Down and Dirty Read online

  Aubree’s already there when I arrive, seated at the bar, facing away from me. But I’d recognize her heart-shaped ass and the tumble of dark waves down her back from any angle. My breath catches in my throat as I head closer.

  She has a glass of red wine and an ice water in front of her. I pause beside the bar until her gaze swings over to mine.

  “Hey.” She smiles, looking gorgeous dressed in fitted black pants, a pink silk blouse, and nude-colored high heels.

  “Hey.” I pull out the stool next to hers and take a seat.

  “Here’s the drink menu. I wasn’t sure what you wanted.” Aubree hands me a piece of cardstock that has various craft beers and specialty cocktails listed, and her fingers brush mine, sending heat crackling up my arm.

  I almost want to say something funny to break the ice, like, How was your day, honey? But somehow I doubt Aubree would laugh. Her expression is serious, her eyes guarded.

  So I settle on, “How was work?”

  “Busy.” She exhales. “It looks like I’m going to be taking the lead on a new project, which means some extra hours until it’s all sorted out.”

  “Is that . . . good?”

  She shrugs, looking down at her hands. “That’s what they tell me.”

  The bartender appears, and I order a draft beer. I never drink during the season, but off-season is a different story. I can have a beer or two without having to worry about how it will affect my performance in the morning. I know some of the guys aren’t as disciplined, but my season wasn’t all that stellar, so I can’t afford any mishaps.

  “You do anything interesting today?” she asks as the bartender sets a frosty glass of beer in front of me.

  “I worked out. Skated. Got a massage. Went home and took a shower, then I texted you.”

  She sighs. “I’m jealous. A massage sounds amazing.”

  “Eh, don’t be jealous. A sports massage and stretching by our team masseur is anything but enjoyable.”

  She chuckles.

  “The happy hour menu, if you guys are interested,” the bartender says, placing a couple of menus in front of us.

  “Have you eaten?” I ask Aubree as I scan the menu.

  “No, but I’m not hungry.”

  “I’m ordering food. You need to eat.”

  “I just said I’m not hungry.”

  Our eyes meet and fire burns between us. “You also just said you haven’t eaten, ergo, I’m feeding you.”

  She leans in, the fire burning brighter in her eyes. “Look, Landon, I appreciate the fact that you’re trying, but you don’t actually think this is going to work, do you?”

  “Think what’s going to work? Are you talking about suggesting you eat because you haven’t? Or are we going straight into talking about us?” I ask, dropping my voice and loving the pink tinge that hits her cheeks.

  “Us,” she whispers. “I’m not sure what you meant before . . . but you don’t actually think we’re going to work, do you?”

  “I don’t know, and I won’t know unless we try. Would it really be the worst thing in the world to see where it goes?” I want to take away the worry in her eyes, but that’s hard to do when she won’t let me in.

  With a defeated sigh, Aubree picks up her menu. And when the bartender swings back by, we place our order.

  “Tell me more about your work,” I say, taking a sip of the beer in front of me.

  Aubree looks down at her hands, going momentarily quiet. “I love what I do,” she says after a few seconds of silence.

  When I probe more, she launches into a story about a program she’s designed called Little Rookies Camp, which will be for kids ages six to twelve and is geared at reducing childhood obesity and also creating lifelong hockey fans. The program will be completely free to the public and held a few times a quarter. Right now, she’s working on securing donors to supply all the equipment—helmets, pads, skates, and sticks—since it will be provided to the kids free of charge.

  “That sounds awesome.”

  We make small talk while we eat, hitting on a wide variety of topics from our childhoods to our favorite books to our favorite foods. She’s easy to talk to, and I’m having more fun than I anticipated.

  I guess I was worried tonight would be awkward. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since Vegas, but thankfully it’s not awkward. Far from it. I find myself leaning closer, looking into her eyes, captivated by her. I also love that she insisted she wasn’t hungry, and then took down a whole burger and is now working on my fries.

  “Annie can’t be your favorite movie,” I say on a groan.

  “It is.” She nods, dragging her fry through the ketchup on my plate.

  I guess movies are just one more thing we can’t agree on. No big surprise there.

  “Fine. What’s yours?” she asks.

  “Shawshank Redemption, obviously. I’m not a monster, Aubree.”

  This pulls a laugh from her. “You’re something . . .”

  The soft feeling inside my chest is entirely unexpected. I like sitting here with her, sharing a meal, bickering over things. It feels domestic. Natural.

  It’s time to ask the question that’s been on the tip of my tongue since I got here. “Why did you rush out of my room that night in Vegas?”

  “What do you mean?” she asks, pausing with a fry in her hand.

  I smirk, knowing full well that she knows exactly what I’m talking about. “Well, I for one liked the kissing.”

  She chuckles, setting down her food and wiping her hands on a napkin. “I liked the kissing too, but . . .” She pauses, her face flushing.

  “But what?”

  On a deep inhale, Aubree leans a little closer. “I haven’t had sex in a very long time, and I . . .” With a nervous chuckle, she waves her hand. “I’m going to stop talking now.”

  My mouth twitches with a smile. Damn, she’s cute when she’s nervous. If I’m reading between the lines, I take her comment to mean that she liked what we were doing and her body wanted more, but she was trying to be respectful of my boundaries. It’s kind of hot, to be honest.

  “I wasn’t sure where the line was,” she says, her voice coming out soft.

  And she didn’t want to cross it. Again, hot.

  “I’m not a saint. Never claimed to be.”

  “So, we could have done other things,” she murmurs, her brain obviously working.

  “I’m a big fan of other things.”

  “Are you now?” She chuckles.

  “I’m actually president of the fan club.”

  After this, the bartender swings by.

  Once I slip a couple of bills into the leather portfolio, I ask her, “You ready to get out of here?”

  She nods, gathering her purse. “Thanks for dinner. I probably would have eaten an entire bag of popcorn when I got home, if it weren’t for you.”

  “No worries. That’s what I’m here for.”

  Outside on the sidewalk, I wait with her for the valet to bring her car. When the small silver sedan stops next to the curb, she nods.

  “That’s me.”

  I walk her to the car, and the valet hops out, leaving the door open. Aubree looks up at me expectantly.

  I’m unsure on the protocol here, and I don’t want to push her, but I do want to kiss her. I lean in and give her a hug, and when Aubree wraps one arm around my shoulders, her fingers brushing the hair at the back of my neck, it sends sensation tingling down my spine.

  She studies me as if she’s unsure what to do or say next. But there’s no playbook, no analytical reasoning that could make this situation between us make sense. So I follow my instincts, bringing my lips to hers for a sweet, slow kiss.

  “Good night,” I murmur.

  “Night,” she says softly.

  Then I watch her drive away, my heart still beating fast from that kiss.

  • • •

  When I get home, the newest rookie, Jordie, is standing outside my building, looking at his phone.

&nbs
p; Fuck. I forgot I’d invited him over to play video games tonight. I guess it goes to show how distracted I’ve been since returning from Vegas.

  “You’re late,” he says when I approach.

  “Sorry, dude. Were you waiting long?”

  He shakes his head as I use my keycard to buzz us in through the front doors. “Nah. Five minutes, tops.”

  Inside the elevator, Jordie launches into a story about the pair of best friends he met last night, who he swears wanted to take turns sharing him. I’m pretty sure he’s full of shit. Then again, who the hell knows. I only met Jordie two weeks ago after he got called up from our minor league affiliate. But since we’re both younger than most of the guys on the team, I figured I’d reach out to him and invite him over.

  Jordie—aka Jordan Prescott, number ninety-one, and the Ice Hawks’ newest left winger—folds his lanky frame onto my sofa and grabs the video game controllers while I go to the kitchen for a couple of beers. I’m really not in the mood for company tonight, but maybe kicking his ass in Madden would distract me from my situation with Aubree.

  “So, is it true?” He looks toward me, smirking. “Did you actually get hitched in Vegas?”

  Then again, maybe not.

  I select my team and keep my eyes on the TV screen. “Yeah, the rumors are true.”

  Jordie chuckles. “So, what’s the annulment process like? Is it like it is in the movies?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t even looked into it yet.”

  Jordie’s expression is stunned. “Uh, okay. But you’re going to, right?”

  With a sigh, I keep my gaze on the screen. “What are you, my therapist? Do you want to talk all night, or do you want to play?”

  He shoots me an easy grin. “Fine, let’s play. But prepare to get your ass whupped.”

  “We’ll see about that, rookie.”

  This I can deal with—trash talk and video games—because I’ve already decided against saying anything more to Jordie. Number one, I don’t know him all that well, so there’s no reason to spill my soul. And, two, I really don’t know where my head’s at, to be honest.

  Well, that’s not entirely true. I may be young, but I know what I want. I want all the things I never had growing up.

  Someone to come home to each night. Loyalty. Comfort. Family dinners. Real holiday traditions, instead of tagging along to a relative’s house of whichever woman my dad happened to be dating that Christmas. Or worse, when he wasn’t seeing anyone and then we’d stay home alone, eating a frozen dinner on the couch. At least when we were invited to tag along with his girlfriend’s family, there would be homemade dessert after dinner. Flag football in the yard.

  That’s not to say my dad treated me poorly or was a terrible father—he wasn’t. I always had lunch money and new hockey skates when I outgrew the pair I’d been skating in. We just didn’t have much of a connection, and there was a lot of turmoil in his personal life, which I watched from the sidelines. My mom lived a few hours away, and I only saw her a few weekends a year.

  As we play, or to be fair, as I get my ass handed to me in Madden NFL, I mentally make a pros-and-cons list about Aubree as wife material. She’s smart, hardworking, and funny. She’s definitely the type of girl I’d be proud to take home to meet my mom and dad.

  The conversation at dinner flowed easily between us, but it wasn’t forced. Girls my age talk a lot. One thing I’ve noticed about Aubree—she only speaks when she has something insightful to say. It’s refreshing. When we do chat, I usually learn something, or come away with a deeper understanding. It’s nice, definitely a quality I’d like in a partner. Another tick mark goes into the pros column.

  When Jordie goes to take a piss, I grab my phone and text Aubree.

  Thank you for tonight.

  Her reply comes a second later.

  I should be the one thanking you for dinner.

  I smile, recalling how she dug into her burger, moaning at the first bite.

  It was my pleasure.

  I can’t believe I’d never been there before. It’s only two blocks from my office.

  Are you free this Saturday? I text her, then think, Way to cut to the fucking chase, Covington. I practically hold my breath, waiting for her reply.

  I am . . . Why? What did you have in mind?

  My heart thumps steadily as I quickly type out my response.

  I need your help with something.

  I’m intrigued . . . is her only reply.

  Saturday at noon, I tell her. It’s a date.

  Okay, she texts back.

  With a grin, I pocket my phone just as Jordie comes strolling out of the kitchen, carrying another two bottles of beer.

  “Another game?” he asks.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  With my thoughts still on Aubree, I settle onto the couch for a rematch.

  Maybe the solution to all of this is easier than I thought. I married the girl . . . shouldn’t I at least date her?

  7

  * * *

  A Normal Married Couple

  Aubree

  No matter how long and tiring the work week is, my Saturday morning yoga class is a beacon of light at the end of the tunnel. A whole hour dedicated to calming myself with deep breathing and thoughtful meditation. And this week, I need it even more than usual. My instructor would probably say I’m feeling unbalanced. I would say I’m feeling totally out of whack.

  While my toes are gripping the mat, grounding me in warrior pose, my mind is wandering fast and furious toward my date with Landon this afternoon. I’m so freaking relieved that he reached out to me earlier this week, and that the disappearing act I pulled when he told me he was a virgin didn’t make him hate me forever.

  I may not be sold on the husband-and-wife thing, but I care about him and would never forgive myself if he thought I’d judged him. I was sure I’d scared him away, but by the way he kissed me when we said good-bye after our date, I think he wants to stick around. And that’s even scarier.

  “Take a deep breath in, and now exhale all of your distractions and anxieties,” the instructor guides us, and I do as I’m told.

  I’m 90 percent sure the woman is reading my mind. That or the fact that I’m toppling out of half-moon pose is giving me away.

  Focus, Aubree. Only fifteen minutes of class left to go.

  Despite my chronically wandering mind, I make it through class and actually manage to feel a little more relaxed at the end. But when I grab my purse out of the cubby and see I have a text from Landon, I’m right back where I started. Especially because this isn’t just a hey, how are you kind of text. It’s a text asking me to wear my ring when I come over today.

  My mouth turns dry as I stare down at my phone, then at my naked left hand. I haven’t taken the ring out of the jewelry box since I put it there Monday morning.

  At first, I told myself I’d just take it off for work to keep the gossip to a minimum, but every time I thought about putting it back on, it just felt wrong. But he must have noticed that I wasn’t wearing it when we met up the other night, and now I feel like the jerk of the century. Not only did I flee when I found out my husband was a virgin, but now I’m not wearing the obscenely expensive ring he bought me. I’m certainly not going to be winning any Wife of the Year awards anytime soon.

  As I walk through the parking lot to my car, I formulate an apology text.

  I’m sorry I haven’t been wearing it. I love the ring, I just need time.

  Once I hit SEND, the three bubbles pop up almost instantly as he texts me back.

  I know, that’s fine. But I have someone from my insurance company coming by to do an appraisal so we can get a policy on it, so I need you to bring it.

  Oh, of course! I reply, feeling relieved, but also a little foolish. Of course he wants to insure it. It’s worth a lot of money.

  After a shower, I blow-dry my hair, swipe on a few coats of mascara, and tug on jeans and an emerald-green top that’s as comfy as it is cute. Then I
’m back in my car, cruising toward Landon’s apartment downtown. He buzzes me up, and while I’m still in the elevator, my phone dings with a text from him.

  Door is unlocked. Walk right on in, wifey.

  I roll my eyes at the wifey part but follow instructions, turning the doorknob of his top-floor apartment extra slowly, just in case I got the apartment number wrong. When I spot a duffel by the door with the Ice Hawks logo and a big number 94 printed on the side, I swing the door all the way open and step inside.

  “Knock, knock,” I call out as I step through the large open foyer and admire his state-of-the-art kitchen. It’s a nice apartment, although he clearly hasn’t lived here long. The only non-necessity in the living room is the enormous flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. Although, based on the tangle of cords from various video-game consoles, Landon might consider that more of a necessity than a luxury.

  “Be there in a sec,” his deep voice calls from somewhere inside the apartment.

  I turn to find Landon coming down the hallway, dressed in a pair of dark well-fitting jeans and a black T-shirt that stretches distractingly across his muscular chest. My stomach does a little flip when his eyes meet mine. They’re a brilliant shade of blue, like the Puget Sound at sundown.

  “Thanks for coming.” His lips twitch at the sight of me in his apartment.

  There’s no denying it. He’s cute. Polite. Kind eyes. Midwestern good-boy vibes. Charming, even when he doesn’t mean to be. It could mess with a girl.

  Good thing I’m not a girl anymore. Haven’t been for a long time. But when will I start feeling like a full-fledged adult, capable of making adult decisions, like—oh, I don’t know—insisting on an annulment of this crazy union? Because so far, I don’t seem capable.

  And I’m here, on a date, with my totally hunky husband.

  “Something to drink?” he asks, breaking the drawn-out silence between us.

  “Sure.” I shrug and watch Landon’s retreating form as he heads for the kitchen.

  “This is so nice,” I say, referring to both the apartment and the view of his perfectly firm hockey player butt.