Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 117278 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117278 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“Em.”
God, his voice. Every time I heard it, my knees went a little weak.
I sucked a breath. “You’re here.”
He didn’t look away. “Yes.”
“Luc Osmond?” Greg. I’d forgotten about him. “Oz?”
Lucian’s mouth flattened. “Yep.”
Greg brushed past me, striding up to Lucian. “Greg Summerland. You are a beast on the ice, man.”
I shouldn’t have compared the men, but I couldn’t help it. They were both of a similar height and had a similar breadth of shoulders. Greg’s build was a bit thicker about the torso, which I knew he preferred, given the amount of hits he faced each season. Lucian’s body was leaner, his muscles cut with precision that I suspected came from constant physical work outside of hockey.
But it was more about the way they moved. Greg had a slow amble, as though he wanted to make sure everyone watched him. While Lucian possessed a fluid grace, a panther lying in wait. He could move with lightning quickness if he wanted, but most of the time he simply flowed. Swagger.
They faced each other, Greg with his expectant “Let’s exchange compliments” look he got around fellow famous athletes, and Lucian with his grim reserve.
Greg extended his hand, but Lucian looked down at it like it was dirt. His wintergreen eyes moved up to meet Greg’s, but he didn’t attempt to shake his hand. Instead, he turned his attention to me. “Is this a bad time?”
I knew what he was asking. Did I want Greg here? Was I back with him?
A lump swelled in my throat. I missed him. It had been only a day, and I missed him. I was so screwed.
“Greg was just leaving.”
Greg, who’d apparently forgotten I was there in the face of the great Luc Osmond, whipped back to me. “We were going to talk.”
“You know what? I’m all out of talk right now.” I inclined my head toward the path.
“Are you with Oz now?” he asked, incredulous. Then shook his head before I could answer. “I guess you have a type.”
My back teeth met with a click. “Unless you mean male, Lucian isn’t anything like you.”
Lucian grunted. I knew him well enough now to understand that particular tone meant surprise. I couldn’t look at him, though, not yet. I had to deal with an increasingly self-entitled ex.
“We’re not doing this. Please go, Greg.”
Given that Lucian was shooting a warning look that even Greg couldn’t miss, and I wasn’t budging, he let out a sigh. “Fine. I’ll call you later.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
He didn’t answer, but he stopped by my side, bent, and gave my cheek a kiss before I could get away. “See you later, Emma.”
I kept my gaze on Lucian, my heart thudding erratically against my chest. He stared right back, his expression tight and intent. I found myself moving forward.
As soon as I did, Lucian came down the stairs to meet me halfway. We stopped a foot away from each other. I caught the scent of his skin, burnt sugar and bittersweet chocolate; he’d been baking again. I could feel the warmth of his body. I wanted to press into it, soak it up.
I stayed still and searched his face. He gave nothing away, staring down at me with a solemn expression. When he spoke, his deep voice sounded rougher. “You okay with me being here right now? I could come back.” He said it as though forcing the offer through his lips. But he said it. Lucian would never push me to do something I didn’t want.
My smile was watery, weak, and fleeting. “I’m glad you’re here. Greg was being a pest about wanting to talk, and I was trying to get rid of him as soon as possible.”
Lucian let out a swift, audible breath. Only then did I notice he held a small white box in his hand. I knew those boxes. He’d brought along a pastry.
Hope warred with caution. I steeled myself for the worst and hoped for the best. “Would you like to come in?”
He hadn’t yet taken his eyes from my face. “Yes.”
The simple declaration had my heart flipping over in my chest. I merely nodded and made my way to the door, pretending that I wasn’t shivering inside from nerves and need. I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Tate, then put it on silent before she had a chance to reply with a barrage of questions.
“My friend was waiting for me at the lounge,” I explained, letting us in.
He frowned slightly. “You want to go back and meet her? I didn’t exactly give you notice.” So careful. Was he sorry he came?
“No. She lives close by.” I walked into the bungalow. The house had been serviced, and the lamps had been left on in strategic places to give the space a soft romantic glow.
Lucian stopped in the center of the little living room, his wide shoulders tight, his stance on the balls of his feet like he might soon bolt. And it hit me how nervous he was. Oddly, it made me less so.