Slap Shot, page 16
Shock washed over his face. “No. I mean . . . no. I need a bed—by Friday. I don’t know how to make that happen, with the game this afternoon and tomorrow being Thanksgiving.”
Well, assuming he wanted sex was embarrassing, not that she had time for embarrassment. She moved him all the way to the corner. “What are you talking about, Bryant?”
“It’s my mother. See, they were all going to stay at the Hyatt. Packi had it all arranged. But I had said to invite my little sister’s boyfriend. They’re seventeen. He wasn’t coming, but now he is. My mother says she, my dad, and Michelle have to stay at my house because Michelle can’t be at a hotel with Stephen.”
“Why not? I wouldn’t expect they would want them in the same room, but . . . ”
“I know! That’s what I said. But Ma says, what would people say and it has to be that way. I would give my parents my bed and sleep on the couch, but I don’t have a couch. And then there’s Michelle.” He looked into space. “I guess Michelle could have the couch but still, no couch.”
“So really, you need two beds or a bed and a couch.”
He swiped his hand over this face. “Yeah. And I have no time. Their plane gets in at three on Friday.”
Gabriella could have spent a lot of time dissecting Bryant’s mother’s logic—or illogic as it were—but it was a waste of time. For that matter, she could have asked why Bryant hadn’t just told his mother he didn’t have any furniture or why the boy couldn’t stay with Bryant in a sleeping bag on the floor. But there was no time for that. She’d learned a long time ago to skip the whys and get on to the solving.
“Calm down, Bryant.”
He nodded. “I knew you could fix this.”
“I haven’t fixed anything yet.” But she would. He’d come to her when he needed something. Wasn’t that better than wanting sex? She would not let him down. “Do you want two beds? How many bedrooms do you have?”
He seemed to be counting. “Five. It’s five. And yes. Two beds. Little tables and things if I can get them.”
She took out her cell phone. “I’m going to call my friend Pam Anderson at Halfway Home.”
• • •
Gabriella had some frosting on her cheek and Bryant wanted to lick it off, though he doubted that would go over very well.
Why had he come here? He needed help, needed it bad, but he could have called.
He’d come off the ice after morning skate to his mother’s frantic and demanding voice mail and called her back, thinking he could reason with her. He should have known better. The minute she said, “Well, Bry, if you don’t want us there with you . . . ” he’d been lost. He’d never told her he didn’t have any furniture except a bed, recliner, and electronics. In fact, he might have led her to believe he wasn’t living like an animal.
All he could think of was to drive to Beauford as fast as he could. It had never even occurred to him to call. Now, Gabriella was talking into the phone and nodding. She met his eyes, smiled, and gave him a thumbs up.
She was saving him. No one had saved him in a very long time.
“Thank you, Pam,” Gabriella said. “You have a good one, too. Definitely. Lunch next week—on me. I owe you for this, owe you big.”
She owed someone for his favor. That was nice.
“All right.” She was all business with a serious face. Clearly she didn’t know about the icing. It was brown—probably chocolate. “This is what you’re going to do. You’re going around the corner to Halfway Home. It’s next door to Sparkle, Neyland Beauford’s jewelry studio. Pam will be waiting for you. You are going to give her your credit card number and some idea of what you want and how much you want to spend. Work out how she can get into your house early Friday morning since I assume you’ll still be at the lake. She will make this happen.”
Relief settled over him. “I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care what it looks like. And I can leave her a key.”
“Settle that with her.” She took his arm and moved him toward the door. “Just tell her what you need—sheets, towels, lamps. She has everything in her shop except big pieces of furniture, and she has connections for that.”
They were on the sidewalk by now. “Sheets! I didn’t think.”
“You don’t have to. Pam will think for you. Now, go. Then go to the rink. I’ll text you in the morning before I head your way—probably about ten o’clock.”
“Thank you, Gabriella. I really thank you. You’re much better than Packi.”
She laughed.
That did it. He couldn’t stop himself. He quieted her laughter with a kiss. It wasn’t a deep kiss or a sexy kiss, but it was nice—and the nicest thing about it was that when it was over she put her fingertips to her lips as if she wanted to keep it there.
Chapter Eighteen
Stepping onto Bryant’s front porch was like coming home. It was jarring—so much so that Gabriella almost forgot to congratulate him for the Sound’s win the night before.
But only almost. “Good win last night.”
“Good for the team.” He stepped aside and motioned for her to come in. “Not great for me. I sucked.”
“I’m sure you didn’t suck.”
“Did you see the game?” he challenged.
“No. I was baking.”
“Trust me, I sucked. I got the ass-chewing of my life. It’s happened before. It’ll happen again. Hopefully not too soon.” He smiled. “There’s always tomorrow—literally, tomorrow. Winnipeg.”
Time to change the subject. There was no reasoning with a hockey player who was convinced he had played poorly.
“I didn’t know you lived in a Craftsman cottage.” She gestured to the wide foyer with the built-in hall tree and leaded windows.
“Me neither. Is that what this is?” He looked around like he’d never seen his house.
She stepped from the foyer into the main part of the house, knowing what she’d find: hardwood floors, built-in cabinetry with glass doors, tiled fireplaces, and window seats. He didn’t offer a tour, but she kept walking. Mesmerized, she had to see it. Her furniture had been built for this house. And there was plenty of room for it, too. The large living room held only a recliner, a giant flat screen television, and a TV tray. Unlike Emile’s home, which was a Pottery Barn catalog on steroids, none of Bryant’s other rooms had any furniture at all. She could see her prized library table in the room that would have been an office/library if there had been any books on the empty shelves.
The kitchen was a dream—a mix of modern convenience and respect for the past, with oak flat panel cabinets. And, angels above and demons below, he had four ovens—a Wolf range with two, and two more wall units. She could run a bakery out of this kitchen. Sadly, there were no smells of cinnamon and vanilla. Only soap and bleach—and with good reason. Everything was immaculate, but the table of the built-in banquette was piled high with mail, newspapers, and hockey equipment catalogs—all neatly stacked. Gabriella suspected the person—not Bryant—who had cleaned had also made these ordered piles for lack of knowing what to do with it.
Bryant followed her quietly as she made her rounds. Finally, she stopped by the staircase and laid her hand on the newel post. It was oak done right—smooth with a satiny matte finish. None of that thick, high gloss luster with a yellow cast. She looked longingly up the stairs, aching to see the bedrooms, but her tour had to be over.
“You like the house,” Bryant said. It wasn’t a question.
“So much. You have no idea. I can’t believe you can own a house like this and not know the style. Do you know when it was built?”
He shrugged. “Sharon probably told me when she sold it to me, but I didn’t pay any attention. I’m guessing a while back. What are you, some kind of house witch?”
She laughed. “No. I just have an interest in this particular era. I have some pieces of mission furniture.”
He frowned. “Like church furniture?”
“No. It’s—” She stopped. If he hadn’t known the architectural style of his house, he likely cared even less about furniture. “Never mind. It’s from the same time period as your house.” She almost told him when that was, but since she didn’t know who won the Stanley Cup during those years, she couldn’t have given him a frame of reference.
He leaned on the railing and glanced up. “Aren’t you going up to see the rest?”
She shook her head. “One should never go upstairs in someone’s home without being invited.” Are you inviting me?
“I might be able to arrange that. I know the owner.” He was flirting, for sure. And he meant it.
“That might make us late for the turkey.”
They were at a crossroads and they both knew it. If they went upstairs, they wouldn’t stop going upstairs and behind doors until everything was a mess spewing forth like a dynamited septic tank. But if they didn’t, this would be the third time they’d seen each other and displayed restraint and it would be over. Before long, they’d forget there had been any attraction. That realization came with a feeling of relief—until a big ball of sad moved in and chased it out. Relief couldn’t stand a chance against sad. It never could.
“Maybe some other time?” He half smiled and dropped his eyelids.
She shook her head. “Probably not. I like this house so much that if I see upstairs, I might be tempted to lock you in the attic and take it for myself. So it’s best if I don’t see any more.”
He read the double meaning there. She could see it in his eyes. If he invited her again, she wouldn’t have it in her to say no. But he must have seen the wisdom there.
He slapped his forehead and gave a fake groan. “I hate it when a woman locks me in the attic! It’s the worst.” Some of the relief and sadness running around in her must have seeped out because it landed on his face.
“Yeah?” She tried to interject amused playfulness into her smile. “Does that happen a lot?”
“Ooh.” He cocked his head to the side, widened his eyes, and gave his nod a little circular motion. “More often than you would think.”
She turned to mush. He wasn’t just gorgeous. He wasn’t just funny, smart, and amazing in bed. He was so damned cute. Cute was always going to outlast gorgeous, and it was hard to walk away from.
But she didn’t have to walk away from him, not completely. They were friends. She just couldn’t walk up the stairs with him.
“We’d better get on the road before the temptation to take this house from you drives me to criminal behavior.”
He nodded. “I agree—though you would look fetching in an orange jumpsuit.”
She followed him out and unlocked her hatch. “I just have a bag and a cooler with the desserts.”
“Pumpkin pie no doubt.”
“That and pumpkin cheesecakes.”
He lifted both things into the back of his SUV and set them beside his battered suitcase. Battering is what happened to road trip bags. Emile bought a new one every year. Bryant had probably had this one since juniors.
He slammed the back. “Thanksgiving is the worst dessert time of the year.”
“I might have made some apple pies and a chocolate almond tart, too.”
“Chocolate? Well, that’s a piece of luck! The day is looking up.”
He opened the passenger door and she settled in and fastened her seatbelt.
He didn’t need to know luck had nothing to do with that tart. She had remembered that he didn’t like pumpkin.
Chapter Nineteen
Every Thanksgiving, Bryant swore he wasn’t going to eat until he was miserable, and every year he did it anyway. It was an hour after the big feed and he could still barely breathe—though it wasn’t just his jam-packed stomach causing him discomfort.
He was about to roast.
It was too hot in Sharon’s giant lake house living room—and with good reason. Though it was a mild fall day, flames blazed in the massive fireplace. Bryant wasn’t sure whose idea that had been. Probably Sharon’s. She was running this show. After eating, he’d changed into shorts and a T-shirt, but he was still sweating like a whore in church.
He glanced across the room at Gabriella.
On the way over, she’d conked out before they’d gotten out of Sound Town and slept until he’d shaken her awake when they arrived. He’d briefly wondered if she’d been pretending to sleep. They’d come close to having sex before they left his house—never mind that they hadn’t kissed, or even touched. He could tell and so could she. But she had probably really been asleep. It was reasonable that she would have played possum to avoid conversation and temptation, but she wouldn’t have carried it to the extent of drooling and snoring a little from time to time.
He glanced across the room at her. She wasn’t drooling or snoring now. She was sitting at a game table with Amy and Sparks Champagne where they were all melting wax and making something to do with wedding invitations. Did she know that she drooled and snored? Probably not.
Don’t worry, sweetheart, your secret is safe with me. I would bust right through that glass wall and throw my Stanley Cup rings in the lake before I’d tell anyone you snore. Well, if he had his rings with him. And really, would there be any point in running right through the glass and making a bloody mess when there was door? Sharon had bought this house for the view of the lake and the trees. She probably wouldn’t like it if somebody caused her to have to put up plywood, even temporarily.
Besides being hot, there was a lot of noise in here.
In this end of the room, he and the guys were watching football. Green Bay was losing and Jarrett was not a happy man. If it was possible that he loved something more than a rule, it was the Packers. Though he gave Bryant a knowing, disapproving look sometimes, Jarrett had been true to his word and not mentioned Gabriella to him again, which was a relief. You could always count on The Saint to keep his word. Of course, he didn’t know about round two after the party was over—or the hand holding outside The Big Skate or the kiss outside Eat Cake.
Mikhail and Robbie were on the floor playing Legos with the two older kids, Dennis and Erik. The baby wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Fresh hell washed over the room in the form of a new wave of heat. It was a wonder those Lego blocks hadn’t melted into plastic puddles.
Bryant knocked back the rest of his beer, but his mouth was the only thing that was cool. “Emile, for the love of my sweat glands, stop poking at that fire.”
Emile turned, and when Bryant saw his expression, he nearly jumped off the couch. He looked like the devil possessed. “Non. Man was made to have dominion over fire. I am asserting my supremacy over the flame.”
“It’s hot.”
Emile shrugged and turned back to the fire. “Go to the other end of the room.”
He glanced that way. Why was Sparks doing crafts instead of watching football? It wasn’t natural. Just then, Sparks said something—though Bryant wasn’t close enough to hear what—and Gabriella laughed. That was it; Sparks was down there to be near Gabriella. That was no good.
Bryant slowly rose and stretched. “I hate to leave a good ballgame but—”
Jarrett gave him a murderous look.
He moved to the other end of the room. It was cooler. Bryant dropped to the couch where Sharon was sitting.
“Welcome, Swifty.” She didn’t look up from her iPad, but Gabriella glanced his way.
“Amy, are you inviting Wyoming to your wedding?” Sharon asked.
“Not specifically.” Amy pressed a little metal thing into a circle of hot wax. “We’re inviting Mike Webber and a guest. It’s up to him who he brings.”
Sharon groaned. “That means Wyoming. She’ll steal something and lie about it. Wait and see. She’ll steal your going away dress and tell people she made it.”
“What about me?” Sparks asked. “Do I get a guest?”
“Of course,” Amy said.
“And I can bring anyone I want?”
“Anyone who will agree to come with you,” Amy said.
“I pick you, Gabby,” Sparks said. “I want you to be my date.”
Oh, not just no! Fucking hell no!
“No,” she said without missing a beat. “I don’t date hockey players, especially ones who call me Gabby.”
You tell him, Gabriella. Note to self: never call her Gabby.
Sparks sighed. “A guy has to try.”
But did a guy? If it violated the Bro Code and the wishes of the lady in question? And most especially if a guy was certain to fail her?
“So, what does your going away outfit look like, Amy?” Sharon asked.
Amy looked up and glanced at Emile, presumably to see if he was listening. “It’s very simple but pretty—sapphire blue. Gabriella helped me choose it. She has the best taste. It’s a wool and silk blend, with a fitted bodice and a full skirt.”
“But not too full,” Gabriella said. “It has pin tucks at the waist. Not gathers. It looks wonderful on her.”
“I had a suit,” Sharon said. “Beige. Can you believe it? It was so matronly. Everyone tried to talk me out of it, but I was so young. I thought I needed a suit to look like a wife. I never wore it again.”
Wedding talk. Bryant got an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was remembering another Thanksgiving afternoon dominated by wedding talk where he hadn’t been able get away. Except it had been a two-day notice wedding, and there had been talk about which relative’s dress would fit Philie because there was no time for new dresses, and which friends could be counted on to make hot dishes because there was no time for caterers. Yet, everyone had been joyful except him. Of course, he’d thought he was coming home from school to let Philie down easy.
“What are we eating?” Sparks asked. “I like to know what I’m going to eat—also, if it’s something really good, it might help me get a date.”
“We’re having a buffet with a good variety,” Amy said. “Salmon, beef tenderloin, chicken breasts stuffed with prosciutto, spinach, and smoked provolone. Then there’s a vegetarian pasta dish. As for the sides . . . ” She went on, naming dish after dish, optional sauces, salads, and then she started on the wine list.
