Sal: Sleep well, fair Emma.
And it hurt. Because I wanted to hear those words from someone else. I wanted to talk to him. I just wanted . . . him.
“He’s right. You are boring.” Tate nudged me again with her toe, and I slapped it away. She made a noise of protest. “Let’s go out.”
“No.” I put down my phone. “I can’t. I . . .” My voice caught and died.
Tate’s gaze sharpened. “Something is going on with you. Tell me.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to deny it. But the words bubbled up without my permission. “Oh, where to begin?”
“At the beginning.”
“I think we’ll need drinks for that.”
She was already headed for the minibar. “On it.”
And so I spilled out my heart. But it didn’t make me feel any better.
Eventually, Tate dragged me down to the lounge and we ended up on the patio, tucked in a private corner half hidden by potted ficus trees.
Tate ordered us a tray of oysters and two strong gimlets.
“What, no fruity drinks?” I teased.
“This is a gin-and-bear-it kind of night,” Tate said with a straight face.
I made a fake gagging sound. “I hate your puns.”
“You love them.”
Our cocktails arrived. Tate shook her long hair back from her shoulders and took a dramatic breath. Surrounded by pink stucco and white wrought iron furniture, she looked a bit like a modern-day Rita Hayworth. “Here’s to good drinks and a man-free night.”
“Amen.”
“Emma?”
We both froze at the sound of that familiar male voice. And my insides dropped.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Tate uttered, glaring up at our intruder.
I didn’t glare but put on my best “I am happy and perfectly fine” face. Because Greg, the cheating bent-dick bastard, was standing in front of me.
“You aren’t sure?” I asked.
Greg’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Aren’t sure of what?”
“If I’m Emma.”
He cocked his head. Greg had never been very good with any sort of verbal play. “Of course I know you’re Emma.”
“You phrased it like a question.” It occurred to me just then that I’d teased Lucian in a similar manner when we’d first met, and he’d caught on right away. Damn it, I will not pine for him.
I glared at the jerk who’d tried to break my heart a month ago as he scratched the back of his neck, looking distinctly unnerved. Bumping into him was bound to happen. He played for the Rams, so unless he was at away games, he would be skulking about somewhere in the city. Of four million people. Damn it, why did I have to run into him?
“I was surprised.” He squared his shoulders. He had nice ones—I’d give him that. “It’s good to see you.”
“I can’t say the same.”
Tate snorted into her gimlet. I shot her an amused look, then turned my attention back to Greg with a bland expression. I could be a grown-up. “Found a new place yet?”
I’d hired someone to move all my stuff from his house, but he’d sent a flurry of texts insisting that if I didn’t live there with him anymore, he couldn’t bear it either. My empathy was nil.
“No.” His mouth quirked, and he looked at me with far too much fondness for comfort. “Can’t seem to find anything that feels right.”
“Right. Well.” I lifted my glass. “Have a nice night.”
See. Grown-up.
Now, fuck off, Greg.
He frowned. Not fucking off. “Are you here with anyone?”
“I’m sitting right next to her,” Tate exclaimed in exasperation.
He shot her a brief glance, then focused on me, pulling out the charm. “Look, Emma. We need to talk.”
I used to melt for that sweet, aw-shucks smile. It must have been the dimple. Greg had a great dimple. Just the one cheek. Add the caramel-brown hair and cornflower-blue eyes, and he came off as honest, kind. When he really was a big ol’ lying, cheating . . .
Biting the inside of my lip, I regarded him coolly. Or at least I hoped I did. “Yeah, I’m not interested in having a talk. So . . .” I made a shooing motion.
“Come on, sweetheart. We lived together for a year. We can’t just end things like this.”
Like this? He’d ended things by sticking his dick inside another vagina. But whatever.
I really didn’t want to get into this. Not in public, where God knew who might be taking pictures or recording. Not ever, really. Nothing he could say would make me want him. Even hearing his explanation would require too much effort.
Problem was he clearly wasn’t taking no for an answer, which meant I had to get him out of here and tell him off in the privacy of my bungalow. Which would then be tainted with his presence. Damn it all.
“Save me some oysters,” I told Tate with a sigh.
Her expression pinched. “You’re not going to talk to this penis pimple, are you?”
“Penis pimple?” Greg put in with a scowl.
“You are all that and more,” Tate snapped.
I rested my hand on her arm. “I want to do this in private.”
Her gaze darted over my face, searching to see if I was really okay, and I squeezed her in reassurance. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay. But if he gives you any grief . . .” She trailed off with a meaningful look at Greg, who rolled his eyes.
Collecting my purse, I got up and purposely stepped out of Greg’s touching range. “Come on, pimple.” I didn’t wait for him but left with a graceful “I am in total control” stride.
“Listen, Emma—”
“Not a word,” I cut in as we made our way along the secluded garden path toward my bungalow. “I’m not doing this until we’re in total privacy.”
“Fine.”
The little dusk-pink Spanish-style bungalow was just off the path and had a wide terra-cotta-tiled stoop leading up to the front door. I was expecting that sight. I didn’t expect Lucian Osmond to be standing there.
Bathed in the golden glow of the porch lights, he appeared surprised as well, as though he’d been caught out, but then I realized he was looking at Greg at my side.
Too shocked to process anything other than him at my door, wearing his customary jeans and a fine-knit olive sweater against the cool of the evening, I could only stand there gaping.
Then his gaze locked onto mine, and emotion sparked along my skin, hot and sharp. My heart swelled, flipped, and fluttered.
“Em.”
God, his voice. Every time I heard it, my knees went a little weak.
I sucked a breath. “You’re here.”
He didn’t look away. “Yes.”
“Luc Osmond?” Greg. I’d forgotten about him. “Oz?”
Lucian’s mouth flattened. “Yep.”
Greg brushed past me, striding up to Lucian. “Greg Summerland. You are a beast on the ice, man.”
I shouldn’t have compared the men, but I couldn’t help it. They were both of a similar height and had a similar breadth of shoulders. Greg’s build was a bit thicker about the torso, which I knew he preferred, given the amount of hits he faced each season. Lucian’s body was leaner, his muscles cut with precision that I suspected came from constant physical work outside of hockey.