Page 56 of One Steamy Pucking Meet Cute

A young couple is all smiles as they check out from their room and gush about how much they loved the town and the experience at the B&B. They’re just sorry they’ll miss the rest of “those hilarious wedding games”. The wife tells Caroline she especially enjoyed watching “the cannonball,” which makes Caroline’s cheeks go red.

My good mood fades when the doors open, and Peter Ralmadue strolls in with a smug expression on his face. “Oh, good,” he says when he sees me. “The fake fiancé is here.”

“Excuse me?” I ask. I don’t bother getting up from the table where I’m sitting as I watch the small man approach. He’s wearing a cheap suit and holding a briefcase. He sets it down between us and sits.

So much for our theory that he was waiting and hoping we forgot about the arrangement.

Caroline notices as she’s finishing up with the guests, and I can sense her trying to hurry them out now.

“I’ve seen through this little scheme since the start,” Peter says. “How stupid do you think I am?”

I feel the ice in my veins. This guy is the one putting stress on Caroline. This guy is the one who tried to come in and take what matters most to her. This fucker is lucky I don’t chuck him straight through the nearest wall–which, for the record, I am still considering a viable option. “How stupid do I think you are?” I ask, voice cold. “You sure you want me to answer that?”

He presses his lips together and starts unlatching his little briefcase. He pulls out a stack of photos. Each one shows me with different women. Nothing compromising, but I’m clearly taking them out for dates or something similar.

I look up, meeting his eyes with a shrug. “And?”

“Doesn’t look like a married man.”

Caroline joins us at the table, pausing when she sees the photos. She gives me an uncertain look.

“Your so-called husband has been busy, Caroline,” Peter says. The smugness is practically dripping from him as he lifts picture after picture of me hand in hand with women or with my arm around them as we leave the arena. “I assume you didn’t know about this?”

“Was this your plan?” I ask. “Dig up old pictures of me and try to half-assedly convince Caroline they’re from after we were engaged?”

His black, badger-like eyes meet mine. “I suppose it’s your word against mine. The word of a womanizing playboy against a man who only wants to expose the truth.”

I snort. “A man who will stop at nothing to weasel his way into owning a building he has no right to? I tap my finger down on the picture sitting atop the pile. “See that?”

Caroline and Peter both lean in. To Caroline’s credit, she’s not blowing up or calling me names, even though she probably wants to. She’s frowning as hard as Peter, trying to figure out what I’m pointing at. Hopefully, she’s not buying his lies.

“Look at my knuckles. Notice anything?” I ask, lifting my knuckles for them to see. There’s a vertical white slash of scar tissue going over three of the knuckles on my right hand. “Caught a skate just a week or two after we got back from Manhattan.”

“I remember you telling me,” she says. She looks just a touch relieved as she moves the pictures around, confirming that the scar isn’t visible in any of them.

Peter is clearly fuming. He pulls the photos toward his manilla folder and sticks them inside again. “So you doctored the photos,” Peter snaps. Congratulations on deceiving your wife-to-be.”

Caroline laughs at that. “He doctored your photos? That’s impressive. I didn’t know I was marrying an NHL player who moonlights as a hacker slash digital artist.”

Peter gets up suddenly, chair screeching on the wood. “You’re both making a huge mistake. And this isn’t the last you’ll hear from me. You can count on that.”

I grin. “We already were. I hoped you’d come to the wedding and watch your chance of inheriting this place go up in flames. Maybe you could give a speech about coping with disappointment at the reception. You’re probably an expert by now.”

Peter scoops up his things and storms out, dress shoes clicking as he goes.

“Sorry if that freaked you out for a minute,” I say, giving Caroline’s arm a squeeze. “Some of those pictures are years old.”

“It’s okay,” Caroline says. “I know what it’s like for you guys. You don’t have to apologize for dating people… as long as it wasn’t after Manhattan,” she adds. She frowns a little, then chews her lip. “Sorry. I mean, I guess I don’t have any right to tell you not to date. It’s not like we’re…”

“I haven’t,” I say quickly. “I don’t sleep with more than one person at a time. Ever. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve been that woman for… about three years now.”

Her eyes widen. “What? That long?”

I shrug. “It’s alright if it wasn’t the same for you.”

“It was,” she says. “It was only you.”

A warmth fills me at that. Damn. The information probably shouldn’t change much, but it feels good to know she wasn’t sharing herself all this time. She was all mine, even when I wasn’t here to claim her.

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