Page 132 of Ice Dance Hockey

That sets off another round of wrestling, trapping, and immature threats that we’ll never make good on. Except for the one where he threatens to spear me with his cock, which I stick my ass out for and tell him not to make promises he can’t keep.

* * *

Later, wrapped in a thin house robe I found in one of the closets, I venture out of our suite. Alone. Rhett was passed out. After our epic first time, we had an even more epic second and third time.

Then I needed to get out of the suite for a bit. Outside on the lanai wasn’t enough. I needed to walk around. It’s late and the sun is on its way out of view for the night, but I won’t go far.

“Where do you think you’re going?” says a voice from the near darkness.

Maxwell Elkington is sprawled on the couch. He must have been out because he’s dressed more like he does back home in a casual suit. The top three buttons are open, and his tie is loose. There’s just enough light for me to make out the glassiness of his red-rimmed eyes.

Has he been crying? Maybe this divorce isn’t as mutual as they’re making it out to be.

On the coffee table is a half-full snifter of amber liquid. The bottle of cognac is next to it.

“I’ll be back.”

“You’re not leaving. Either turn yourself around and head back to the suite or sit there.” He points to the armchair adjacent to the couch he’s mourning on. His words are just this side of slurred, suggesting he’s had quite a bit of that cognac. Awesome.

I’ve already learned the futility of arguing with an Elkington, and Rhett will probably have a bird if I leave by myself anyway. I should go back upstairs, but I’m curious to see what he plans on saying even if he wants to tell me off. I plant my extra sore ass in the armchair.

“I can’t figure you out,” he admits. “What is it you want? Money? Fame? I can give you both if you leave my son alone.”

“You’re unbelievable. If that’s how you think relationships work, no wonder your wife’s leaving you. All the cognac in the world isn’t going to fix that.”

I wait for the explosion when he gets offended over my rude words, but it never comes. Right. Politician. They don’t have feelings. They don’t get offended.

“Fascinating,” he says, so much like Rhett that it’s unnerving. “Huh, maybe that’s what he sees. You’re not afraid of me. You should be, though.”

I’m plenty afraid if the fuzziness in my body is anything to go by, but fuck him if I’ll show it. “Great. Anything else you want to tell me?”

“No. I’d rather talk about cognac.” He bends to pick up the glass and takes a hefty swig. “No one downs cognac like a dehydrated man in a desert as a solution. This is for forgetting.”

“You think you’re going to forget all the years with Mrs. Elkington by poisoning your liver?”

“Not, Jane. Someone else.”

I inhale sharply, already snatched by the hook of this bad romance plot. “The he you talked about. What happened?”

I’m asking as though we’re besties, which we are not, but I gotta know. Who could wreck the unfeeling man like this?

His face scrunches. I’m the last person he wants to have this conversation with, which clearly means there is no one else if he’s even contemplating spilling his guts to me.

“I went to see him tonight. He broke up with me.”

I remember his face at dinner. He was fucking smitten with this man. Fuck. Someone broke Maxwell Elkington’s heart. Which means they had to find it first. Whoever that was is some kind of masterclass archeologist.

This may make me crazy, but I’m compelled to comfort him. “You’ll find someone else.”

He sends the snifter hurtling toward the wall. It crashes, staining the walls with ethanol and bursting into shattered pieces. “No, I won’t.”

“Whatever you did—because I know it was you—apologize. It can’t be that bad.”

“Is this how you are with my son, too?”

I shrug. “I guess? I don’t let him get away with being a dick if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You’re a special kind of fool if you think apologies fix everything.”

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