SEVEN
“You need to leave now.”
Cade watched as Violet rolled the words around her mouth, tasting them before she pronounced judgment. A few seconds ticked by while her dark eyebrows crimped together and her full red lips pursed.
“You need to leave now,” she repeated. “You’re sure those were his exact words? Not, ‘This hotness doesn’t happen by itself, so I need my beauty sleep,’ or, ‘Hey, that was awesome. We must do it again sometime’?”
Unable to keep still, Cade jumped up from the farmhouse table in her kitchen, the coziest spot in the coziest cottage on the grounds of Chase Manor beside Lake Michigan. He’d once suggested that maybe the secret illegitimate daughter of Clifford Chase might object to being relegated to the equivalent of servants’ quarters on her sisters’ estate in Lake Forest, just north of Chicago. Shouldn’t poor, downtrodden Cinders demand a room in the big house?
Vi had laughed her purple-streaked head off. Live with those crazy chicas? Are you kidding?
“I told you. That’s what he said after I—well, you know. All over his three-piece suit. But before he kicked me to the curb, we kissed. And this kiss, Vi? It was like no kiss I’ve ever experienced. It was like—”
“Glitter-pooping unicorns?”
He glared in clear disapproval of her levity. “It was like . . . fireworks.” So, his tired cliché couldn’t compete with glitter-pooping unicorns, but he had no capacity to describe it properly. Dante was the smarty-pants, the man with the verbal skills. How would he have labeled it?
So-so. Average. Oh, you’re still here, Burnett?
“I went to clean up in the bathroom, totally flipping out over what I’d done to piss him off. We haven’t even started checking off my fuck-it list.”
Violet had the decency to look sympathetic to his whining.
“And when I came out of the bathroom, he was waiting at the front door with a box.”
“What was in the box?”
“That’s what I said: ‘What’s in the box?’ And he said, like it was the dumbest question in the world: ‘Cannoli.’ ”
That got her attention. He was a little worried he might’ve been boring her there. “Wait a second. The afterglow includes a parting gift of dessert?”
“Yes! And all I could say was, this was great and thanks for dinner, and fourteen seconds later, I was outside on the welcome mat with the door slammed in my face.”
“Leave the orgasm, take the cannoli?”
So not the time for jokes, though that Godfather reference was pretty inspired.
“Did I breach some sort of orgasm etiquette by not warning him I was about to blow all over his Armani? If he didn’t want a mess, then shouldn’t he have told me or stripped or something?”
She stood and put her hands on his shoulders, though she had to stand on the balls of her feet to reach. “You did nothing wrong, Cade. It sounds to me like Dante ‘I’m too cool for school’ Moretti freaked the hell out.”
“No, that can’t be it. The guy must have tapped plenty of ass. Why should mine be any different?”
“Why not? You said yourself the kiss was all glitter-pooping unicorns.”
“You said that. I just said it was unreal.” And Dante felt it, too. That joint orgasm had lifted them both off the planet for a few seconds. But if the sex was good, then why not go for round two?
“So, has he any idea?”
“What? That I’ve had the hots for him since I was thirteen?”
Violet squeezed his shoulders. “Or the other?”
“No, and I’d rather he never knew. It’s bad enough my hero just ruined me for every other penis. He certainly doesn’t need to know that I went to that club to make a move on him.” This was bordering on obsession; Cade needed to reel it in. “Any words of wisdom, Vasquez?”
“What’s your endgame here? It’s not as if you can go beyond secret hookups, even if that’s what you want.” Violet scrunched up her nose. “Is that what you want?”
Maybe. There was no denying that he had a whopping great crush on Dante. Always had. He would love to get to know him better, both on and off a sofa. “Of course not, and you’re right. Even if I was out”—and he refused to become the gay poster guy for the NHL—“it’s not like the general manager of my team can be seen with a guy whose career he controls.” Dante had said as much that first night in his car. Besides, they had nothing in common beyond a love of hockey, a mutual burning lust, and an appreciation for homemade ravioli.
I’m hearin’ wedding bells, people!
“It’s just—it wasn’t enough. You know how you get a taste for something, and it’s so bad for you, but you’re craving it? Dying for it? And now that we’ve crossed the line—”
“You figure you may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb?”
“May as well be well hung, baby.”
Violet gave a dirty laugh and muttered something in Spanish. He loved how open she was about everything and how absolutely nothing fazed her.
His phone buzzed and he was ashamed to say he whipped it out of his pocket with pathetic haste. Not Dante, duh, but a text message from his dad, complete with a picture of his momma’s grave. Dad went to visit every week and usually liked to send a pic.
The flowers looked nice, red ones that weren’t roses. He held his phone up to show Violet, who knew his mom was gone these past eleven years, and she made appropriate noises of sympathy.
“I’ll add it to my album of cemetery arrangements,” he said flippantly, which Violet clearly wasn’t buying if the look she shot him was any indication. “So what do I do?”
“About telling your dad you dig dick?” They’d had this conversation, so he merely raised an eyebrow of move it along. She sighed. “You’ve kind of chased Dante enough, haven’t you? Don’t be that guy. I’ve a feeling he’s going to be thinking about what happened and figuring out how to make it fit his worldview. If he wants a repeat—and the way you’re describing it, why wouldn’t he?—then he’ll find a way to make it happen. But don’t let him treat you like crap just because he’s good in the sack, ’kay?”
He smiled at her concern. Vi’s sisters really had no idea how lucky they were to have this woman in the family.
“Okay, I gotta get to practice.” He stood and headed for the door. “Thanks for . . . well, everything.”
“I live to serve,” Violet said cheerily, adding a military salute. “Oh, one more thing. How was the cannoli?”
“How d’ya think?” Cade shook his head in wonder. “As orgasmic as the freakin’ sex!”
Dante stood at the window of his office—formerly Clifford Chase’s office—and surveyed the grounds of Rebels HQ. They were heading into the second week of March and the last of the grubby snow was finally starting to melt. He squinted at what might be an iris peeking up from a frozen patch across the parking lot. His mother’s favorite flower.
In the month or so since he’d come on board, he’d taken to standing here to try to figure out the thornier issues in his work and life. May as well enjoy the view while he could. Between what had happened with Burnett and the news the Chase sisters had dropped on him a few weeks ago, he might not have a job come April. Compounding the issue was the memory of Cade’s handsome face when he came, which Dante was trying not to compare with how he’d looked when he told him to hit the road.
Moretti, you fucking coward.
Instinctively, he sought out the one object that usually brought him comfort: his pocket watch, a gift from his nonno. He smiled at the engraved inscription—Vivere senza rimpianti, which translated to “Live life with no regrets”—before he opened it. A mantra worth living by, though it was usually best not to make questionable decisions in the first place. Dante had sent the message to the practice rink thirty minutes ago; he really should be here by now.
The knock on the door wasn’t soft. If anything, it sounded annoyed.
Dante couldn’t really blame the man on the other side. Before he could say “come in,” Cade entered.
“You wanted to see me?”
God yes. “Have a seat.”
Burnett loped over, all long-limbed grace, and sat in one of the not-so-comfortable armchairs facing the desk. His hair was still damp from his postpractice shower, one tuft of it sticking up on the side of his head. Dante’s hand twitched with the urge to tamp it down.
Dante walked to the desk and leaned against it in front of his guest. Testing himself, really. It had been a week since Cade had come over for dinner and “dessert,” and Dante had been acting like a high school kid avoiding the unpopular girl he’d banged beneath the bleachers.
“Good practice?”
“Always is,” came that lazy drawl.
Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky Texan, never not having a blast on the ice. The easy tone didn’t match his expression, however.
“So, you might have heard about this fund-raiser in a few weeks supporting the Hockey for Everyone foundation that Isobel Chase is involved with.”
“Yep.”
“I wanted to ask you to attend.”
His lips twitched. “As your date?”
“No.” But wouldn’t that be something? Showing up on Cade Burnett’s arm, causing quite the stir. “As a representative of the Rebels. And Isobel needs a couple of players to hang with her U-12 team after school next week. Show the kids some moves, sign some autographs.”
Cade blew out a breath. “And she asked you to ask me? And about the fund-raiser?”
No, I just want an excuse to see you. Tell you I’m an asshole. Say sorry.
He passed over Cade’s questions. “The charity angle makes us look good.”
“Sure, boss. Anything else?”
The guy knew exactly why Dante had called him in here. When his assistant, Janet, was on break, as well.
“About what happened last week.”
“What did happen? Exactly?”
“I wasn’t the best host.”
“Oh, I dunno. That cannoli was pretty good.”
“Only pretty good?” Stop flirting, Moretti.
But that tiny concession was so worth it. Licking his lips, Cade shook his head and offered half a smile that made Dante light-headed. “You know how good it was.”
Yes, he did. He’d expected a decent getting-his-rocks-off experience. He had not expected to have his brain scrambled until he was a pulpy, begging mess. It should have been enough. He should have left it at that, but now here he was, apologizing for being a jerk.
“Ending the evening like that was rude.”
“Thought I’d done something wrong.”
There was a stark vulnerability to Cade’s voice that hooked a barb somewhere in Dante’s chest. He had handled this terribly from the beginning. Cade needed a friend, not a predator.
“Cade, you did nothing wrong. It was just—well, I haven’t been with anyone since Boston. Since getting out of a longish relationship, actually, and I was caught by surprise at how good it felt. How good you felt.”
Cade studied him, his eyes sparking with relief, and maybe something more. Interest. “I thought maybe I’d imagined how hot it was.”
“You didn’t, but it can’t happen again. However, if you need to talk to anyone about anything, my door is always open.” And it will stay open while you’re here so I won’t be tempted to bend you over this desk and sink into that hot, tight ass of yours.
“Likewise.”
“Likewise, what?”
“If you need someone to talk to.”
Oh. Dante had self-assigned as the wise old queer here, so that was a nice surprise. Feeling off-balance, all he could manage was, “Well, thanks for coming in.”
Cade stood and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He turned to leave, then pivoted to face Dante again. “You look tired, Dante. Everything okay?”
“Just fine except—you heard about Petrov’s sister and her contagion?”
Cade laughed. And after bearing witness to his rare bad mood, Dante was shocked to realize how much he’d missed that laugh.
“Uh, she has the flu, Moretti.”
“Whatever. Just make sure you don’t get sick.”
“We’ve all had shots, and I have no intention of getting up close and personal with Petrov’s sister or even Petrov. Never mind that the gutter press calls him the Czar of Pleasure.”
Dante knew Cade was kidding, but even that joking reference to getting up close to Vadim Petrov, a runway model who played hockey on the side, inflamed the possessive streak that had rocked him back at the club. Petrov’s sister had shown up at the practice facility yesterday and proceeded to prove she was indeed the dramatic Russian’s blood relative by fainting in his arms rinkside. Now their left-winger insisted on caring for her personally, putting himself at risk.
Managing a pro hockey team was not unlike wrangling drunken toddlers. The Russians were the worst. Give him Swedes—or Texans—any day.
“Just be careful, Burnett. And never become a GM. The stress will probably kill you.”
“Plenty of ways to ease that stress, borchia.”
Dante’s pulse jumped. “What did you say?”
“Did I pronounce it wrong? Italian for ‘boss’?”
“Yes. Yes, it is.” It also meant something else.
Dante flicked a glance to the door. Closed. Probably not locked, unless Cade had done that when he came in. But why would he after Dante’s lessons in assholery the other night? Still, Janet was at lunch, and Cade was standing in front of him wafting scents of freshly showered hunk.
“You lookin’ for stress relief, Dante?” Cade leaned in, bit down on his lower lip, and let that plump flesh slip in a slow, sensual drag against his teeth.
Cristo.
“I hear cooking does wonders, stud.”
Stud. The other meaning of borchia.
And then with a wink and a grin as big as his ego, Cade swaggered out of the office, leaving Dante with plenty of nice visuals to savor when he next indulged in a spot of “stress relief.”