North Country(43)

I hold up the glove from my last year playing bantam level. It’s covered in my teammates’ signatures. “I told her to let it all go. Jay’s dead, and I’m not gonna have kids.”

“You don’t think so?”

My chuckle carries in the quiet space. “With who? The only woman I ever loved went and got knocked up by a douchebag who cheated on her.” Well, that was blunt, and highly unfair.

Silence answers.

Finally, I dare steal a glance over my shoulder.

Emery stands by the truck, the cowboy hat I abandoned to the floor now in her fingers, her lips parted as if she’s searching for the right response. “That make you feel better?” Her tone is dry.

“Not really,” I admit. “I won’t be having kids. I’m a criminal, remember? I have nothing to offer anyone.” I go back to my rummaging while Emery watches. In another box is my old hockey equipment. “Damn, I think I can still smell my sweat.” I hold up a skate. “Wonder if these will still fit.”

“You’ll find out soon enough. Jon builds a hockey rink every year for the kids. ”

“I keep hearing about it. Not sure what that means.”

Emery snorts. “Oh, you’ll see.”

“Can’t wait.” In the box beside my gear are rolled-up posters.

“Back at the Bale House, you mentioned Dorsey,” Emery says, reorienting the conversation. “That’s the inmate who assaulted you. Why did you say his name?”

Fuck. She heard that too. “Let it go, Em.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Do I?” I unfurl a poster of Kurt Cobain holding his guitar, a cigarette hanging from his lips. “She really is a pack rat, huh?” I rub my thumb over the Scotch tape still pasted to the corners as raw nostalgia overwhelms me. I remember this one; it was plastered to the back of Jay’s bedroom door for years.

“Have you been to his grave yet?” Emery asks softly, changing gears.

“No.” I release the bottom and the paper curls upward. “Mom wanted to take me but …” I let the excuse drift.

“She goes pretty often. She’s the only one who does.”

“I can’t blame anyone for wanting to forget him. Jay really fucked us all, didn’t he?”

“He really did.” Emery’s voice cracks. “Do you hate him?”

I toss the poster back in the box. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I mean, I did.” There were long years when I wished he was alive just so I could choke the life out of him. “I learned to let go of that. Did me no good to hold on to it.” But now I’m back here with Emery, a spectator of the life I lost, the future I can’t have, and I fucking hate my brother all over again.

She leans against the truck, her fitted jeans hugging her thighs, that silky top grazing the last set of breasts I’ve ever touched, the afternoon before my life went to hell. I’ve played that day over and over, and that’s what I remember most—the feel of her soft, feminine skin against my fingertips.

My dick twitches.

Maybe Jameson was right and I should have found an easy fuck to get it out of my system. Though, something tells me I’ll never be able to look at Em and not feel this instant gravitational pull toward her .

“Sometimes I still hate him for what he did to all of us,” she admits quietly, pulling away from her post to close in. She stops inches away, tipping her head back to meet my gaze, her jaw setting with determination. “And I won’t let the past get dragged back into our lives, so you need to tell me what tonight was about.”

“Let it go, Em. Please,” I plead.

“No.” Piercing green eyes scour mine for answers. Even in this shitty light, they’re mesmerizing.

I can’t help myself, reaching up to stroke a loose strand of hair off her face, leaving my finger to linger against her skin. “God, you are even more beautiful all these years later.” The words slip out unbidden, but I’ve never meant anything more.

“I …” She falters, her eyes squeezing shut as she reaches up to slip her hand over mine, weaving her fingers between them. Her touch is soft as she presses my palm against her cheek as if savoring the feel of it.

My thumb drifts toward her lips slowly, afraid to say or do anything that might break this moment. “Emery,” I force out. It’s barely a whisper. There are so many things I want to say to her right now, I can’t find a place to start.

The side door to the garage creaks open then and my father marches in. He stops short when he sees us standing by the boxes.

Emery jerks away from my touch, putting distance between us. “Hey, Holt.” She clears her throat as she studies the concrete.

“I didn’t realize you’d left the Bale House,” he says.

“Yeah, not long after Logan.” She offers a tight smile.

My father grunts, and it could mean any number of things. “I need a word with my son. Alone.”

I knew this was coming, but I would have liked more warning. I was so entranced by Emery, I hadn’t heard the truck pull in.

She seems to have collected herself from that brief vulnerable moment, her shoulders pulling back. “About Hank Murphy, I presume?”

His lips purse. “That’s right.”

“That’s why I’m here too. I want answers.” She glances between the two of us, decides something, and then strolls toward the back door she came in. Only she doesn’t exit. She pivots and takes the stairs up to my apartment, making a point of slamming the door at the top.