Chapter 3

So that’s what this is all about.

It didn’t have anything to do with her. Or with him wanting them to be friends again. She should have known.

Pushing his leg away, Quinn stood up and turned on him. She could feel the fury building in her chest, like bile filling her throat.

No. She would not cry, damn it. It was easier to be mad than to let him know he had gotten to her.

Her hands landed on her hips, and her heart slammed against her chest. “You brought a reporter to my son’s birthday party? To our house? So this was all just a publicity stunt?”

His face registered shock as he sputtered, “No, of course not. Quinn, I—”

She held up her hand. “Save it. Save your excuses. This didn’t have anything to do with you wanting to be my friend or trying to help make an eight-year-old’s dream come true. It all has to do with your almighty career. Just like everything else in your life, hockey comes first.”

“Quinn, come on. I had nothing to do with this. I hate the press. Please—” he tried again, but she cut him off.

How could he say he hated the press when he showed up in the news all the time? She didn’t know what to believe.

“Just leave, Rock. Go home.”

Turning on her heel, she hurried into the house, determined not to let him see the emotions she knew were evident on her face. She’d never been able to hide her feelings from him.

And she damn sure didn’t want him to know he’d gotten to her. Again.

Just like he always did.

* * *

Rock slammed the front door and stomped into the living room of the two-story farmhouse he’d grown up in.

“What in the Sam Hill are you wearing?” his mother, Vivienne, asked. She stood at the kitchen island, elbows deep in a sink full of sudsy water.

“Ahoy there,” one of his younger brothers, Mason, called from the recliner in front of the television. “Nice pirate duds. I hope you brought some rum and a couple of wenches home with you.” He glanced over at Vivienne. “Sorry, Mom.”

Rock had wanted to follow Quinn into the house, to explain and to get his shirt back, but her brother had stopped him. Not that Logan could really have stopped him if he’d wanted to get past him. He’d checked bigger guys than Logan Rivers into the boards without even a blink.

But he’d kept his cool long enough to realize that getting into a fight with her brother wouldn’t help anything. The last thing Rock needed was to fuel the feud between their two families; that would only piss Quinn off more. Instead, he’d chosen to take his pirate sword and leave.

“Shut up,” he growled at his brother as he sank onto the sofa.

“Geez, nice to see you too, Bro.”

“Rockford James, you get your butt up off that couch and come give your mother a proper hug.” Vivi was already drying her hands on a towel, and he was struck as he often was by how young and beautiful she still looked.

The combination of her being tall and constantly working in the house and on the ranch allowed her to eat cookies and macaroni and cheese and still stay slim, but it was more than that. More than the fact that her hair was still blond and worn long around her shoulders.

Vivienne James had a big heart and an easy laugh and a zest for life that drew people to her. Today, she wore jeans and a yellow cotton top, but her feet were bare, and as she padded across the kitchen toward him, he noticed her toenails were painted bright pink.

He stood and offered her a sheepish grin. Stepping forward, he wrapped his arms around her and tipped his head to her shoulder. “Sorry, Mom. I don’t know what I was thinking. Bad day.”

Everything felt off-kilter. Normally, he would go straight to his mom and wrap her in a hug. But nothing had been normal about the day he’d had.

She must have realized in her spidey mom-sense that something was off, because she squeezed him tightly, then pulled back, searching his eyes, her brow furrowed in concern. “How are you? How’s your head?”

“I’m fine, Ma.”

“You’re not fine. You suffered a concussion serious enough that your coach sent you home to recuperate. I’m still not happy that you drove yourself up here.” She slapped his arm with the damp dish towel. “But Lord knows the last time you listened to me.”

He chuckled. As if.

Both he and his brothers knew that when Vivi James had something to say, they dang well better listen. Their dad had died when Rock was about Max’s age, and Vivi had raised him and his two younger brothers on her own, with steady discipline and a fierce love.

She moved to the sofa and patted the seat next to her. “The rest of the dishes can wait. Tell me what’s got you so worked up.”

He glanced in the kitchen, then back at her. “I don’t know why you’re washing the dishes anyway. Why don’t you use the dishwasher I bought you?”

He’d paid to remodel the old house the year before, updating it with modern appliances and tearing down the center wall to turn the kitchen and the living room into a great room. His mom had complained that she didn’t want to be in the kitchen and miss one of his games, so he’d bought a flat-screen television that she could see from the big center island.

She’d accepted the new floor plan, the hardwood flooring, and most of the new furniture, but she still had some of her antiques scattered throughout, giving the house a more country look and keeping the homey feeling.

“I do use it. But sometimes I still like to wash up the supper dishes by hand. Helps me to think.”

A worried expression crossed her face—just for a second, then it was gone, replaced by her normal, open smile.

What did she have to worry about? Was something going on with the farm? Mason hadn’t told him of any problems. Not that he would.

Mason was the stable one, the one who always made sure things were taken care of. He had a head for business and the steady work habits of an ox. He and their youngest brother, Colt, had both stayed to help their mom run the ranch. But it seemed to suit both of them.

Mason had made some changes, put in some upgrades, and things seemed to be going smoothly. Although you wouldn’t know it, listening to Mason talk, his little brother never gave himself enough credit for a job well done.

He glanced at his brother as he passed him a bottle of beer. Tiny bubbles fizzed against his lips as he tipped the bottle up and took a long swig. The cold beer felt good on his throat, and he slumped back against the sofa.

“Thanks, Brother. Sorry for being a jerk. It’s been a weird day.”

“Says the guy in the pirate shirt.” Mason crowed with laughter as he sank back into the recliner.

Rock grabbed a throw pillow from the couch and flung it at him.

It felt good to be home.

* * *

The morning sun shone through the curtains of his old bedroom the next day as Rock cracked open one eye and squinted at the digital clock on his bedside table.

Eight thirty. He had a moment of panic, thinking he had overslept and should have been on the ice by now.

Then he remembered. The game. The fight. The feel of his opponent’s stick across his back and the sickening thud of his head cracking against the boards.

He tried to close his eyes again but felt the insistent poking of his shoulder that had woken him up in the first place.

Rolling over, he came face-to-face with Quinn’s son, Max.

He reared back against his pillow. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to wake you up. You snore really loud.” He scrunched his small nose and pushed his glasses back. He was a cute kid, his white-blond hair sticking up in messy spikes, and his glasses giving him a bookish look.

“No. I mean what are you doing here? In my bedroom?” A glimmer of hope sparked in his chest, and he craned his neck around Max to see out the door, but the hallway was empty. “Is your mom with you?”

“No. She dropped me off ’cause she had to work at the coffee shop this morning,” he said, as if this explained everything.

“So she dropped you off here? Why?”

Max gave him a funny look like he didn’t think that was a very smart question. “Because I’m only eight. And she thinks that’s too young to stay home by myself. I told her I’d be fine. It’s only for a few hours, but she doesn’t listen to me.”

“Welcome to the world of women, pal.” Rock sat up in bed and ran a hand through his hair. “And I do not snore.”

Max raised an eyebrow at him, the same look of skepticism he’d seen Quinn give him many times. “Yeah, dude. You do.”

With the number of times he’d had his nose broken, there was a slight possibility that the kid might be right, but he wasn’t giving in. Better to change the subject. “Does your mom drop you off here often?”

Max shrugged. “Couple days a week, if my grandpa or my uncle are busy. It’s not so bad. I like Miss Vivi.”

Hmm. Maybe the family feud didn’t affect the women of the family. He smiled. “I like her too.”

“We’re makin’ blueberry pancakes. She said they’re your favorite and to come wake you up and tell you to get your behind downstairs if you want any.” His blue eyes sparkled, and he laughed at the word behind.

“Blueberry pancakes, huh? Those are my favorite. Tell Miss Vivi that I’m jumping in the shower and will be down in five minutes.”

Ten minutes later, he was sitting at the table, mopping syrup off his plate with the last of his pancakes. He stuffed the bite in his mouth just as the front door opened, and Quinn walked in, a happy smile on her face.

He tried to swallow, but the pancakes stuck in his throat.

She stole his breath, she was so beautiful. He’d seen her only yesterday, but she looked different today. Maybe it was the smile, maybe it was the fact that she wasn’t in pirate garb and instead wore a pink cotton T-shirt, brown leather cowboy boots, and snug-fitting jeans that hugged her generous curves. Maybe it was the temporary truce they’d eased into the day before.

Well, they’d called it a truce. Right up until she’d pegged him for a liar and stormed into the house. So maybe not a truce anymore.

It didn’t matter.

Whatever it was, she looked good.

Her smile fell as she caught sight of Rock. It obviously hadn’t been meant for him. “Oh, sorry. I thought you’d still be asleep.”

“Nope. Mom made pancakes. Well, Mom and Max, I guess. Want some?”

She shook her head, and he hated the look of hurt he saw in her eyes. “No. Thanks. I’m good.”

“Listen, Quinn, I didn’t have anything to do with that reporter showing up there yesterday. I hate the press. I would never willingly bring them anywhere, least of all back to Creedence. I swear.”

She slumped into the seat across from him and picked at the remaining pancake on the platter. “Okay. I believe you, I guess.”

His mother came out of the laundry room off the kitchen and smiled at Quinn. “Oh good, you’re here. I need you and Rock to help me with something.”

He cocked his head. He knew that tone. His mother was up to something.

* * *

Quinn followed Rock out to the barn, trying not to look at his butt in his well-fitting Levi’s. There was something about the way a guy’s butt looked when he wore boots.

But this guy also wore skates. And his time spent in his skates obviously meant more to him than his time in his boots.

His mom had said she needed them to fix the gate on one of the stalls in the barn, that Mason hadn’t had a chance to get to it, but she had a sneaking suspicion that Vivi was using the task to put her and Rock in closer proximity.

She wasn’t sure yet if she minded or not.

She was still mad from yesterday—hell, she was still mad from nine years ago when he’d left the first time. But something about him still drew her, made her want to spend time with him, just be in his presence.

Why she was subjecting herself to this twisted kind of torture, she had no idea. He’d already told her that he was home only for a short time, just while he recuperated from the concussion, and then he’d go back—would leave again. So why bother spending time with him now? Why risk getting her heart hurt again?

One of the farm dogs raced up to Rock, who knelt down, laughing as he rubbed the collie’s black-and-white neck, and the dog covered his face with licks.

That was why.

Listening to Rock laugh, seeing that smile on his stupid, handsome face, that was why she would subject herself to hanging out with him. Just for a little bit.

“I miss having a dog around.” He held open the door leading into the barn.

She stepped through the door, her eyes adjusting to the dim interior. The scent of hay, grain, and horses filled the air, and she heard the stomp of feet followed by a soft whinny from the horse in the far stall. She hadn’t been in here in years and took a step back as the memories flooded over her, almost like a physical punch to her stomach.

They’d spent so much time here, riding horses, putting up hay, laughing and talking as she watched him do his chores. Her gaze drifted to the back corner of the barn, the spot where they’d piled hay and covered it with an old quilt and lost their virginity to each other.

She tore her gaze away, hoping Rock hadn’t noticed. Too late. He’d caught her looking, and his eyes shone with amusement as a smile tugged at the corner of his lip. Maybe he wasn’t thinking about the same thing she was. “Lots of memories in here.” His gaze drifted to the back corner.

Crud. Warmth crept up her neck.

Yeah, he knew exactly what she was thinking about. It was just the single most pivotal part of a girl’s life. It was only natural that she was thinking about it. But they sure as heck didn’t have to talk about it. Time to change the subject. Quick.

“So why don’t you get one? A dog, I mean.”

He gave her a knowing smirk, then turned to the workbench and rummaged for tools. “I’ve thought about it, but I’m on the road too much. Wouldn’t be fair to the dog.”

“Don’t you have someone you could leave it with during the day? Like a girlfriend?”

Seriously? Where did that come from? Thank goodness his back was to her and he couldn’t see the heat flaming in her cheeks.

His hands stilled on the hammer he’d just grasped. His tone was light, but she felt the weight of it, like their conversation was hanging in the air. “Nope, no girlfriend. How about you? Got a man in your life?”

“Yeah, I’ve got three.”

He dropped the hammer and turned around, his eyes wide. “Three?”

She laughed. That was too easy. “Yeah, but they’re all related to me. My son, my brother, and my dad. I don’t have the time or the inclination for anything else.”

Arching an eyebrow, he parted his lips as if to comment—why was she looking at his lips?—but he let the subject drop. Instead, he pointed at the broken stall door. “Let’s take a look at the damage.”

She followed him across the barn and stood back as he leaned down and assessed the gate.

“It looks like the screws are stripped on this hinge. It shouldn’t take but a few minutes to fix it. You can…”

She had been busy checking out his butt again as he’d leaned down and didn’t notice when his words drifted off midsentence. Not until he made a grab for the fence post and swayed on his feet did she catch on that something was wrong.

Reaching out, she grabbed his shoulder for support. “Whoa there, you okay?”

He brushed her arm away, his voice gruff. “I’m fine.” But his pale coloring told her otherwise.

“Why don’t you sit down?”

“I don’t need to sit down.”

She narrowed her eyes, glaring at him with her best Mom stare.

“Fine. I’ll sit down.” He sank to the ground, resting his back against the fence post.

She sat next to him, her shoulder barely grazing his. “How bad is it?”

“I don’t know. Pretty bad, I guess. Bad enough to have the coach send me back to the ranch to recuperate.”

“Why to the ranch?”

“Just so I’ll have somebody around if the symptoms get worse.”

Panic filled her chest, and she pushed to her feet. “Was this worse? Should I call someone? Should I call 911?”

He chuckled and grabbed her hand, stopping her and pulling her back down next to him. “Hell no, you don’t need to call 911. I just stood up too fast. Got a little dizzy. Could have happened to anyone.”

She settled in next to him again, satisfied with his answer. For now.

Glancing up at his head, she noted the cut above his left eyebrow and wondered if it had resulted from the same fight. “It was a pretty good hit. And a total cheap shot. That guy’s such an asshat. I’m glad he got suspended. They’re not gonna let him play for the rest of the finals, even if they get a run at the Cup.”

His body was turned slightly to hers, and he cocked his head to the side, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“What? Didn’t you know he got suspended? He’s out for the rest of the season.”

A cocky grin pulled at one corner of his mouth, then slowly turned into a full-fledged smile. “If you saw the hit, that means you were watching the game. You were watching me play.”

He said the words like an accusation, and she felt like a naughty kid who’d just been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

“I didn’t say that,” she sputtered. “I never said that I watch you play. I don’t even like hockey.”

“Then how do you know about the Cup?”

“Everybody knows about the Stanley Cup. It’s a thing. Like the Super Bowl. That doesn’t mean I watch you, specifically.”

“Then how’d you see the hit? Or know the guy is an asshat? Which he is, by the way.”

Her mind raced, searching for a plausible explanation. She could say that she saw it on the news. They showed the replay often enough. But then she’d just have to spin another lie to keep that one going.

She let out a sigh. “Okay, yeah. I was watching you play. I catch a game sometimes. And it was the playoffs.”

“Which we are now out of,” he said with a grimace. “Thanks to my not paying attention.”

“What? Are you kidding me? That wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have anticipated that. It was a cheap shot, and boarding is bullshit,” she said, referring to the term used when one player rams into the back of another and shoves them into the sideboards. The move was illegal and often resulted in the player getting kicked from the game.

But this time, it resulted in Rock’s head hitting the boards and knocking him out. She’d never forget the sight of his head cracking into the sideboard and the feeling of panic in her chest as she’d watched him sink to the ice.

Even now, just thinking about it, it still made her mad as hell. “I don’t care if the guy was a rookie. He should have known better.”

She glanced up at Rock. His grin was back.

“Yeah, it sounds like you just catch an occasional game.”

Heat crept up her neck, and she shoved against his shoulder. “Oh, shut up. Quit giving me a hard time.”

“What kind of a time would you like me to give you?” He lifted his arm and dropped it easily around her shoulders, his expression going from playful to sinfully sexy in a matter of seconds.

All the air felt like it had been sucked from her chest. She hadn’t been this close to him in years, yet the pressure of his arm across her shoulders felt exactly right. The scent of him surrounded her—soap and aftershave and a hint of maple syrup.

She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Her body felt frozen as she watched his gaze travel down from her eyes and land on her lips.

He leaned down, just an inch, then stopped, searching her face for—what?—permission? She couldn’t give it but couldn’t deny it either. She couldn’t do anything. Except wait.

And try to breathe.

All she could do was hold perfectly still as he leaned even closer, his lips just a fraction of an inch from hers.

She closed her hands, tightened them into fists at her sides as the sensation of butterflies plunged and careened into the walls of her stomach.

He was still looking at her lips, regarding them as if he were a starving man and they represented his last meal.

Reaching his hand up, he skimmed his fingers across her neck before they came to rest on the side of her face. His thumb brushed across her bottom lip.

She sucked in her breath, a quick gasp, as a shiver tingled down her spine.

Every nerve in her body was on hyperalert, anticipating, craving, waiting, dying—for the touch of his lips.

With the softest touch, he leaned closer, his palm still holding her cheek, and with just a passing graze, the lightest glance, his lips brushed hers.