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Long moments unwind in the dark before he clears his throat. “Well, we were on the couch, and you took off your clothes and put on a titty show—a very stimulating one, I might add. Then you stripped me down and hauled my ass into the bedroom.” A salacious grin threads through his baritone.

This is Colby’s defense mechanism, I’ve learned. He resorts to deflection or humor, and right now he’s defaulting to the latter. I welcome the mental break, though.

“What?” I scoff with exaggerated indignation. “That is so not true.”

“A guy can dream.”

“And this is what you dream about?”

“Every minute of every day,” he quips.

“You need a life, dude.”

He sifts my hair through his fingers. “I’ve got one. It’s just not exactly the one I want right now.”

How do I process that? Does he see a future that includes me? I hesitate before I ask the next question. “What’s the life you do want?”

His smile fades, and he shifts, his discomfort palpable. “I wish I knew,” he says softly.

I don’t know what I was hoping for, but it’s not the answer he gives me, and my heart constricts. Why did I even go there? As if I don’t know the answer.

Insecurity is the bitch driving this bus right now.

Chapter 32

Fissures

Colby

Jackie stiffens against me. The answer I gave her was unplanned but honest, and judging by her body language, she doesn’t like it. What I didn’t add is that I want her in my life but don’t know how to make that happen.

“What’s not to like about your life as it is right now, especially when you have women throwing themselves at you? I’m sure there will be all kinds of opportunities while you’re on the road this week.”

Where the hell did that come from? I shoot upright, practically rolling her off me. “Is that a joke?”

Her eyes widen, and she scoots back and pulls a pillow to her chest. “It’s just … I know about hockey players, remember? And what happens on the road. You can’t tell me you’ve never hit on anyone or been hit on and taken advantage.”

Canting my head, I look straight into her eyes, hoping to find a clue written in their pale green depths. What I see is a mix of challenge, curiosity, and doubt.

She pokes my pec and goes for a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Am I right?”

I close my fingers around her hand, flattening it against my chest. “What are you really asking me?” I’m pretty sure I know the answer, and I blame her manwhore of a brother for this discussion I want no part of. Between what Jackie’s asshole of an ex did to her and watching her brother treat skirt-chasing like it’s a marathon he has to win, it’s no surprise if she thinks I’m banging every puck bunny in sight. Might be no surprise, but it’s disappointing. And insulting. I’m not her ex, nor am I her brother. “Do you honestly want to know that?”

I’m learning a lot about Jackie. For instance, the way her cheeks blaze like they are now is a tell that exposes her embarrassment. While part of me wants to soothe away her discomfort, another part of me resents being stuck in this conversation and wants to run as far and as fast as possible from it. But apparently this is important to her, which means I need to man up and face it.

She gives a slight bob of her head. “I do.” Her voice is so small it makes my chest ache.

A sigh whooshes from me. I release her hand and shove my fingers through my hair. Cautiously, I prowl over my next words. “There was a time, in the past—especially when I first broke into the league—where … Let’s just say, guilty as charged.” I gauge her reaction, but none shows on her pretty face, so I continue. “Lately? Not so much. And not now.” I wave my hand between us.

She regards me for a beat, two, then murmurs, “Me either.”

What I don’t say is probably more important than the little I just shared. For instance, how relieved I am that she’s not with anyone else. If she wants the exclusive label, she’s got it without having to ask. I’m not even tempted to look at anyone else, much less go through the gyrations of getting them to sleep with me. Any hookup would be a massive letdown. Not worth it. Nothing and no one could ever compare to Jackie, and I’d rather be celibate for a decade if it meant being with her in the end. She’s the pinnacle, the apex of all that’s good, and sex with her is on a plane of its own—maybe because of the connection I’ve never felt with anyone else but her.

But I don’t say any of these things. There’s a lot I withhold from her, and I question whether I’m following the wisest course.

She seems to accept my declaration, giving me a drowsy half-smile before nestling back against me. I hold her close until her breathing evens out and her body softens as she drifts off. But I’m wound tighter than the tape on my stick. Unbidden thoughts float and twine in my stewed brain, and I shift so I can look at her beautiful face while she sleeps.

I love watching her. Being with her. Having her scent on my pillows and sheets. I love her. The thought hits me that this woman isn’t just the only one I want in my bed. She’s the only one I want. Period. Ever. And that downright terrifies me.