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Those eyes never waver as he stares at me… no, glares at me. What the fuck? He has no reason to glare at me. His damn ass should be on his knees, pleading with me to forgive him.
He takes a swallow from the glass of whiskey in his hand. I watch it flow down his throat, visible now with the loosened tie. He even released a button on his shirt after the service.
On his knees. My damn cock twitches at that. Why that thought is filling my head right now at such a highly inappropriate time is unclear. What isn’t unclear is that the asshole had the audacity to get even better looking over the years. Can I loathe someone to his very core and still find him sexy as fuck?
He takes another swallow of whiskey. His sharp Adam’s apple bobs. I have this thing for throats. Or maybe it’s just his throat. I imagine what that pointy Adam’s apple would feel like against my tongue. The roughness of the stubble. How does he taste? He smirks slightly and continues toward me.
I can feel the throbbing that had slightly dulled pulse in my head again. If I continue my survey of his gorgeous face and that throat, something else was in danger of beginning to throb and that will not cut it. My hands ball up reflexively, and he looks down and grins.
I don’t speak. He takes one more step than necessary into my space. His eyes, a touch glassy from sadness? The alcohol? Combo of both, most likely. Those eyes linger on mine. A light dusting of stubble graces that sharply angled face, giving a tiny edge to the hot nerd vibe he’s always had with those preppy tortoise-shell glasses and perfectly trimmed hair.
CARTER
The face that greets me tells me everything I need to know about where we stand. The look in his eyes can’t even be called a greeting. They’re dark with hatred. But maybe also a touch of desire? Or am I imagining that? Wishing for that? His lips stretch into a tight line and the tick in his jaw and clench fist dare me. Dared me to speak. So, of course, I do.
“It’s been a while,” I say.
“Not long enough.”
Alrighty then. I would have thought the passage of more than two decades might have quelled his anger. Apparently not. He’s been working with Brady for a lot of years now and our paths had yet to cross. There was no reason that they would. Brady and I are close. I love him as if we share blood, but there is no reason for me to come to Denver to visit. We don’t do that. He comes home to Minnesota. My avoidance of the Mile High City has absolutely nothing to do with the man standing in front of me right now. Not one thing.
I empty the whiskey glass in my hand in one long, luxurious swallow to quiet the voice inside me. The voice is laughing hard. Laughing at that lie. Laughing at my hypocrisy that I could dare to stand here and judge him for not letting go of the past. When I haven’t either. I’ve tried to drown those memories. Man, have I ever. Some days it actually works. Sometimes it takes a few days for the memory to reawaken within me, requiring another attempt at drowning it, or at least making it blurry instead of so damn sharp in my head.
I thought that maybe… maybe if I see Davis… maybe, then we’ll be able to talk through this… maybe, he had forgiven me. Forget, never, but forgive… I thought… But why should he? I haven’t forgiven myself either. But I’m not the only one to blame. I’m not even the main one to blame.
“Time hasn’t done anything to temper your fury, I see.”
“You expected something different? Expected I would greet you with open arms? Why would I do that?”
“Because of B.”
“Our past hasn’t affected my relationship with him thus far. I don’t expect it to change now just because you are here for a few days.”
I look out at the golf course and then back at Davis. “I don’t know, Davey,” I say, using the name everyone else calls him, the name that sounds less pretentious than his given name, Davis Franklin George. “Maybe I felt the need to clear the air.”
“To ease your guilty conscience?”
“Or maybe yours.”
“I don’t have a damn thing to feel guilty about.”
“Oh, I disagree,” I say and step toward him. His nostrils flare. He wants to retreat. I can tell. So, I keep moving toward him. Fuck, he’s good looking. He wears the years well. His hazel eyes are still dark with anger. Thick layers of golden hair sweep off his face and fall to his shoulders, framing that permanently sun-kissed skin of his. His look screams California surfer dude, not Minnesota hockey God. “That fury still boiling inside you. You keep blaming me and the group of so-called friends I had back then. You’ve blamed Luke’s family. You’ve blamed society. But tell me something, Davis,” I hiss. “Have you looked in the damn mirror in all these years, even once?”
“Have you?” he snaps back.
I step fully into his space. Our eyes lock and hatred fills them. Yeah, I’m pretty sure there’s a healthy mix of desire in there too.
Fuck, he’s beautiful. My face so close to his now. Those lips, right there for the taking. “Every. Damn. Day,” I breathe onto them. His eyes widen, and he takes that step back. The heat flowing between us is too much to bear.
DAVEY
Carter glances down at his empty glass and gives it a wistful look. “I say we settle this, right now,” his voice low, words laced with just the hint of drunkenness.
It’s my turn to smirk at him. “Here? I wouldn’t dare do that to him or Casey.”
I look around us and out onto the golf course. It’s not empty. There are houses nearby. Houses with open windows, people out enjoying the late afternoon sunshine on their decks and patios. No. I won’t do this here.
“How much have you had to drink?” I’m keenly very aware he is not sober. The sadness of the day is not the entire reason for those glassy eyes.
