The Rebound, page 9
“Wow,” I murmur, feeling all the more out of the loop.
I guess I should have anticipated this. Summer is a full-blown hockey wife, and Aspen is soon to be. Being the formerly estranged sister of a hockey player and knowing virtually nothing about the sport or the dynamics around it puts me at a disadvantage.
The two women start chatting about the team, but I can hardly keep up with the name dropping. What I really want to talk about is Saint. I know how my brother feels about him—as if I could ever forget his disdain for the man—but I want a second opinion.
Aspen and Summer are on the inside, but also distanced enough to have an unbiased perspective on his character. Aspen sees him all the time because of his friendship with Alex, and Summer is a sports counselor, for crying out loud. If I want an educated opinion on Saint, I expect to look no further than these two.
“. . . and Alex has Saint to thank for the tattoo on his ass.”
That interesting string of words pulls me out of my thoughts. “What?”
Aspen rolls her eyes, but her ever-present smile grows. “When Alex and I first met, he made a dumb bet with Saint that he wouldn’t fall in love with me.” She wiggles her hand at me, the diamond on her finger almost as big as the almonds in my salad. “Obviously, he lost that bet.”
“Gorgeous ring. What’s the tattoo?”
“Guess.”
“An emoji,” I say with zero hesitation.
Aspen’s eyes go wide. “Oh my God, how did you know? It’s a heart-eyes emoji, fully colored.”
“Heart eyes?” I gape, covering my mouth to stifle the laugh bubbling out of me. That sounds exactly like the Saint I know.
“Yep. I can’t even be mad, since technically Saint was rooting for me before I even knew I liked Alex. It makes me laugh whenever I see it—without fail. Alex talks about getting it removed every other day, but I know deep down he likes it. It has meaning now. I can’t believe you guessed right away.”
Well, Saint and I have communicated with a lot of emojis since we met.
Both women give me a curious look, but I just smile, enjoying this story probably more than I should. The Saint she’s talking about is very familiar to me—the one with a sharp sense of humor who can also appreciate a dumb joke. The bet doesn’t surprise me at all. Saint is competitive, always looking for a game to win. That’s what makes him so much fun.
“Saint’s a good guy,” I say, instantly realizing how dumb I sound.
Aspen and Summer blink at me, waiting for me to contribute a story of my own, but I’ve got nothing. Unless I start gabbing about one of our many steamy hookups, which I still remember in brilliant sound and color. I don’t think the three of us are quite that close yet to swap intimate details.
“Um, I mean, he’s been really helpful, what with me being pretty much useless at nearly eight months pregnant. He, uh, took me to the farmers’ market. We just got pedicures yesterday.” I somehow manage to stop rambling before completely going off the conversational deep end.
Aspen pauses, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Saint . . . got a pedicure?” Her tone is filled with disbelief.
I nod, clamping my mouth shut.
“That’s sweet,” Aspen says, recovering and nodding encouragingly.
God, I’ve become so socially inept in my solitary confinement. It’s like my only skill now is being huge and making things awkward.
“That’s something,” Summer says, staring at me with something that feels a lot like suspicion.
Aspen jumps in again, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “You know, I’d be happy to help you out sometime. I used to babysit my little cousins.”
She glances at Summer, giving her a look that prompts her to say, “Yeah, same. I’d be happy to help out. And we’re much better friends than Saint.”
“Do you two not like Saint?” I ask, forcing my voice to be as casual as possible.
“Saint is . . .” Aspen sighs and looks at Summer. “How should I put this?”
Summer shrugs. “I don’t know him as well as you do.”
“Well, let me preface this by saying that he’s awesome. Total ‘life of the party’ kind of guy. And he can be a real sweetheart when he tries to be.”
“But?” I brace myself, barely breathing.
A very big part of me doesn’t want my brother to be right about Saint. I want to know that I’m a good judge of character, that I can trust myself. If I can’t trust my own instincts, what kind of mother will I possibly be?
Aspen shrugs. “He’s kind of a wild card. I’ve known the man for years, and I’m still not really sure if I actually know him at all. He’s really unpredictable, which is probably what makes him a great hockey player. But as for boyfriend material . . .” She makes a so-so gesture with her hand, tilting it from side to side.
Immediately, I go on the defensive. “No, that’s not what I was—”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Yeah, we’re not—”
“Totally. I shouldn’t have—”
“That’s okay. I’m sorry for interrupting you.”
“No, no, I’m sorry for suggesting—” Aspen gives me an apologetic look.
Summer cuts in, graciously ending whatever the hell that painful back-and-forth was. “All that is to say we’re here for you if you ever need a helping hand and don’t feel like asking Boston’s most unreliable.”
I return their genuine smiles with a forced one of my own. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
And it does. Even if I’m slightly crushed by the idea that Saint isn’t the man I thought he was.
Later, when they hug me good-bye, I feel a sense of female kinship that I haven’t felt since I moved to Boston. But when I watch them walk down the street to where their cars are parked, I can’t help but think that it’s all thanks to Saint. He’s the one who offered to introduce us and put all this in motion. If not for his intervention, I’d be alone in my condo, probably eating cup-o-noodles for dinner and spiraling in my thoughts.
Boston’s most unreliable.
I asked for their opinion of Saint, and I got it, although it’s not the one I wanted to hear. What I wanted was for someone who knows him to reassure me that my feelings for him aren’t completely irrational. That he’s a good man.
Whoa. Do I have real feelings for Saint? The question presses on my heart with an answer so obvious that it feels silly to ask myself in the first place.
When the bus pulls up to the curb, I turn away, opting to walk back to the complex. I need time to think. To reset. Maybe to burn off a few of the calories from my fettucine alfredo.
By the third block, my feet are already sore, but the ache grounds me in the present.
Having a crush on your hot neighbor isn’t the same as having feelings for him. I’m just finding something to obsess over, something to distract me from my impending reality. I’m going to be a single mother soon, and I probably won’t have time to date again until my son is off at college.
Jesus. That’s as surreal as it is depressing.
It takes nearly an hour, but when I finally make it home, I’m utterly exhausted. Having collapsed onto the couch and kicked off my shoes, then propped my sore feet on top of some pillows, I’m dozing off when my phone buzzes in my purse, a message from Saint waiting for me.
How’s the rumor mill these days? ;-)
My chest compresses with guilt. I wonder if he has any idea how the people closest to him talk about him when he’s not around.
I mean, Saint’s clearly joking now, but he brought this up for a reason. He’s plenty aware of the reputation he has from the tabloids. He must suspect that his friends have formed opinions on his behavior too. That hurts my heart to think about.
I know I promised him I’d return his messages, but I can’t deal with this right now. I shove my phone back into my purse, losing myself in my thoughts before I drift off into a fitful sleep.
• • •
When I wake up from my nap a while later, my phone taunts me.
Blinking to clear my bleary eyes, I try to resist the temptation to internet stalk Saint, but that little devil on my shoulder wins out. I snatch up my phone and enter his name in the search bar, not surprised to see hundreds of results.
Wincing, I click on the first link and stare down at the internet article in disbelief as doubts swirl inside me. This right here has been what my brother has been trying to tell me. Saint is actually a sinner, it seems.
I clench my phone and let out a loud sigh. I don’t want to read anything more about Saint’s wild night, which allegedly ended in a threesome.
A threesome? Like, who even is this guy?
The Saint I’m falling for buys me prenatal vitamins and takes me to the farmers’ market. He’s flirty, sure, but he’s been as wholesome as they come. A complete gentleman. He makes sure I’m fed and rubs my sore feet. He texts me for no reason, just to check on me.
Unless I’ve been duped, this isn’t the man the world knows. They know the party boy who goes clubbing on a random weeknight and gets caught in compromising photos with women of every variety.
My heart throbs painfully and I draw in a slow breath.
I hate this, and I especially hate my brother being right about it. I hate that even if Saint has had some sudden desire to clean up his act, I’ll never be enough for him. I’m not kinky or exciting or into threesomes. I’m about to be a mom. I like sex, of course, but it’s all been fairly vanilla, and I’m certainly not a party girl.
Maybe that would have been fun when I was younger, but now I never will be. I’m entering a new season of my life, which includes responsibility and stability and making good decisions for my future. My future doesn’t include hockey playboys. It can’t.
I touch a hand to my belly, feeling a lump form in my throat as a knock sounds on my door. Walker has plans, so it can’t be him, which leaves only one person. Saint.
Great. I guess I have to deal with this now.
I answer the door and let Saint inside. But he must sense my energy, because he lingers beside me in the entryway.
“What’s wrong?”
I chew on my lip, looking for the right words to say. I wish I’d had time to rehearse them, to practice what I should say. Instead, it’s like ripping off a Band-Aid.
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore.” I gesture between us.
“Why? What happened?”
“This.” I hand him my phone, which is still pulled up to the article.
He takes a quick glance, and his expression sours. “So, that’s it then? You catch wind of my past, cast your judgment, and just bail?”
Suddenly uncomfortable, I shift from one sore foot to the other. “What? No, I . . .”
Saint has never once judged me or looked down on my past. And, hello, I clearly have one, including a baby daddy. My life was a little turbulent before Saint came into it.
“I’m not judging you,” I say to clarify. “More like establishing some boundaries.”
Saint raises his eyebrows. “Boundaries?”
I nod. “I’ve never had a threesome in my life, and I probably never will.”
His lips tilt up. “And that’s what you think I want because—”
“Because, um, because of that.” I glare at the phone still in his hands.
“I’ve always been a try anything once kind of guy, Kin. Believe me, one woman is all I need.”
Tilting my head, I weigh his words. I wish I could believe him, but part of me isn’t sure. I don’t know what to think anymore.
Saint hands me back my phone, then places a carton of shiny plums in my other hand. “I actually came by to bring you these. Just . . . let me know if you need anything.”
My chest squeezes, and I swallow a lump in my throat. “Okay.”
He turns to leave, and when the door closes behind him, I feel like curling into a ball and crying, and I don’t even know why. Saint and I are friends, and I just pushed him away because of my own fears and insecurities.
Sometimes, I really hate these overactive pregnancy hormones. I have no idea if I made the right decision by confronting him, or if I just blew up the one good thing in my life.
• • •
The next morning, I’m heading out to go downstairs to check my mail, but am surprised to see a pink pastry box on the floor in front of my door. When I carry it inside and open it, I find it’s another cake. This time, the loopy script on top of it reads, I’M REALLY, REALLY SORRY.
I can’t help but laugh. The cake is beautiful with thick vanilla buttercream, and it smells like lemons. I inhale and then grab my phone to text Saint.
You’re forgiven.
He replies a second later.
You sure? Just like that?
Yes. I’m the one who should be sorry. I shouldn’t have judged your past.
It’s all good. And for the record, threesomes aren’t as fun as you’d think. So many elbows.
I roll my eyes. Gross. Before I can come up with a response, Saint texts again.
Sorry. Am I still forgiven?
I laugh because this conversation is ridiculous.
Yes. But stop sending me cake. I’m going to get fat.
You’re perfect. Now go eat your cake. I’ll talk to you later, okay? I’m going to the gym with the guys.
Okay. :)
12
* * *
SAINT
I’m not sure what I thought being “just friends” would look like, or what the hell I was thinking when I suggested it. All I know is that I’m a damn fool for slamming the friendship brakes on a relationship with a woman like Kinley.
Not that I had much choice in the matter. When it comes to having Kinley in my life or losing her for good, I’d make the same decision a thousand times over.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna pretend like this whole situation doesn’t completely suck. If the tabloids were still up my ass like they were earlier this year, the top headline would read something humiliating like:
Defenseman FRIEND-ZONED by Captain’s Sister—How Far Will He Bend Over Backward?
I’m as whipped as a guy can get without actually getting any ass. Exhibit A, I’m helping Kinley around the condo today, setting up the crib and painting the nursery walls. And since I never arrive empty-handed, I brought her favorite takeout.
Our new friendship boundaries are kind of strict now that we’ve agreed to no late-night romantic dinners, so a late-afternoon lunch standing around the kitchen island will have to do. It doesn’t hurt that I scored her trademark floodlight smile in return, making all my inner turmoil seem worth it.
While Kinley rattles off her to-do list for today, I nod along and make mental notes to also help out in other ways not listed. Like putting new batteries in the lagging analog clock on her kitchen wall, and taking out the trash before I leave.
As much as I want to be the guy who jumps in bed with Kinley—which I do want very, very much—I’d rather be useful. I’m not just some dick-brained sleazeball who’s only spending time with her to get in her pants.
I want to prove that to her. And to myself.
Speaking of pants, mine are uncomfortably tight at the most inopportune times. Looking at Kinley. Brushing fingers with Kinley. Smelling Kinley when the draft from the open window floats the scent of her fruity shampoo toward me, damn near assaulting my unsuspecting senses.
I’m doing my damnedest to focus on the platonic aspects of our relationship. The jokes, the teamwork, the casual conversation . . . things I could share with anyone. But with my dick half-hard and crammed up against my zipper at all times, the most innocent glance from her feels like she’s stripping me naked with her eyes. Or maybe I’m the one stripping her naked with my eyes. Either way, sex is never very far from my brain.
And here’s the thing—Kinley is undeniably pregnant. Since I met her, her belly has grown twice the size, from round bump to full-on cantaloupe. She looks like she could pop at any second. I know for a fact that would send most guys running for the hills.
But apparently, I’m not most guys.
To me, Kinley has never been more beautiful. She’s gorgeous, if I’m being honest. Maybe that makes me some kind of freak with a pregnancy kink, but I’m more attracted to her than I’ve ever been. Her silky-soft skin and hair seem to emit their own UV rays.
And her breasts—Christ, her fucking tits—are heavy, swollen and brushed with a golden tan. I know from the reading I’ve done that they must be tender, in desperate need of soothing from careful hands. When I catch her giving herself a discreet comforting squeeze, I nearly drop the screwdriver I’m using and cream my goddamn pants.
All I can think about is screwing Kinley.
In the kitchen. Over the bathroom sink. On her bed. On the freaking nursery floor. We got so close before, and have even gotten each other off more than once. But I haven’t been lucky enough to go all the way with her.
I want to erase any space between us. I want to bury myself deep inside her. I want to feel every inch of her, pushing all her buttons until she can’t take it anymore, and finally, wildly comes on my—
“Oh, hey, that was quick.”
I blink, returning to the present where I’ve somehow managed to put a whole crib together while thinking filthy thoughts. Which is obviously super creepy.
God, I really need to get it together.
I look up from where I’m crouching on the floor to see Kinley nodding approvingly at my work. When she rests a grateful hand on the back of my neck, a bolt of electricity spears straight from her palm to my dick.
Fuck, that almost hurts. Yeah, it’s definitely been too long since I’ve had sex.
“This is perfect, Saint. Thank you. Wow, you’re really warm. Are you feeling all right?”
“Yeah,” I lie, feeling the opposite of all right. “It’s just hot in here.”
“I’ll get you some water and turn on the A/C.”
Kinley steps out of the room and I look for an escape route, half considering climbing out the nearest window. Is there any world in which I could bail without causing a scene? I could just tell her I’m going for a walk to clear my head, but then circle back to my place to jerk off. It would take me twenty minutes, tops. Or I could fake a phone call and—
