Page 46 of The Icing on the Cake
“What qualifications do you have for taking care of a beat-up hockey player?”
“Well, I took care of my mom after her gallbladder surgery.”
I lift his arm to examine his ribs, my touch as gentle as I can manage. The purple bruises blooming across his side make my stomach clench with worry.
Focus on the injuries, not on how warm his skin feels under my hands.
“What happened to your mom?” he asks quietly, looking at me.
“It was supposed to be routine,” I say, my fingers trailing gently over his skin, checking for anything out of place. “But she developed complications from gallbladder surgery. A blood clot. She died three days later.” I press carefully along his rib cage, and he hisses through his teeth but doesn’t shrink away. “I’d been taking care of her for weeks before the surgery, though. She was in a lot of pain from her gallbladder and could barely get out of bed some days.”
“I’m sorry, Neesha,” he says quietly. “That must have been terrifying.”
“It was,” I say. “But it also taught me that presence matters more than anything else. No one should have to hurt alone.”
He doesn’t say anything, just flinches when I reach the most tender part of the bruise.
“So how did this happen?” I ask, keeping my eyes on his injuries so I don’t get distracted by his blue eyes. “And if you say ‘hockey game’ again, I’m walking out the door.”
“Cheap shot from an opponent. Blindsided me into the boards.”
“Your ribs need ice too. I should’ve brought over more frozen peas, but you’re already using the only package I have. Do you have anything in your freezer?”
“A ribeye steak, maybe?”
“That’s it?”
“I’m a simple man, Neesha. And I don’t get hurt often.”
“I don’t believe it,” I say. “Every hockey player gets hurt.”
“Well, I don’t,” he says. “Not unless…I’ve hurt someone I care about.” He looks at me directly.
I should hand him back his shirt and walk out the door. I should be furious that he’s been lying to me this whole time. Part of me wonders what else he’s been hiding.
But seeing him like this, wincing every time he moves, something else wins out—something stronger than my anger.
“Anything else that hurts?” I ask, keeping my eyes on his bruises and away from that gaze that makes my resolve crumble.
“Everything,” he says flatly, attempting a weak smile.
Despite his deception and the fact that he’s exactly what I swore to avoid, I can’t hide my concern. If it were just attraction, I could ignore it. I could leave now and pretend we never met. Attraction isn’t what makes you stay in a relationship.
But I’m falling for him. Despite every wall I’ve built, every promise I made to myself after Nate, I’m falling for Lucian Lowe.
That’s the messy, inconvenient, heart-stopping truth thatmakes you stay even when every logical part of you screams to run.
I finally meet his gaze. “Lucian, why didn’t you tell me?”
It’s not a demand. I only want the truth.
“Because you would have looked at me exactly the way you’re looking at me now. Like I’m just another Nate who’s going to break your heart.”
Okay, maybe I didn’t wantthattruth.
“Well, you should have told me anyway,” I say. “I deserved to know who I was living next door to.”
“I know,” he admits. “I kept telling myself I’d find the right moment.”
