nothing of.