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Resisting the urge to pinch myself—because, honestly, if I am dreaming? Let me sleep—I scoot a bit closer. He lifts his arm and drapes it over the back of my chair. “Are you cold?”
No, I’m trying to hear your chest, seems like a weird answer. So I nod and let him gather me into his side. The rich bitterness of his coffee scent twines with his crisply laundered dress shirt and some sort of mild de-scenting cologne. The effect is a spicy, clean, dark smell that makes my insides tingle.
Smith glances sidelong at me. His expression seems conflicted, like he’s trying to decide what to say. Or if he should speak at all.
In the end, he lowers his voice a bit. “Want to know a secret?”
I want to open up my phone and record this for later. Because I know I will start gaslighting myself about whether this actually happened the second we snap back to our typical, polite-but-separate reality.
He leans closer and confesses, “I hate coming here. Watching the coach bark orders at Damon and Cass makes me crazy. And this entire place needs to be dehumidified. Whoever installed their air conditioner did a shoddy job.”
I remember the way he reacted when he saw my old apartment. Maybe this is a particular hang-up of his, but it feels like there must be more to it. After all, he lived in a half-finished house before I showed up.
“What else?” I ask, still looking up at him.
A bit of tension leaves his shoulders. “I’m not sure. Every time I’m here, I leave feeling angry. Even when we win.”
Well, it isn’t much. But it is something, isn’t it? Effort—however clumsy.
Below, a buzzer sounds. We both glance over to find the red light behind Cassian’s goal flashing, meaning the other team has scored again.
2-4.
Smith curses under his breath, the sound vicious despite the gentle way his arm wraps around my back. “He never misses shots from the left,” he mutters. “What the hell is going on?”
I unpack his words and turn to him, my face lifting. “You watch their games?”
Smith frowns, his eyes still following the play action on the ice. “Of course I do. I watch every game on live-stream. I’m at the office, most of the time, but?—”
He cuts himself off, looking at me with wider eyes. “They think I don’t watch their games? Because I’m not here?”
I nod, resisting the urge to laugh at his indignant expression. “Well… yeah. Did you ever tell them you were watching at work? Or tell them they played a good game?”
Smith holds my gaze for a long moment, thinking, and then sighs. “I guess I didn’t.”
“You should tell them,” I suggest, wincing and cringing as Damon gets shoved into the boards again. “Especially after tonight.”
The words are barely out of my mouth when it happens. Smith goes rigid. Below, Damon’s head snaps up. And Cassian?
Cassian roars, loud enough for me to hear him dozens of rows up.
And then he lunges right out of the goal.
chapter
forty-six
By the time Damon and I haul Cassian into the house, I’m ready to call for a tranquilizer.
He fights us hard, ripping his strength into our hands and arms while we struggle to drag him out of the truck that smells like Remi.
I sent her home in my car, and Damon drove Cass’s while I wrestled with him in the backseat. Now that we’re here, I’m not sure how to protect her.
“We could hide her,” Damon grits, shoving Cassian back from the stairs. “Or knock him out.”
It takes a moment for me to realize the whole house is dark. Usually, when she comes home, Remi turns on certain lamps. She likes pretty lighting, and has every room staged to absolute perfection. It’s odd to find everything so dim when I know she’s upstairs.
Cassian can sense her. His focus shifts from fending us off to removing what’s left of his uniform. The roar he lets out rattled the windows in their panes. I grind my teeth, waiting for Remi’s answering whine.
