Page 12 of Stick Fight

Her lips twitch like the idea of a hockey player adding scented fabric softener to his wash is crazy. Her fingers brush mine as I pass it to her. It’s soft, well-worn, and at least two sizes too big. She brings it to her nose.

“You’re right. This does smell good. I actually use orange blossom. Maybe I’ll switch.”

Yeah, okay. I agree discussing laundry with a half-naked woman in my hotel suite, one who was just jilted, is kind of strange. But…I like it.

“I don’t have any sweatpants,” I admit. “Only jeans, dress pants, and a bathing suit.” I tug at the waistband of my suit. “I mean, I could offer you these, but—” I wink. “They’ve been kind of touching…my farm parts.”

“Farm parts,” she bursts out.

“Did you ever meet my uncle Stan?” Why on earth would she have ever met my uncle Stan, and maybe I should have kept the conversation about laundry, but I started down this road, so here I go. “He has the dairy farm back home. Lots of cows, goats, sheep…” I wait for her to answer, and when she just crinkles up her nose, I continue. “That’s what he used to call.” I point downward. “Well, you know.”

“Oh yeah, I know.” Chuckling quietly, she bites her bottom lip, and sniffs the T-shirt again. “This is perfect, Roman.” Keeping the lingerie pressed against her torso to cover—things I’d never call farm parts—she pulls the T-shirt close. “I have nightgowns that are shorter. I’ll be right back.”

I turn away as she darts into the bathroom and roll my eyes at myself. Farm parts?Dude, get it together. I turn to the TV and pretend I’m invested in the movie playing out. But when she steps back into the room, and my head swivels to find her in my shirt, my brain short-circuits again.

Fuck you, brain.

Is she wearing panties?

I drag a hand down my face and shift my focus, locking my gaze on the TV. Anywhere but her legs.

“I found this in the bathroom,” she announces, and I’m forced to turn back—poor me—to see her holding up a tiny sewing kit.

I cock my head. “You planning on sewing something tonight?”

“Nope.” A mischievous glint flashes in her eyes as she pops open the kit and pulls out the world’s smallest pair of scissors. “I thought I’d destroy something.”

Her gaze flicks toward the wedding dress, and my stomach tightens. As much as I like seeing the spark back in her, I can’t let that happen.

“Gabs… I don’t know.”

Determination etched all over her face, she zeroes in on the dress. “Yeah, well, I do.”

“What if…” I trail off.

No questions.

She raises a brow. “What if tomorrow I wake up, change my mind, and go back to the cheating asshole?”

I shrug. Honestly, I don’t know what the light of day will bring and while I’d like to have five minutes in the alley with the douche bag, I’m not about to judge her if she runs back to him.

Funny, come the light of day, I usually run…the other way…but a girl knows what she’s getting into with me.

What was the cryptic message the fortune teller at the Halloween party said to you, dude?

That I wouldn’t be the one to run, she would.

Not that I believe in fortune tellers, and I have no idea why I’m thinking about that now, other than the fact that Gabby is the one on the run. But not from me. This has nothing to do with the weird prediction that I don’t believe.

Yet here you are thinking about it.

“Gabs?”

She just shakes her head. “He hurt me, Roman. I’m not ever going back.”

“Okay.” I exhale. “It’s just that dress looks pretty expensive.”

“Oh, it is,” she snaps, with a resentful huff. “Hisfamousfather designed it last year.” A bitter laugh escapes her, hollow and cutting. “I wasn’t even allowed to design my own one-of-a-kind wedding dress. My own damn dress.” I voiced it, quietly, but…I was expected to be ever so grateful to wear that.” She swallows hard, her emotions moving over her face like a volatile storm. Then, with a hint of something darker in her tone, she adds, “Maybe Luc thought my design would pale in comparison to his last year’s off the rack, or wouldn’t be fitting to wear next to his perfectly handsome, runway model son donning a Luc St. Pierre original.”

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