“A break, an ice bath, a massage—you name it, I need it. Don’t let Zoey fool you—she cracks that whip like no one else.”
“Sounds kinky. Can I watch?”
A napkin hits me in the face, the paper opening up from the ball she crumpled it into.
“You’re such a perv.”
There’s no missing the way she’s biting her cheek to hold back a smile.
“You still like me, baby.” I wink because I know how much she likes it; both Zoey and Ella told me so. They might have Covenette written all over them, but I’ll use their proximity to my girl to my advantage. Besides, they are more than willing to give me all the dirty details—especially Zoey.
“Debatable,” Mels says around a mouthful of food.
Her mmms have my dick stirring in my pants, and I wonder if she’ll make those sounds in bed.
“What if I told you I’d offer up my services and give you the massage you need?”
“Is that just a ploy to get me into bed?”
“Oh, baby.” I wipe a stray streak of salsa from her lip, another one of those mmms escaping at my touch. “I don’t need a ploy to get you into bed. When the time comes, you’ll be begging me to take you there.”
Her eyes flare and she sucks in an audible breath.
I want you too.
The sexual tension crackles between us. It has been too many days since we saw each other in the flesh, and even then we weren’t alone. My family—the ultimate cockblocks.
I need her, my mouth on hers, in a room—preferably with a lock on the door—and hours of uninterrupted alone time. Then maybe the beast inside will quiet down enough to be able to think of something that isn’t Melody, though it’s doubtful.
“Are you excited for this weekend?” She stacks her empty plate on top of mine like I want to be on her.
The All-Star Game.
I have a love-hate relationship with the entire weekend. Love because it’s a good time and the skills competitions are a way to show off in a fun way. Hate because it’s just another time I’m compared to Ryan.
It doesn’t matter that we play different positions; the comparisons always come. He went offense, I went defense. Hell, my entire style of play was crafted around being able to help protect Ryan on the ice growing up. He’s older, but I’m bigger. As a freaking prodigy on ice, there were always people gunning for him.
“It’ll be a spectacle, that’s for sure.”
One of her dark brows lifts.
“Well…” I lean forward on my elbows. “You’ve met the infamous Coven. You think they were bad after a game? You have no idea how they are during these things.”
“Tell me.”
The tingles set off by the absentminded way she traces patterns on my forearm is distracting. What was it she asked?
Oh, yeah. The All-Star Game.
“Okay, let’s see.” Bubble gum invades my senses as I overtake the table with my size, getting as close to her as possible. “Whether it’s all of us like this year or only one, everyone travels to the game. Siblings, parents, Covenettes, friends, babies—you name it, they are there. God, it was a miracle we didn’t incite an international incident during the Olympics with the ridiculousness our family brings.
“I like to exaggerate—at least according to JD—but when I say there are like fifty people who make up our cheering section, it’s a pretty close estimate.”
“I can’t even imagine.” Another wistful expression falls over her beautiful face.
“What about your opening night? You’re the lead, so won’t the audience be packed with your family?”
Her gaze falls, my forearm her sole focus. “No, not really. My brother will come if he doesn’t have work and maybe my aunt and uncle, but that’s about it. And Ella if she’s not a part of the orchestra.”
“What about your parents?”
“Probably not. I think I was in high school the last time they saw me in anything.”
Ah, that’s what I’ve been picking up on.
My heart breaks.
Scrolling through my memory, I recall every time she tensed, looked away, lost the sparkle in her eye, or changed the subject if we were texting when she heard stories of my insane family.
I may have my hang-ups over not measuring up to Ryan, but they do not stem from my parents. That baggage is all my own. Ruth and Robert Donnelly couldn’t be more supportive if they tried.
To hear that her parents can’t bring themselves to show up for something as major as opening night as a lead in a Broadway musical has me feeling a little rage-y.
Broadway show or kindergarten production, your kid has a performance, you show up.
“I’m sorry, baby.” I curl my fingers around the back of her neck, pulling her in and pressing a kiss to her forehead.
Silently I vow to always show up when it counts.
Chapter Twenty-One
Walking back to rehearsal after lunch, I thank god for every one of my acting chops. Without them, there would be no way to hide the riot of emotions I’m feeling.
The way his hazel eyes softened to a pale green when he asked about my parents told me he picked up on the hurt, but I shoved it down before he was able to see how deep it actually runs.
Intellectually, I know my parents care, but the only member of my immediate family who has ever showed it is my brother.
And what would he say about you dating Jase?
Ignoring the way my conscience taps its foot at me, I snuggle deeper into the arm wrapped around my shoulders and walk through the door to the rehearsal room.
“Which one of these guys is the one trying to move in on my woman?” He scowls at the room like the big, bad defenseman he is.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Mels.” Is it wrong that I like the way he growls my name? “Show me.”
“Let’s see.” I tap my pursed lips. “Husband number one.” I point to the actor playing James Dougherty. “Husband number three.” Another point to the Arthur Miller actor. “But the one from the infamous ChapStick day is husband number two.” Finally I point to Mr. Joe DiMaggio.
His hold tightens and I roll my lips to restrain a smile. Pushing onto my toes, lips to his ear, I whisper in my best breathy Marilyn voice, “And don’t forget Mr. President.”
I feel more than hear Jase’s groan as I point out the JFK actor.
“Fuck this.”
I’m hurled around and our mouths fuse together.
Holy hell. Where did he learn to kiss like this? Sure, I’ve spent more time kissing men on stage than in real life, but not once can I recall ever feeling this level of passion. It’s just a freaking kiss, for cripes’ sake.
But the way Jase Donnelly does it is so much more.
There are nips and sucks and don’t even get me started on that tongue ring. How is it I always forget about the piercing until he uses it against me?
Whistles and applause echo in the room, but still, he doesn’t let me go. My fingers curl in the cotton of his shirt, our bodies pressed together like Lego pieces.
With one last drag of the ball bearing across my bottom lip, he releases me, his thumb following the same path. Well shit, Jonathan Groff, I’m totally fucked.