Four hours after Eli and Emmett left, the Hummer pulls up in the drive. Eli gets out and walks around to the passenger side of the vehicle. I press my nose to the glass, and then run to the front door, throwing it wide. A gust a cool air blasts my hair all around my face, and my skin turns to gooseflesh. Eli trails behind Van as they slowly walk up the path. He has two butterfly bandages over his left brow, his eye and cheek are puffy from the fight, and his arm rests in a sling. He grins down at me, and all my breath leaves me in a rush. It’s been a really long day, and banged up as he is, he’s a sight for sore eyes.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi,” I say breathlessly.
“Honey, we’re home,” Eli singsongs with a smirk, and Van turns and uses his free hand to give him the finger.
“You’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.” He nods. “Did you miss me, country?”
“Oh my god, I thought you were going to die,” I blurt, and wrap my arms around him. Van hisses. His whole body tenses up and I shrink back. “Sorry. Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere,” he mumbles, but he gives a halfhearted chuckle and tucks my hair behind my ear. “Can we come in? I’m freezing my balls off out here.”
“Oh, shit . . . sorry.” I step back and allow them to enter. Van’s a little wobbly on his feet as he heads for the den and eases his big body onto the couch closest to the fire.
Eli throws his arm around my shoulder. “So, wifey, what’s for dinner?”
“Shut up, Boucher,” Van says, wincing as he positions his legs on the ottoman and rests his head against the buttery leather.
“Hey, I’ve been running my ass all over town for you. I don’t think it’s too much to ask that your little housewife cooks me a nice hot meal.”
“I can’t cook,” I admit, shirking out of his grasp.
“She really can’t,” Van says. “She’s fucking shocking. Tried to make eggs and almost burned the goddamn house to the ground.”
I frown and decide a subject change is in order. “Where’s Emmett?”
“My mom’s.”
“Oh, so it’s just you and me again, huh?”
“And me.” Eli grins.
Van’s smile disappears. “Yeah, but you’re leaving.”
“And if I leave now how are you gonna get up the stairs to bed?”
“I’ll just sleep here.” Van stretches. His face screws up in a grimace.
“Are you okay? Can I get anything for you?”
Van smiles, and I think there’s a good chance he’s hopped up on pain meds because he leers at me with no attempt to hide it. I’m used to his cheeky grin, his lips curling up in the corners or an out-and-out smirk of irritation, but I’ve never quite seen this look in his eyes as his gaze rolls over me, drinking me in as if I’m a tall glass of water and he’s suddenly parched.
“No, Stella,” he says, gently shaking his head. He glances at the guitar in the corner. “Will you sing for me?”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
I glance nervously between him and Eli, who flops down on the sofa opposite Van. “But I’m not warmed up. And I think we should definitely eat first, don’t you?”
“Eli can get us dinner.”
“What? I’m not getting you shit.”
“Order in.”
Eli props his feet on the coffee table. “Oh, right, and have them drive their fucking snow plow up the mountain. Jesus, what drugs do they have you on, and can I have some?”
“Please?” Van gently moves his head, shooting puppy-dog eyes at his best friend. “You wouldn’t leave your crippled teammate in pain and starving, would you? I need to consume twice as many calories as the regular person, you know?”
“Yeah, I got that, being a pro-athlete myself and all. But your naughty nurse is here now, so maybe she can fix you something to eat?”
My eyes widen, because the only thing I’m capable of making is PB&J, and even then, it’s only because there’s no heating of any kind involved.
“No! I wasn’t kidding when I said she can’t cook for shit.”
“Hey, I’m standing right here, you know?”
Eli lets out a resigned sigh. “Fine.”
Van smiles. “I love you, man.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m gonna go get some takeout,” he says. “Do me a favor and don’t let him take any more pills while I’m gone, will you?”
“I can go. Just tell me where?”
“No offence, but your disguise was kinda shitty, I could tell who you were the second I got close enough to see your face. So again, no. You can’t.”
“Plus, she’s a terrible driver.”
“Oh my god.” I throw my hands up. “You crash into a snow drift one time, people.”
“Anything you don’t eat?” Eli stands and stretches. His shirt rides up, and I catch a glimpse of a perfect six-pack before glancing away.
“Hmm, let’s see: meat, carbs, dairy, wheat, pretty much anything that brings a person joy,” I say with a shrug.
“She eats all that at my place. That’s why she’s so happy here with me.” I glance at Van. The poor guy is off his rocker with these meds. I guess he’s not all that used to taking opiates, what with drug screening and all. “Now, play me a song, country.”
I chuckle. “Any preferences?”
“Make it a slow one.”
A grin spreads across my face. “You gonna ask me to dance, cowboy?”
“I would, but I’m a little bit broken.”
“Excuses, excuses.”
“And that’s my cue to get dinner.” Eli turns to me with a stern expression. “Try not to break him any more while I’m gone.”
I salute him, pick up the guitar, and begin the first few bars of my song “Anywhere But Here.” I don’t sing, though, and when Eli leaves, Van looks at me with puppy-dog eyes. I laugh and start humming a little. The pouting intensifies, and I finally give in and give the man what he wants.
“Yeah, they were right. You’re nothing without your auto-tune,” he says. I fumble over the strings and gape at him. “Relax. I’m kidding. You should see your face.”
“You almost took another hit to the head, Van.”
“I think I’d like to see that—you on top, trying to beat me up. I’d take it willingly, you know?”
My jaw drops open. “Oh my god, how high are you right now?”
“Come on. You haven’t thought about it in the last two weeks?”
“I . . . I’m gonna sing now.” I pluck the strings, and attempt to get the ones inside my heart under control.
He narrows his gaze on me, and there’s a god’s honest smirk on his beautiful face. “You have, haven’t you? What have you thought about?”
“I am not talking to you about this.” I continue playing.
“Why not? Afraid you might like it?”
“Maybe I am.” I open my mouth and start singing the chorus to the song.
Van rests his head against the back of the couch and smiles. “I’d rock your world, country. I’d fuck you so good.”
“Okay. I think you need to rest now.” I set the guitar down and get to my feet. “I’m going to go get a glass of water. You want something?”
“You know I’d make you come first, right? I mean, I know it hurts the first time, but I’d take care of you, babe. I’d make you come so hard you’d forget your name, and why you’ve been ignoring the way you feel about me the last two weeks.”
“Van,” I warn. “I don’t have feelings for you.”
“Bullshit. You just admitted to thinking about fucking me.” I raise my brow at him, but he just keeps talking. “You think about me. You think about me all the time.”
I turn and walk toward the kitchen, but he calls out after me, “I think about you too, Stella. I thought about you just this morning when I was rubbing one out in the shower.”
“Oh my god, stop.” I turn and glare at him.
“Look at you, with your cheeks all pinked up. So fucking hot,” he says.
I can’t stand here with my mouth hanging open any longer, so I leave the room and walk into the kitchen. Once there, I run the tap and splash my face with water to cool the flames. My whole body feels as if it’s on fire. What is wrong with me? Van is high as a kite, and likely doesn’t mean any of the things he’s saying, and yet all I want is to go back to the den, climb into his lap, and ride him like a pony. I need to get a grip.
I take two glasses from the cabinet and fill them with water, and place a straw in one before returning to the living room.
I offer him the glass, and he beckons me closer. I know he can’t really move his shoulder, which is the reason I got him a straw. I bend over in front of him and hold it close to his lips. He drinks, but when I move away, his gaze is firmly fixed on my boobs. He reaches out, and with the lightest touch he traces the soft fabric of my flannelette shirt, fingering the button just above my cleavage. He’s touching skin as well, and I swallow hard and exhale noisily.
“Country?”
“Uh-huh?”
“You’re spilling water in my crotch.”
I glance down and sure enough, the glass I’m holding is tilted at an angle that forces the water into his lap. “Oh shit. I’m so sorry.”
He chuckles.
“Just wait. I’ll get a towel.” I run off to the hot tub, because though I haven’t had a chance to use it just yet, I know there are towels in a closet nearby. I grab two and race back to Van. He attempts to sit up, but he can’t really move without causing himself pain. I gently push him back against the sofa and pat down his lap. This isn’t awkward at all.
“You’re gonna have to help me out of them.”
“Your pants?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh, okay. You don’t wanna wait for Eli?”
“I love my best friend, but not in that way. So, if it comes to a choice between a hot blonde and a sweaty hockey player, well, I’m sure you can figure out which I’d prefer.”
“Er . . . okay.” I set the towels aside and gingerly lift the hem of his T-shirt. I can’t be one hundred percent sure, but it looks as if he’s hard. Surely not? I mean, I’m such a klutz that I just poured water all over him, and there’s nothing sexy about that.
I unfasten his belt and push it out of the way, and then I undo the button of his jeans. Van grins from ear to ear, he is having way too much fun with this. I swallow hard, then I remember that bent over like this, he’s got a perfect view to my cleavage. I grasp the zipper and yank it down while I glare at him.
He hisses. “Easy, country. You’re gonna decapitate my dick doing things like that.”
“You know, you can quit staring anytime you want.”
“I don’t want, but thanks for the offer.”
“Okay, cowboy—enough. Lift your hips for me.”
“You like to be the dominant one, eh?” He smirks. “Well, normally I like to be in charge, too, but I may just make an exception for you.”
“Could you just for a second be serious, please?”
“I was.”
I grab the waistband of his jeans and tug. And I am not at all prepared for what I find. He’s completely naked under his jeans—there are no boxers, no briefs, no boxer briefs, just flesh. Hard, pink—did I say hard?—flesh. I’m so shocked that I forget he’s wearing shoes, and I’m not prepared for the resistance I meet. I go ass over feet and land on the other side of the coffee table. Covering my eyes, I pop up and attempt to make my way toward him as if nothing happened, but I need to see where I’m going so I glance through my splayed fingers at Van—who happens to be in hysterics. “You’re naked! Why are you naked?”
“Ow! Because I never wear underwear, unless it’s on the ice.”
“And you failed to tell me this just now?”
“It was an accident.”
“Sure it was.”
“Honey, I’m home,” Eli says, as he walks in the room. I want to smack them both upside the head. “Jesus Christ. You two didn’t waste any time.”
“It isn’t like that. He tricked me.” Blood rushes through my veins, clawing up my neck and coloring my face.
“Hey, I wasn’t the one who poured water in my lap. If anyone should be sorry here, it’s you, country.”
“Me, say sorry? You were the one who distracted me.”
“Do I need to separate you two?” Eli asks, taking cartons of what look like Chinese takeout from the brown paper bag and setting it on the table one box at a time.
I turn my back to Van. “Can you put some pants on please?”
“Well, I would, but as I explained, I need help with that.”
“Then it’s a good thing that Eli’s here now.”
Eli shakes his head. “Oh no. Eli is not going anywhere near that shit. Cover up your little red rocket, dude. I’m losing my appetite.”
“Hey, my rocket is not little.”
He’s right about that. I’m not an expert or anything, but that looks . . . yeah, he is definitely not little. “Stella, we talked about you nursing him back to health, right?”
“I didn’t realize it would mean I’d have to see . . .” I throw my hand out and point to Van’s junk. “That. I’m not taking off your pants.”
“Technically, you already took off my pants.”
“Well, then I’m not changing them,” I say.
“Please, Stella? Come on. It doesn’t bite.”
“You’re such an asshole,” I say, but I trudge up the stairs and enter his room, rifling through his drawers to find a pair of sweatpants. I pull a pair of boxer briefs, and some sweats from his drawers, and stomp down the stairs. He and Eli laugh and share a look. I have half a mind to throw the clothing at him and run away, but I will not let them know how rattled I am by this. I’ll just pay him back some other time. I toss a cushion toward him. “At least cover that thing up if I’m forced to go near it.”
“Hey, he’s offended by that. You can’t call it a thing.”
“It’s true; you can’t,” Eli says.
“Fine,” I snap. “Cover up your penis, please.”
“Oh, hell no. You can’t call it that either.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s so clinical. It makes him sad.”
“It’s true. That word makes any man’s junk sad,” Eli adds.
“What is wrong with y’all?”
“Nothing,” Van says.
“Well, plenty actually.” Eli shrugs.
“Speak for yourself then, because I happen to be perfect.”
“Great. Then you can put your own damn pants on, Mr. Perfect.” I throw them at his lap and he flinches, then cries out in pain. I’m smothered in guilt, so I take pity on Van and kneel in front of him. Though I grab the cushion beside him and shove it over his lap before I perform the old switcheroo. He keeps the pillow in place, and I sigh and undo his laces, tugging off his boots one at a time and setting them on the floor. I leave his socks on, but tug the jeans over his feet and ankles and throw them to the side. His gaze burns into me, and I’d bet my last dime that he’s still as hard as diamonds under that pillow.
“I’m only doing this because I’m starving and want to eat, and I have no doubt that Eli will withhold dinner until we don’t all have to stare at your junk.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Eli says.
“How starved?” Van whispers, his voice taking on a deep, gravelly tone.
“Jesus, Ross, give the woman a break. You already got her on her knees in front of your dick—can we leave it at that? At least until I’m fed and have travelled far, far away from here?”
Van rolls his eyes, and sighs. “Fine. I’ll behave.”
“I appreciate that,” I say.
“I think you’d appreciate it a lot more if I didn’t.” He chuckles and fingers a strand of my hair, skimming my neck as he pushes it off my shoulder. I shiver. My lady parts ache, my ovaries practically beg him to fertilize my eggs and make a whole team of tiny little hockey babies, but I pull away, out of reach. It’s the only safe move I can make when my body is determined to betray me because one look at Van Ross’s dimples and I turn into a slack-jawed yokel. There’s still the minor problem of his nudity though, and when I shift closer brandishing his underwear, Van lifts his legs off the ground one by one so that I can tug them on. “Jesus, really? You’re making me wear jocks?”
“Yes, I am,” I say, as if that should be the end of it, but this is Van, so of course, it’s not.
“I’m already in enough pain. I don’t want my balls losing circulation too.”
“Then by all means, you can go and remove them. Free-ball all you like, but right now, I’m the one in charge.”
Eli whistles. “That should go over well.”
“God. No wonder you two are such good friends. It’s like you share one annoying, oversexed brain.”
“No such thing as oversexed,” Van says. “I looked into it once.”
I decide it’s best to just shut my mouth, so I keep quiet as I pull the boxer briefs over his thighs and finally his hips. I try desperately not to look at his penis when the pillow gets shoved out of the way, and instead I focus on his face, which is just as bad, because the longing in his gaze makes me want to give him things. I cannot give this man things. I have no things to give.
“Alright, don’t you think you’ve tortured her enough?” Eli says, as I tug Van’s sweats over his knees.
“Probably.” Van leans forward, yanking up the fabric with ease.
“You mean you could do that all along?”
“Well, I needed a little help getting them past my knees.”
“You asshole.” I refrain from shoving him because I know that really would hurt. Instead, I storm off to the kitchen to pour myself a large glass of wine. I don’t offer to get drinks for the boys in the living room because children shouldn’t be drinking alcohol.
When I return, I sit on the end of the sofa that Eli occupies, as far away from Van as the room will allow. Van is grinning like a fool. They both are, and I sigh and snatch up the closest box of Chinese. I don’t even care what it is. I just pick up the chopsticks and dive in. It’s a Shanghai-style noodles with no meat, and it’s good. I haven’t eaten Chinese in the longest time. Tours are typically a place where you spend months on the road eating from whatever takeout joint has a big enough lot to park a bus, or several. Mostly, the crew eat at diners. Not me, though. I have a personal chef who happens to be sleeping with my personal trainer, and the two of them oversee everything that goes in my mouth.
I swear, the last time I tasted food this good was right before my first album dropped, before the label decided to micro-manage every little part of my appearance. As a seventeen-year-old girl, being told you need to drop twenty pounds before your first album launch has a huge impact on the way you view yourself and your eating habits. But I don’t even care that I might stack on a bunch of weight here at Van’s because—childish antics aside—I’m happy.
“So, no practice tomorrow, eh?” Eli slurps a noodle through his pursed lips.
“Nah. Doc marked me off for a whole damn week because of my head.”
“Shit, that’s gonna be a bitch to make up for when you get back.”
Van rolls his eyes. “Tell me about it.”
“Are you guys happy?” I blurt, and even I’m surprised by my question. “I mean, in your career? What is it about hockey that makes you want to get up each morning and spend hours training?”
“Well, the money for one thing.” Eli smirks, and then he seems to think on it a little more. “And the puck bunnies for another.”
“It’s the smell of the ice, the feel of a freshly Zambonied rink beneath my skates. It’s the rush I get when I have possession of the puck, and I’m gliding toward the net.” Van smiles and rests his head against the fluffy cushions. “And the thrill of another man’s skull against my fist.”
“Yes.” Eli chuckles and leans forward with his arm outstretched for a fist bump.
“Why the fighting?”
“It goes hand in hand with hockey,” Van says.
“Do you ever think you’ll grow tired of it? Hockey, I mean?”
“Nope.” Van shakes his head. “Just like you won’t ever get tired of singing.”
I frown. “You don’t know that.”
“Come on, country, I’ve seen you with that guitar. I know you’ve been working on songs since you got here, and I’ve heard you sing, up close and in person,” he says. “Be a shame to waste all that talent.”
I exhale. “I just . . . I don’t think my heart’s in it anymore.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
I scoff and shake my head. “You don’t know the first thing about me, Van.”
“I do, actually.”
“Oh really?” I arch my brows. “What is it you think you know?”
“You’re bored.”
“What?” It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “I’m too busy to be bored.”
“You’re bored with your safe little world, the concerts, the tours, the award shows, and you’re bored with this good-girl persona, because underneath it all, I think you’re not a good girl. I think there’s a dirty girl just scratching to get out, but you keep shoving her down and telling her to be quiet, to be still, and she won’t.”
I hold his gaze, and then my eyes flit to Eli. Heat claws up my neck, and that familiar panic starts to suffocate my insides. “I need some air.”
“No,” Van says. “You need to let her out.”
“Why? So I can be your hockey whore?” I slam the box of noodles down on the coffee table, shoot up from the couch, and stalk toward the front entrance. I don’t bother reaching for a coat, which is a terrible idea because once I open the door, I’m hit with a blast of icy wind. I’m too angry to walk back inside, so I slam the door behind me.
I’m leaning over the railing, my body shivering and my teeth chattering wildly, when Eli joins me outside. “I’m gonna take off. I reckon he can get himself into bed, or he can sleep on the couch.”
I give him a sheepish smile. “Sorry about the temper tantrum in there.”
“It’s okay. Clearly, you two have some issues to work out.”
“I don’t think we have anything to work out.” I sigh. All the excitement and dread of the day ebbs away with that one exhalation. I’m exhausted, right to the marrow. “I don’t even know what I’m still doing here.”
“Yes, you do.” Eli turns toward me. “You should go back inside before you freeze. Can’t have you getting sick too, and I am sure as shit not playing nurse to the both of you.”
“Right. Well, thanks for everything today. I’m not sure what we would have done without you.”
“Well, don’t tell him this because he’ll ride my ass from now until eternity, but I’d do anything for him—he’s family. And I guess you are too, seeing as he’s smitten.”
“He is not smitten.”
His deep chuckle resonates through the quiet night around us. “Oh, Stella, you don’t know the half of it.” I frown. “He likes you, a lot if he’s let you stay in the same house as Emmett, but I think he’s terrified.”
“Of me? That’s ridiculous.” I shake my head adamantly. “Besides, Van doesn’t know the first thing about me.”
“Oui, Stella douce, de vous.”
“You know I don’t speak French, right?”
Eli grins. “You sound like him, and it seems to me like he knows you pretty well. Why else did you beat a hasty retreat?”
“Maybe I just like running,” I snap.
“And maybe you’re just scared shitless because Van is everything you want, and nothing you’re accustomed to.”
“Goodnight, Eli,” I say impatiently, and head for the door.
“Night, Stella. I’ll swing by in a few days and see how he’s doing.” Eli moves toward the stairs, but turns before he can descend. “Don’t worry; I’ll call first. Make sure I’m not interrupting anything.”
I roll my eyes and push inside.
Van is still on the couch. Ignoring him, I move straight to the fire, warming my freezing body as my teeth chatter. After several long minutes of silence as I defrost, I turn and face him. Chinese containers litter the table.
“Are you done?” I ask.
“With the food, or pissing you off?”
“Both?”
“Probably not with the pissing off.” He shoots me an unapologetic look. “I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything.”
“I think . . .” I sigh, unable to believe I’m about to admit this. “I think maybe you were right.”
He sits up a little straighter. “I’m sorry, what?”
“There’s no need to be an ass about it.”
“I am an ass, Stella.”
“What if I’m tired of being a virginal role model? What if I’m sick of the whole ‘good girl’ image?”
“Then I’d be happy to take care of that for you.”
I shake my head. “You’re injured. I don’t see you taking care of anything in the immediate future.”
“Maybe not tonight, but I won’t be injured forever.”
“I think I’m going to clean up and then go to bed.” I grab the empty takeout containers from the table and place them in the discarded paper bag.
“You want company?”
“No!” I exhale noisily. “No, Van. I don’t want company.”
“That’s too bad. I could have used my cuddle bunny tonight.”
I glare at him. “Cuddle bunny?”
He grins. “What, you prefer puck bunny?”
“You should stop talking before I give you another concussion.” I set the trash back on the coffee table and decide he can clean it up for himself, then I take the stairs two at a time before I agree to being Van’s anything.
Cuddle bunny. That asshat.