Page 136 of Wildest Dreams

I clear my throat and jab my finger at the bag.

“What’s in your… bathroom purse?” I ask roughly, narrowing my eyes when she immediately zips it up.

She gives me a naughty little smile that has me shifting my body on the log. There’s no way I can readjust what’s happening in my jeans while her brother is barely five feet away from us so I just send up a prayer that I won’t die from this hard-on and let my eyes continue raking her up and down.

“Just girly things,” she whispers, teasing and coy as hell.

I slide my palm lower down her back, check that the guys are too busy laughing to notice us, and then I dip my fingers below her waistband, breathing hard when they snag her panties.

I’m thinking about kissing the soft lobe of her ear when a sudden thought occurs to me.

“Baby,” I whisper, “where’d your earrings go?”

Aisling has been wearing this pair of diamond earrings for pretty much the whole summer – hell, I’m pretty sure she wore them during most of our senior year, too. But a little over a week ago she suddenly stopped wearing them.

Aisling makes a small squeaking sound.

I glance down at her, arching my brow in a gentle question.

“Um,” she whispers, her eyes fucking gigantic as she peeks up at me.

I breathe out a laugh. “What is it?” I murmur, not understanding that reaction.

“Are you sure that you wanna know?” she asks quietly, which instantly has my heart rate kicking up a notch.

“…Yeah,” I rumble, even though now I’m a little nervous.

She pushes her hair back from her shoulder, looking almost as nervous as I am.

“Fine,” she breathes out. “They were a gift from Brennan, my ex. I guess that I thought it was time to stop wearing them.”

I blink down at her for a moment in total fucking silence.

Because… that’s a good thing. She stopped wearing a gift from her ex boyfriend, meaning that he’s no longer of importance to her.

And maybe that’s partially because of me. Maybe it’s because she wants the two of us to get serious. Maybe she–

“Hold up.” I pull back, heart thundering. “What did you say that his name was again?”

Aisling peers up at me, a tiny frown on her nervous brow.

“…Brennan,” she says, because she’s probably wondering why the hell that’s of interest to me.

Oh my God.

I’ll tell you why it’s of interest to me.

Because when I almost got my ankle broken this year, before the Frozen Four final?

The player who did it was fucking calledBrennan.

I’m so damn shocked that my jaw practically hits my boots.

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” I ask, my voice deep and hushed.

“…No?” she says, looking confused. Can’t blame her.

“Did he play hockey?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

---