Chapter Eighteen
Funny how a few hockey players could change the energy in the bar. The Black Dog had gone from being boisterous and loud, to being boisterous and really loud with a dose of frenetic energy that touched everyone. Sure, they’d had their fair share of celebrities in the place, but to most of the people in the bar tonight, Dean Kendrick and the rest of his buddies were like gods.
Abby shook her head as she grabbed another bottle of vodka from the stock room, along with two bottles of red wine.
Smiling, she wove through the crowd, winking at Old Joe, a Wednesday night regular who flirted outrageously. The guy was on the wrong end of seventy, short, round, bald and widowed, with no family close by. But he was the sweetest little old man ever and he liked his extra spicy chicken wings almost as much as he liked his Guinness. Abby had known him for years—back when he still had salt-and-pepper hair—and he’d always been, Old Joe.
She handed the bottle of vodka to her brother without saying a word—still pissed at his attitude—and headed toward the far end of the bar with the wine. Dean Kendrick was sitting next to Tucker, and he’d ordered a bottle of California red.
The star center for the Rangers was something else. His hair was on the long side, his eyebrow was pierced and a tattoo crawled up his neck. His eyes were pale blue and his killer smile told Abby that he could give Old Joe a run for his money when it came to the flirting thing.
He was also funny as hell, and, considering all the hype surrounding him, surprisingly down to earth. She had the feeling he acted like a player, but in reality he was just enjoying the game, so to speak. The women. The attention. The notoriety.
She handed him a fresh glass of wine. He’d meet his match one day. He just wasn’t quite ready for it yet.
“Thanks gorgeous,” Dean said with a smile.
Ignoring him, Abby leaned her hip against the bar and looked at Tucker. God, she wanted to bury her hands in all that thick hair and kiss him silly.
“So how’s it goin’ Cowboy?”
Tucker’s nostrils flared. His eyes flattened and that beautiful mouth of his curved into a smile.
“Cowboy?” Dean asked, sipping his wine and smiling as a lady slid in beside him for a picture.
Tucker ignored him, didn’t take his eyes off of Abby, and she didn’t have to look into the mirror to know that her cheeks were red. Hell, every inch of her was hot and twitchy—which was pretty damn inconvenient considering they were in the middle of The Black Dog.
Dean finished signing the woman’s chest, posed for one more picture before elbowing his agent. “Cowboy?”
Tucker took a sip of beer and shrugged, though that satisfied smile was still on his face.
“Tucker here likes horses,” Abby said playfully.
“No I don’t.”
“No?” She asked, sliding a beer bottle to the guy on the other side of Tucker. He was one of Dean’s buddies and, at the moment, was chatting up her roommate, Lisa.
“Let me rephrase,” Tucker replied. “Not all horses are created equal.”
“Who doesn’t like horses?” Dean asked, glancing back and forth between them.
Abby’s mouth was dry because the way Tucker was looking at her right now, she knew that he was hot. She knew that he was hot and bothered. She knew that he was wound up—that the sexual tension they’d danced around the entire evening was getting to be too much.
“You do know that I grew up in Wyoming, right?”
Tucker glanced at Dean. “Really?”
“Yep. I’ve ridden my share of horses.”
“Good to know.” Tucker stood and splayed his hands on the top of the bar. He leaned close, so that only Abby could hear him. “I just prefer to be ridden is all.”
She tried to swallow. Or maybe she didn’t. Who the hell knew?
The only thing that Abby was sure about right now was that she hadn’t been alone with Tucker since Monday. And like a virus that was inside her, infiltrating her cells—leeching into her bones—she needed him.
“Are you almost done?” He asked, moving back an inch, so that she could breathe.
Abby glanced up at the clock behind the bar. It was nearly eleven and the kitchen had just closed, but the crowd was still busy.
“Go,” Lisa said hopping onto the bar, and swiveling her butt around until she dropped beside Abby. “I’ll help Mick out. It’s the least I can do for spilling the beans and all.” She scrunched up her nose. “Which I’m so sorry about, it just kind of fell out of my mouth.”
Abby spied Mick chatting with Pete and Old Joe. If she was going to sneak out now was her chance. “Okay,” she whispered. “Thanks Lisa.”
She grabbed her jacket and purse from beneath the bar, pulled a Lisa and hopped overtop until she was standing between Tucker and Dean.
“Shit,” Dean said stepping back. “That’s the fastest turn around I’ve seen since—” he poked the guy beside him “—Jake here, stole the puck off Louinski and took it all the way back to score.”
“What?” Abby asked a little out of breath. Her brain was too fuzzy to work things out. Kind of hard to do when all she was thinking about was Tucker Simon.
“Never mind,” Dean chuckled. He shook Tucker’s hand. “I like your girl.” And then he moved out of the way so that they could leave. Tucker shrugged into his suit jacket and grabbed her hand.
They’d just cleared the bar when he turned and slid his other hand up to her jaw, holding her in place. Helplessly she stared up into his eyes and opened her mouth to accept a bold, hot kiss that had her toes curling and her stomach clenching in less than five seconds.
Jesus, that had to be some kind of record.
Tucker tore his mouth away. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Okay,” she managed to say.
“My place?” Tucker asked, waiting.
Abby nodded while Tucker hailed a cab. Less than twenty minutes later, they were let out in front of a beautiful old building on Central Park South. Overlooking the park, it was prime real estate, but then, had she expected Tucker to live anywhere else but in a place like this?
“Mr. Simon.”
“Patrick.” Tucker nodded to the doorman, and then grabbed Abby’s hand. They walked into the Essex House and Abby felt more than a little out of place. An elderly couple was checking into the hotel, the woman dressed to the nines. Abby could see the glitter of diamonds on her neck from several feet away.
“You live in a hotel?” she whispered as they approached the elevators.
“It’s a mix of owners and guests.”
“Wow. You must think my place is so…” she blushed.
“Your place is great, Abby. It’s just real estate.”
The ride up was quiet and Abby had no idea what changed, but suddenly she was nervous as hell. Tucker’s cell pinged, and he grabbed it with his right, while his left kept hers firmly in his grasp.
Glancing downward, she fixated on her smaller hand in his. At his long, tapered fingers, the masculine width and the darkened skin.
The pale white line on his ring finger.
Abby exhaled. Her stomach jumped and her heart began to beat faster. How had she never noticed that before? The stark reminder of the absence of his wedding ring was somehow so much worse than if he still wore the plain gold band she’d seen before.
When had he stopped wearing it? What did it mean? Did it really matter?
The glaring emptiness on his finger was something she didn’t want to look at. It was a reminder of an unfinished past, and she glanced up sharply, just as the elevator came to a halt and Tucker shoved his cell back into his pocket.
“My brother, Jack. I’ll call him later.”
The doors slid open, and Tucker took a step and paused. “Abby?” Gently he tugged her forward and nodded to his left. “This is me.”
Lights were on low, showcasing a home that was masculine with bold blue walls, dark mahogany leather, and framed artwork in reds, whites and blue. The apartment was open concept and her eyes swept the entire area, resting on the granite island in the kitchen.
It was understated luxury, made up of raw masculine components. It was all Tucker.
He was watching her, and she bit her lip nervously. She knew he’d never lived here with his wife—he’d told her that much. But still…she thought of all the other women he’d brought back here. The models. The heiresses. The freaking yoga instructors. And for the first time since she’d started this—whatever it was—with Tucker, she felt scared.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough. “Is something wrong?”
YES! I love you. I love you more than I should and I’m scared shitless here.
She shook her head and whispered. “No.”
“Come here,” he said, tossing his jacket onto the sofa behind him. Several feet back, the floor to ceiling windows showed an uncompromised view of Central Park. Stars and city lights twinkled, haloing Tucker and making him seem almost, not real.
She dragged her eyes up to his. Watched the subtle flare in his nostrils. The way his eyes went dark because he was aroused. He wanted her. He wanted her right now.
But he didn’t love her.
Is that enough for me?
“Abby.”
The tone in his voice grabbed her hard, and, mouth dry, she walked toward him, not stopping until his arms were around her and she rested her head against his chest.
For a long time, the two of them stood like that. Tucker holding Abby and Abby listening to his heartbeat. It felt so damn right to be here with him.
“Are you okay?”
She shook her head, still not sure she could speak without sounding like an idiot. And shit, were those tears poking the corner of her eyes? What the hell was wrong with her?
Tucker’s hand slipped under her chin, and he forced her gaze up to his. “I’ve never brought anyone back here.” He paused, his thumb stroking gently. “I just wanted you to know that.”
Something broke apart inside Abby. Something hard and hot and heavy. She stood on her tiptoes, hands buried in that thick hair that had been teasing her all night. She opened her mouth and kissed him as if she was starving.
She kissed him as if she could somehow communicate her need and want and…
Her love.
It was as if she needed him to know what she didn’t have the balls to say and how f*cked up was that, considering she knew he could never return her feelings?
With a groan, Tucker broke off their kiss. “Unless you want me to bend you over the sofa and have at it, I suggest we head that way.”
Flushed, Abby nodded, letting him take her hand and lead the way to his bedroom. A low slung table near the fireplace caught her attention and she stumbled as they passed it.
There were photographs, but one in particular caught her attention.
Tucker. A much younger looking Tucker smiling down at a woman as they sat on the edge of a boat. A cute, little blond thing.
It was Marley. Of course it was Marley.
“Coming?” Tucker said gently.
For one second, Abby could have turned around and marched her ass out of his apartment. She could have told him this wasn’t going to work. She could have told him that she had lied to him. That she was in love with him and headed for heartbreak.
She could have done the whole self-preservation thing. That would have been the smart thing to do.
But she didn’t.
Abby followed Tucker into his bedroom. She let him undress her. She let him pull her hair out of its tie and run his fingers along her scalp. She let him kiss her. Touch her. Make love to her.
And it felt so good to be with him. She reveled in the feel of him. In the taste and energy in him. She fed from him and told herself that things would be all right. That when the time came for this to end—when he finally realized her lie—the pain would be worth it.
She lied to herself.
Because she was that weak.