I give him an annoyed look. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
He straightens his posture. “It means she’s the marrying kind, bro. So unless you’re trying to become someone’s husband, it means you’d better keep your dick in your pants this summer.”
I laugh off his warning, but somewhere deep inside, I wonder if there could be some truth to his words. By all accounts, Aspen is a great catch. But since I’m most definitely not looking to be anyone’s anything, it’s all the more reason not to sleep with her.
“In fact, why don’t we make this interesting.” Saint rubs his hands together as a devious smile forms on his lips.
“What’d you have in mind?”
He grins, crossing his ankles. “If you end up falling for her, you have to get a tattoo on your ass.”
A chuckle tumbles from my lips. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”
The last time I got a tattoo, it was a fucking disaster. I’ve learned my lesson there.
“Why? You scared I’m going to win? If you keep your word and don’t fall in love . . . no tattoo.”
I guess he’s right, so I shrug. “Fine. If I fall in love, you can pick the damn tattoo yourself.”
He laughs, the sound deep and mocking. “Oh, you’re on, bro.”
After Saint leaves, I finish packing and can’t help but reflect on his words. I’m sure he’s just trying to give me a hard time—I mean, that bet is ridiculous. Me falling in love? Yeah, that’s definitely not happening.
Inside the bathroom, I grab the few items I need off the counter and shove them into a toiletry bag—razor, toothbrush, floss, deodorant . . . all the basics. The box of condoms at the back of the drawer makes me pause.
I swallow a sudden lump in my throat and look down at the brand-new twelve-pack of size XLs in a black carton that’s staring back at me. I debate taking it for half a second before closing the drawer.
Why am I even considering it? I sure as hell don’t need a tattoo picked out by Saint. And I sure as hell don’t need condoms. I’ll only be there for three days, and just like I told Saint, nothing is going to happen.
Besides, I’ve had plenty of fun since my breakup with Eden. Too much, even. Although, is it really called fun if all it does is make you feel even more alone?
Lord knows, I tried. I plastered on a fake smile and went on a couple of dates, hooked up with a few puck bunnies just because they were there and willing, and because I thought it might help. It didn’t.
Although, I imagine being with Aspen in that way would be an entirely different experience. She’s not a puck bunny looking for one night of fun with a professional hockey player that she can tell all her friends about. She’s a good girl. The kind of girl you have to work for. But something tells me it would be worth it.
Still, not happening.
Can you imagine? Sleeping with my ex’s assistant? I promised Eden not even two weeks ago that my days of fucking up were behind me. And I meant what I said.
Forgoing the condoms is the right thing to do. Anyway, I’m sure that’s not what Aspen had in mind when she agreed to this. Yeah, she’s achingly beautiful, but like me, she’s fresh off a disastrous breakup and needs somewhere to hide out.
Saint was right. I’ll just have to keep my hands to myself.
4
* * *
ASPEN
I’ve been at the cabin for three days, and it’s official. I’m in love.
In his email, Saint explained that the property is roughly four thousand square feet of magic, and he wasn’t exaggerating. It’s a cozy haven full of endless possibilities—the Mary Poppins purse of houses. Truth be told, I didn’t know what my dream home looked like until now.
The exterior is equal parts rustic and elegant, with a large porch in the front, and a sprawling deck in the back overlooking the kind of view I’ve only ever seen on screensavers. Inside, the lower level boasts endless windows bragging views of the glittering lake and thick forest from all sides.
The kitchen is modern with a polished wooden island, and a walk-in pantry already stocked with nonperishable essentials. The attached living room is like a warm cocoon with its cherrywood decor, stone fireplace, and a pile of throw blankets, tempting me with promises of long, cozy naps. Upstairs are the bedrooms that have all been collecting dust. A lot of dust.
My caretaker duties will have me working both inside and out. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. What’s that saying? “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” I need something to keep my mind off of pretty much everything right now, and this is the perfect distraction.
Saint attached a loose schedule to the email but insisted that I could make my own once I got used to the place. After I inspected the property—checking for dirtiness, wear and tear, the works—I did exactly that and added a few bullet points to the already daunting list. Then I broke the whole schedule down into daily, weekly, and monthly tasks on my Google calendar. Call me anal, call me type A, but I’m not about to do a half-assed job that was given to me more out of generosity than anything else.
Generosity from strange, unexpected places . . .
Which leads me to why I’m currently headfirst in the dirty fireplace, caked in soot up to my elbows, and armed with a broom, a scrub brush, and a bucket of soapy water.
Why start with the fireplace, Aspen? Why not start with one of the easier tasks on the list?
Because I figure if I knock out one of the less pleasant tasks, I’ll earn myself some free time later, lying on the deck in my bathing suit and soaking up some vitamin D. Even though there’s no one here to know if I’m slacking off, some weird inner part of me still needs to feel I’ve accomplished something before I indulge in some me-time.
As I scrub, my thoughts once again jump to Alex.
I’d like to think that after working with the Titans organization for over a year now, I’ve become immune to the allure of hockey players. And the truth is, I am. Basically, anyway. Because while yes, some of the guys are cute and muscular, and yeah, earn startlingly good money, they’re just guys who I often see at their worst. Whether it be sweaty, or angry after a game, or when less-than-flattering rumors about rivalries and hookups swirl through the office. And believe me, there have been plenty of rumors about Alex.
So, even if his kindness was unexpected, and the kiss we shared totally out of left field . . . I decided it was a much safer bet to just put it out of my mind.
But knowing that as an objective fact and putting it out of my mind are two very different things. Because while I scrub, I find myself zoning out, daydreaming about the way his thick arms felt wrapped around me. How soft, yet firm, his lips felt against mine . . .
And even if I shouldn’t have gotten carried away and kissed him back, it was the first time that night—hell, in a long time—that I wasn’t thinking about my stupid ex.
Anyway, I’m sure Alex has already forgotten about it. Or if he hasn’t, he’s chalked it up to one too many drinks. Or worse, he just felt bad for me. Yep, give the sad girl crying in the back corner a sympathy kiss because nobody else wants her. I can imagine him bragging to Saint, the two of them sharing a good laugh about nailing the boss’s executive assistant, yet another conquest to add to the books.