Claire
I get tired of staring at the walls in my empty apartment.
My earlier visit with Gran this afternoon was cut short when she fell asleep on the couch, so I covered her up, made sure her fridge was stocked, that she had snacks and drinks within arm’s reach and then went home.
To stare at those walls.
Until the quiet becomes overwhelming and I find myself getting in my car and driving…
To CeCe’s.
It’s just a local bar and restaurant—nothing fancy—but the food is good, the music is great, and the back room feels like a secret hideaway for just me and the crew from the Breakers.
“Claire!”
Case in point?
Several of the guys are taking up most of a large round table on the far side of the room. They wave me over, and I can’t lie, I feel a wave of relief when I see Raph, Walker, Cas, and Smitty…and no Jackson.
The scene in the player’s lounge a few days ago has been imprinted on my mind.
Jackson’s body.
The heat in his eyes and how it stoked the embers of need in my belly, always present when he’s near, but transformed into flames that threaten to incinerate me when he was so close to me, so focused on me, so…much to me.
And when he touched me, when his body came close, when I felt far too much at freaking work…
My knees tremble.
My nighttime fantasies have been off the charts the last couple of nights.
Thankfully, Jackson isn’t here and I don’t need to be distracted by those fantasies, by the dreams, by the insatiable need that has me charging my vibrator every night.
I walk over to the table, sink into an empty seat between Smitty and the wall, feeling something settle in me when he bumps his shoulder against mine. “Where’s Kailey and the rest of the crew?”
He smiles. “The girls took the twins to that new kids’ movie.” One big shoulder lifts then drops. “They said no hockey players allowed.”
“No,” Walker says, mouth curving. “They said no loud hockey players allowed”—he winks at me—“as in no loud hockey players who like to talk during previews and all the intense parts because they’re nervous a movie for kids won’t have a happy ending.”
“Hey now,” Smitty protests. “That shit gets intense sometimes. Especially when they kill off Bambi’s mom or whatever.”
My gaze connects with Walker’s across the table, and he rolls his eyes, but his mouth—just like mine—is curved up at the edges. “Dommie wants you to taste test a new cake flavor the bakery is trying out. You down?”
“This”—I wave a hand at my jaw—“sweet tooth is always down for any consumption of baked goods, but especially those delicious baked goods loaded with sugar and covered in frosting your woman makes.”
He grins. “I’ll tell her to text you.”
I nod, open my mouth to thank him, but the words don’t make it past my lips.
Because my gaze slides over his shoulder at the sight of someone coming close—
No. Not someone.
Jackson is walking across the room, all loose-limbed grace and leanly muscled strength.
Our eyes connect, and I’m lost in the deep brown depths, breath trapped in my lungs, heart suddenly in my throat. Like amber stones glinting in the sunshine, so many shades of brown and gold and—
He blinks, and the connection breaks as he looks away, a muscle in his cheek flickering.
Heat crawls up my cheeks at his obvious dismissal.
“You good?” Smitty asks.
A shrug before Jackson hesitates to take the only empty seat at the table…
The one next to me.
His mouth flattens out, and I get a flash of that dog-poop-on-the-bottom-of-his-boot feeling before I shove that down and lift a brow in his direction.
A flicker of connection, of him responding to my nonverbal challenge.
Then he’s glancing away again, dropping with a sigh into the seat next to me.
“I’m fine,” Jackson mutters when Smitty shifts, as though getting ready to ask again, and adds, “I had to change my pump, something I’ve done a fuck-ton of times in my life. It’s not rocket-science.”
My gaze goes to between the men, wondering what Smitty’s reaction is going to be to that obvious dismissal.
But there isn’t one—or not much of one, anyway. Smitty just shrugs, lifts the pitcher in question to Jackson and then to me. Jackson nods. I shake my head.
“She doesn’t like beer, dumbass,” Jackson mutters.
Which makes Smitty’s mouth quirk as he fills one chilled glass and slides it over to Jackson.
I don’t get a chance to comment on the fact that Jackson knows I don’t like beer because suddenly he’s shoving his chair back and stalking across the room, moving with purpose to the bar and speaking with the bartender.
A few moments later, the man starts moving, mixing up a drink.
My heart tries to leapfrog out of my throat, especially when I see the glint of a copper mug, know that it’s for a Moscow mule.
My drink of choice.
“Hmm,” Smitty says quietly.
“What?”
But he doesn’t answer, just turns to answer something that Raph asks him, and meanwhile, I’m watching Jackson pay for my drink and tip the bartender and…
Carry the drink back to the table.
Watching him set it gently in front of me.
I glance from the copper mug up to him. “Thanks,” I say, almost expecting him to return to jerk, to spill it in my lap or something so I have to go home.
He doesn’t.
He just sits in silence next to me.
And I sit in silence next to him.
And…I drink my drink.
And…he drinks his drink.
But I can’t help but think that this is going to fuel my nighttime fantasies as well.
An hour later, I’m ready for one more drink before I head home.
Normally, I would have left already, gone back to my bed and my blankets and my laptop filled with work, but Jackson slipped out a bit ago and the tension between my shoulder blades relaxed.
And Smitty has been telling a funny story filled with on-ice antics and…
Well, part of me doesn’t want to go home yet.
Quietly, I push my chair back—
But quietly doesn’t matter with these guys—they all turn to me.
“You heading home?” Smitty asks, big palms on the table, as though he’s going to push himself up. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
I shake my head. “I’m just going to get one more drink before I head out.”
“I can—”
I touch his shoulder, staying him. “I’ve got it. Really,” I tell Raph, Walker, and Cas when they open their mouths, the protests already forming on their faces. “I need to stretch my legs.”
And then I get up and head to the bar.
Because that’s the only way to handle these guys—stand firm on the battles I need to win and strategically retreat before they can work up any further protests.
Tonight, the battle I need to win is me buying my own drinks.
It’s bad enough that Jackson got the first one.
I—
Need to stop thinking about him.
I wait for the bartender to notice me then order my drink.
He smiles, starts mixing, and I lean against the worn wood, my mind drifting to work.
There’s the new social media coordinator to help train, several meetings with Luc about team maintenance—marketing, press, contracts, and the like, and—
“Hey.”
For a second, I think it’s the bartender and start to thank him, but then I realize as I’ve been thinking about work, a man’s come close.
A very attractive man with a nice smile, striking blue eyes and medium blond hair. He’s in shape and several inches taller than me. And he smells nice.
Too bad my body goes…meh.
Because I’m too focused on the fact that my nerves are on fire from having sat next to Jackson all night, our thighs occasionally brushing, his spicy scent in my nose—
Jesus. Just stop, Claire.
I want a family.
I want someone who’ll like me for me, not play jerk because he’s too scared to let anyone in and—
The man next to me flicks his brows up, and I realize I’ve been staring at him for far too long.
“H-hey,” I stammer back.
He sticks out his hand. “I’m Matt.”
My cheeks feel like they’re on fire as I shake it. “H-hi, Matt.”
His smile widens, his brows flick up again, warm fingers wrapping around mine. “What’s your name, baby?”
That feels…
Strange. Wrong.
But I still say, “Claire. I’m Claire Jones.” I shrug. “Pretty much the most boring name in history.”
He chuckles…
And, heaven help me, but Operation Word Vomit commences.
“I actually come from a long line of Joneses, or am adopted into that line, anyway. But Joneses—that’s plural for Jones and without the dreaded apostrophe or worse, the apostrophe and the extra s that people seem to default to on addresses. J-O-N-E-S-E-S. Anyway, my grandmother is a stickler for grammar and punctuation, so I try to make sure I don’t cause her extra undue pain, you know? Because grandmothers are the coolest women around—or at least mine is. She knows how to properly use skibidi Ohio rizz like all the young kids and I swear, even they don’t know what it means, and then she can go and make some of the best chocolate chip cookies you’ve ever tasted. She’s super fun to hang with. Mostly because she adopted me and because we like to solve word puzzles while chowing down on ice cream together. Talk about the best kind of night, especially when there’s bingo—”
“You know what?” Matt says, slipping his hand from mine and holding up his phone. “This is actually work. I have to take this call.”
I only have a second to frown at the blank screen, indicating no incoming call, before he’s gone, walking away and hurrying out of the room.
“That’ll be twelve dollars.”
“Here.”
It’s a familiar voice, same as the familiar hand that reaches forward and passes the bartender a twenty. “Keep the change.” Then Smitty pushes the mule into my hands and orders, quietly—thank God, he somehow mastered how to be quiet for a few minutes, “Drink that. Christ. I’m dying of secondhand embarrassment over here.”
My cheeks flare and I wince before I guzzle down some vodka. “I suck at dating.”
“And talking apparently,” he says lightly.
“Smitty,” I groan, dropping my chin to my chest. “Really?”
He tugs a lock of my hair, tone still gentle. “It happens to the best of us.”
“Does it?” I ask dryly. “Does it really?”
A wince. “Okay, so maybe not.”
“Exactly.” I sigh, torn between buying another drink so I can start double-fisting or running the hell out of this bar.
“Claire Bear?”
I look up at the suddenly gentle question—not a hint of teasing in sight.
“Yeah?”
Smitty tucks me against his big, warm side. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”