Teasing: Chapter 9

It doesn’t matter how many years’ experience you’ve got under your belt, training camp sucks. Long, hot days, spent giving 110 percent, hoping it’s good enough to earn your spot, all while watching guys get cut each week, are no joke. Tensions run high for everyone, and my house is no exception.

Jamie may be a league vet, but he was an offseason trade, and he’s fighting for his life right now, trying to earn his spot on the Kings. And fuck if it isn’t turning my normally easygoing friend into a moody bitch.

“Tastes like fucking kale,” he moans as he slams his empty protein shake down on the counter.

“That’s because you put kale in it, shithead.” I pour myself a cup of coffee and hide my grin behind the mug.

He stares at my coffee, unblinking and unmoving. “Why do you always have to be such a dick?”

I shrug and sip my coffee. “Guess we all have a part to play, Murphy.”

Emmie’s humming alerts me to her presence before she walks into the kitchen. We’ve fallen into a routine which seems to be working. And for a guy like me who thrives on routine, I appreciate that almost as I appreciate today’s gauzy white sundress. Today is day five, and I’ve found myself looking forward to this moment each day. The one where I get my first hit of this sexy, fairy goddess as she walks through my door. Her sound and scent are a fresh breath of sunshine, even if her beauty makes it hard to breathe.

Of course, I don’t tell her that.

I just push a cup of coffee her way and grumble a good morning.

“Morning, Maverick.” Her dazzling smile stretches across her pretty face before she sniffs the coffee and sighs. “Oh my gosh, is this caramel?”

“Rosie mentioned you like it.” I’m not willing to admit I grabbed it from the market yesterday because I heard her tell Jamie it was her favorite.

It looks like even Emmie won’t be enough to pull him out of his funk today though. I watch her eyes narrow on him and his pissed-off glare. “Hi, Jamie.”

Is it possible for someone’s voice to sound like music?

Because hers does, and that pisses me off more than Jamie’s shit mood.

I don’t want to like the sound of her voice. I don’t want to wonder what it would sound like with her coming on my face . . .

“Hey, Em,” he forces out through a fake as hell smile because no matter how tired and sore he is, he’s still Jamie and, even on his worst day, he’s still nicer than me.

Emmie leans back against the island as Jamie grabs his phone from the counter and leaves us alone in the room. She smiles while she sips her coffee, enjoying it the way most people savor far better, and sometimes far worse, things.

I’ve learned quickly this woman runs on caffeine and chaos with a sprinkle of glitter disguised as fairy dust tossed in the mix. In less than a full week, there’s been more pink and green glitter on my floors than there’s been in Rosie’s lifetime.

“So . . .” I rinse my now-empty mug and add it to the dishwasher. “What do you have planned for today?”

“Rosie is going to help me teach my art class.” She lifts her large canvas tote bag and sits it on the counter. “I think she’s going to love it.” With a pretty pink flush to her cheeks, she drops her eyes. “And I appreciate you being okay with me taking her.”

I hate the hesitance in her voice.

“Not a problem. I left my keys on the counter. Take my car.” I look at the clock and wince. I’ve got to get going, but I’d much rather stay here and get some answers. Like why is Emmie’s dad in a facility? How long has he been there? And why was she living in that house alone before Camden moved in . . . I want answers, but I get the feeling she doesn’t want to talk about any of it, so I don’t push.

See . . . I can be a nice guy. It’s just easier to be a dick.

I toss my bag next to the door and kick off my shoes after practice, fucking spent and looking forward to just being home. Some guys want to go grab dinner or drinks after practice, and maybe that would be me too if I didn’t have Rosie, but I do. And my kid is the highlight of every day. Lately, it’s been her and Emmie dancing or painting or laughing. Sometimes all of the above. There’s almost always music playing and something baking in the oven. And let’s not forget the glitter. That shit’s been everywhere for days. In just a few short weeks, it’s all become our new norm. One I’ve grown to appreciate because I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Rosie happier. But today, the house is quiet and dark as I step inside and drop my bag by the door.

“Mav?” Emmie’s soft voice whispers from down the hall. And that one word pulls at something deep in my chest. The familiarity there. The comfort. I’m not sure when that happened either, but it did.

“Yeah. Why are you whispering?” I quickly follow her voice and get my answer when I step into the family room and find Rosie asleep on the couch, with her head resting on Emmie’s lap. Her fingers run tenderly through Rosie’s hair.

It’s the picture of the life I thought I’d have one day. Of course, I expected the happy wife and kids to come in my thirties. Instead, I got the amazing kid and a gorgeous nanny in my twenties. “A little late for a nap, isn’t it?”

Emmie shakes her head and trails her fingers down Rosie’s cheek. “She’s not feeling great.”

“What?” I drop to a squat in front of Rosie and press my lips to her forehead. “She’s warm. Why didn’t you call?”

Emmie’s eyes narrow on me, and I realize how harsh my words came out.

Not the first time. And probably won’t be the last.

I don’t actually want to be a dick. But with her, I can’t seem to stop.

“Because she was fine until an hour ago. We got home from our art class, and she said she didn’t feel well. I took her temp, and it was 99.9, so I gave her the approved children’s ibuprofen, and she fell asleep on my lap.” Her hand keeps caressing my kid, and I feel like an ass. “I knew you’d be home soon and didn’t want to bother you. I had it under control.”

“She’s my daughter—not a bother,” I snap, keeping my voice down, as color flushes Emmie’s cheeks. How is it possible to be pissed and fucking turned-on at the same damn time? I swear to God, every single time this girl blushes, a whole new filthy thought comes to mind. I never jerked off as much in my whole damn life as I have these past few weeks.

Maybe Killian’s right. Maybe I do need to get the hell out because staying in isn’t helping with my problem.

“And she’s fine. It’s barely a fever. I followed the instructions you left in the folder. Do you rush her to the pediatrician every time she has a fever?” she pushes back gently, and I reach for Rosie just as Emmie’s hand runs over her hair again. Our hands meet, and her eyes snap to mine just before she yanks her hand away. “Did you really want me to interrupt your practice for this?”

She’s right. I don’t run her to the doctor for every fever. She’s a kid. She gets sick the same as anyone else. Shit. “No. You did the right thing.”

A triumphant smile tugs at her lips. “I’m sorry, what?”

I stand and look at this woman holding my daughter.

She’s so damn beautiful and sweet and sexy without even knowing it.

And fuck, she’s fantastic with Rosie.

But there’s something else . . . something in her eyes when she gives me shit.

Something electric.

Something I enjoy seeing there.

Something I can’t fucking act on, no matter that I want to. Even if it’s the first time I’ve wanted to in a long damn time. But I still enjoy teasing her. “Apology accepted.” I grin, and she shakes her head and giggles quietly. “I said you were right.”

“And . . .” she pushes.

“And I’m sorry for being an overbearing asshole,” I admit.

“It’s okay, Cujo. I’m used to it.” She leans over and kisses Rosie’s head, and I think I’m actually jealous of my kid. “Do you want me to leave her on the couch?”

Nothing about this interaction should be sexy.

None of it should make me desperate for Emmie Monroe.

But it does. It all fucking does.

“I’m gonna put her to bed. Think you could hang around for a few minutes? I want to talk to you about something.” A plan begins to form. One I’m not thrilled with.

“Sure,” she answers with an uneasy voice.

I lift Rosie from Emmie’s lap, and her sleepy eyes open. “Daddy?”

“Yeah, mia picolla rosa. I’m home.”

“I don’t feel so good, Daddy.” Her sleepy voice trails off as her eyes close again.

“I know, sweets.” I carry her upstairs and tuck her in bed. “Try to get some sleep, okay? I’ll check on you in a little bit.”

She wraps her arms around her new stuffed pony—thanks, Mom—and drifts back off again before I even leave the room. I pull the door shut behind me—not wanting Butters jumping in bed with her right now—and head back downstairs to talk to Emmie, but of course my little fairy isn’t where I left her.

“Em,” I call out.

“In the kitchen . . .” She’s cleaning up when I find her, and I find the messy room reassuring. Rosie must have felt okay earlier.

I cross the room, stepping on glitter as I go and lean back against the counter, close but not touching as I watch the way she methodically cleans up art supplies and what I’m guessing are snack plates. “How was art class?”

Emmie’s hands freeze for a split second before she rinses the plates. She doesn’t look away from the sink, but even an asshole like me can see something’s wrong. There’s sadness in her pretty golden-green eyes.

“Hey . . . You okay?” I turn and press my palm to the center of her back because the draw to comfort her is the only thing stronger than the need to find out what upset her.

She places the plates in the drying rack I hadn’t even realized we had and wipes at her eyes as she finally turns toward me, bringing us face-to-face. Close enough that I can see the golden flecks in her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, and I want to kill who ever put them there. “I’m fine. Rosie had a great time. She was the belle of the ball. Everyone loved her, and she loved everyone. We worked on tissue paper flowers today. Rosie and I decided we’re turning the art wall into a garden.”

“Sounds like a nice time.” I slide my hands to her bare arms and run them up and down her smooth skin. “Now, you want to tell me why you’re upset?”

“Not really . . .” Her voice cracks, and a tear slips down her cheek.

I’m not sure why I do what I do next, but it feels so damn right when I wrap my arms around her and tug her against my chest. More right than it has any fucking business feeling.

Emmie buries her face in her hands against my chest, and I inhale the sweet scent of cherries and vanilla. “I’m sorry. Some days are just . . .”

She pulls in a few deep breaths before taking a step back.

With distance between us, I can see the pain etched on her pretty face, but I don’t drop my hold. Not yet. Not when my normally happy girl looks devastated.

Fuck. Not my girl.

She worries her pouty pink bottom lip between her teeth and laughs a pitifully forced laugh. “It’s fine . . . I’m fine . . .” she tries to convince herself and me. Pretty sure it doesn’t work for either of us. “We’re all going to be fine. I’m sorry about this.”

“Em . . .” I want to tell her she can tell me. Want to demand she open up, but who the fuck am I to demand anything like that? “I can’t help you if you don’t let me.”

She reaches up and flattens her delicate hand against my pec, then smooths my shirt as she drags it down my chest. “I appreciate it, Maverick. But you can’t help me. I’m supposed to be helping you.” She takes a few steps back as if getting some space between us will fix everything, then twirls her long hair up and tucks it into a bun on top of her head in what I’ve learned is an almost nervous habit. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

A fake as fuck mask slides in place on her face, and I hate it.

I want the real Emmie back.

The one who smiles or cries.

Jesus. I just want her.

“I’m not fired, am I?”

It’s like I just took a hit from a 320-pound offensive tackle with the way that thought assaults me. No second-guessing it. It’s there, and it’s strong. And it’s why I say what I do. Because I have to. It has to be this way. Goddamn, I’m an asshole.

“No, you’re not fired.” I debate my next words. Rethink them for all of sixty seconds. But when I stand there, wanting nothing more than to take this woman back in my arms and spend the next twenty-four hours lost in her, I know I’m doing the right thing. “I actually wanted to see if you were available to babysit tomorrow night.”

“Oh.” Her mouth pops open, clearly shocked before she schools her features, and she goes back to packing her art bag and not looking at me.

Great.

This shit shouldn’t be this hard.

“Do you have a game already?” she asks, glancing up quickly before busying herself.

Wouldn’t she know if Camden had a game?

Something’s not right with Emmie’s family.

She won’t talk about her dad, barely mentions her sister, and Camden and she seem more like roommates than siblings. I don’t know enough about her, but I’m not sure how to fix that without digging a bigger ditch to bury myself in.

“No. No game. Friends are going into the city to see a band, and they asked me to go. I don’t really feel like it, but I kind of owe them. First preseason game is next Thursday. It’s on the schedule I sent you. That will be a late night, so if you don’t want to do tomorrow⁠—”

“Sure. Go. I’ve got Rosie. Just text me what time.” She nibbles her lips and slides her bag over her shoulder. “Tell the guys I said bye.”

Why the hell does her easy acceptance bother me?

And why does watching her walk out my door bother me even more?

Emmie

“Hey, you hungry?” The scent of grease and carbs assaults me as Camden looks up from the kitchen table once I’ve let myself in the back door. “I picked up burgers and fries from The Busy Bee on my way home.”

I look at the take-out boxes and ignore the way my stomach growls. “Aren’t you supposed to be eating healthy?”

Camden takes a bite of his burger and pushes a box my way. “Meal delivery service starts tomorrow. Look at it like a last meal.”

“That’s morbid,” I mumble but eye his food. Maybe eating my emotions will make this day better. I pick at one of Camden’s fries and dip it in his ketchup. “But then again, my whole day has been messed up. I guess it’s fitting.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks around a mouth full of burger.

“That’s disgusting. Chew your food with your mouth closed.”

“Eat your own fries,” he taunts, and for a minute I forget my crappy, confusing day and smile, remembering how many times we had this conversation growing up.

I pull my phone from my pocket and snap a pic of my brother, wanting to capture the memory.

“What are you doing?” he asks, even though he knows the answer. I’ve been taking pictures of our lives for as long as I can remember.

I show him the action shot, and he wipes his mouth with a napkin and looks at my box, waiting for me to eat. Stubborn pain in my butt. After a stupid stare-off, I open my box and peel the tomato off the burger and toss it into Camden’s box, then steal the pickles he’s pulled off his and set aside. “Are you ever going to see Dad?”

“Fuck,” he groans and puts his burger down.

“Ignoring him isn’t going to change it, you know.” I hate how weak my voice sounds, but I’ve been forcing a strong front all day, and I’ve got nothing left.

As soon as Rosie and I got to Sugar Hill Assisted Living, I knew it was going to be a bad day. One of my favorite nurses pulled me aside when we first walked in and let me know Dad was having a bad day. They’re happening more and more often, and there’s nothing we can do about it. “You need to see him, Camden.”

“I . . .” Cam has no words. He never does. Not when it comes to Dad. “I will.”

“When?” One little word, but there’s no mistaking the strength I muster behind it. “Because we both know we’re not promised a single minute in this life. And I don’t know how many minutes he has left.”

“Emmie—” God, the hurt in his voice is awful.

“Don’t bother. I’m not even sure why I try. You’re going to do what you want to. You always have.” I shove my chair back so hard, it nearly topples over as I stand. “If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for him. He deserves that much.”

“He won’t even know I’m there, Em.”

“I feel sorry for you if that’s what you think, Cam. His heart will always know. And so will yours.” I force back the emotion threatening to drown me. “I’m going to bed.”

“You didn’t even eat.”

“I’m not hungry.” Just exhausted.

I yank my phone from my pocket as I head upstairs.