If You Need Me: Chapter 20

I’m getting ready for work two days later when my moms call. They do this sometimes, video call first thing in the morning. They’ve made a wedding inspiration board already. I wish one of my brothers would settle down and take the heat off me.

“Hi, Mom and Ma. What’s up?” I prop them on the vanity while I work on my makeup.

“Your mom and I were thinking it might be nice to look at a few venues while you’re in town for the reunion,” Ma says.

“We haven’t even set a date, though.” And we never will. And I’ll have to break my moms’ hearts when I tell them it’s over. There’s no way we’re putting deposits down on things just for show. My guilty conscience can’t take that.

“It doesn’t hurt to look, though, sweetheart. Places book up quickly, especially in the summer months. June would be perfect, don’t you think? Post buggy season, but before the really hot weather sets in.”

“I think the reunion weekend will be pretty jam-packed,” I hedge.

“Hmm… You have a point. Well, why don’t we plan for your mom and I to come down for a weekend so we can start looking at dresses, at the very least! We’ll book a few appointments. It’ll be fun!”

Their excitement makes my heart hurt. “Can we get through the reunion weekend first? Or can we talk about it more when I’m home? There’s just a lot going on right now.”

“Are you nervous about the reunion, sweetie?”

I’m lying about enough stuff, so I go with honesty. “Yeah. I haven’t seen Brooklyn face-to-face in years, and teendom wasn’t the easiest time of my life.”

“Oh, sweetie, everyone in high school was focused on themselves,” Mom says. “You have a great career, wonderful friends, and a lovely fiancé. It’ll be fun.”

“Thanks for the votes of confidence.”

“We love you, Hemi. We’ll back off on the wedding details until the reunion is over,” Ma adds. “Let us know if you need anything else, though. Okay?”

“Of course. I love you.”

“We love you, too,” they say in unison then end the call.

The web of lies I’m weaving is sticky, and I’m worried about getting trapped in it. I don’t have time to fixate on that now, though. Not with everything else going on.

Half an hour later I’m sitting in my office with Denise, the head coach of the women’s team.

“I love everything about this, Hemi.” She’s all smiles as she reads through the proposal. “Winter Marks will definitely want to be involved, so however we can include her would be fantastic.”

“I designed it with her in mind, knowing her background and the Hockey Academy’s role in her life.” I met her a few months ago, but when we were chatting recently, she shared how the retired players at the Hockey Academy took her under their wing at a time when she really needed the support and the team family dynamic, and it had changed her life. “I love how passionate she is about this and that she had the guts to mention it to me.”

“Honestly, I’m just amazed at how quickly you’ve pulled this all together. Getting the team involved with the local foodbank and soup kitchen is a beautiful way to give back to the community. And I love that this charity game you’ve set up includes a food donation. It’s meaningful in the best way.”

“They’re such an outstanding group of athletes, and I know how much it means to them and other young women who are looking at this path. It’s a great merging of community work and team commitment.”

She smiles. “I absolutely agree. Thank you for taking this on.”

“It’s the offseason, so I have some time, and it’s absolutely a pleasure. We can meet with the team next week, and I’ll work on setting up a rotating schedule in the meantime. If there are other promotional opportunities you’d like help securing, I’m happy to assist.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

We lob a few more ideas back and forth, discussing the logistics, the team’s schedule, and their availability before Denise thanks me and heads back to the arena for practice.

I’ve just started tackling my email when there’s a knock on my office door.

Dallas pokes his pretty head in. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

He runs a hand through his hair. During playoffs, the guys always get a little unkempt. Some of the playoff beards—especially on the rookies—are pretty scraggly. Others use it as an excuse to forget what a razor even is.

But Dallas always keeps things neat around the edges, and as soon as playoffs are over, he loses the beard. But he hasn’t gotten a haircut yet, so it curls at the nape of his neck and around his ears. I try desperately not to give in to the memory of how it felt between my fingers when I rode his face the other night, but it’s too late. The image, the sounds…they’ve been living rent free in my head, and I’ve gotten myself off to them more than once. It’s a problem. Especially with the way my body is already preparing for another round of baptism by pussy.

“What do you need?” I’m embarrassingly breathy. I grip the edge of my desk so I don’t get up, lock my door, and offer myself to him. I’m at work, for fuck’s sake. I’m already the topic of too much office gossip these days.

“I brought you flowers.” He produces a bouquet of lilies. I dislike how much I appreciate them, and the fact that he’s varied the type of flower. “And lunch.” He holds up a bag from my favorite café.

I cross my arms. “Why? What did you do now?” I’m reasonably wary. Every time Dallas has done something nice recently—sexual favors aside—it’s caused me an incredible amount of stress, not limited to, but including signing contracts, relinquishing my freedom, cutting out my fuck buddy, turning me into his fake fiancée, an all-out engagement dinner with our friends and his parents, and forcing me to trust him when his past behavior with me has been nothing but red flags.

“Nothing that I’m aware of. I just know you had a busy weekend with your family in town, and this week is more of the same. I was in the area, and I thought flowers might brighten your day and food might be welcome since sometimes you skip lunch in lieu of a bag of Cherry Blasters. No shade to Cherry Blasters, but they’re not very satisfying. I got you the salad with sweet potatoes and candied walnuts. And the charcuterie board sandwich with peach chutney, and an iced latte, but with the sweet cream foam and no syrup.”

I don’t know why it still shocks me that he knows exactly what my favorites are. Especially with Shilpa around for him to ask. But instead of saying thank you like a normal person, I blurt, “Hammer will be here in a few minutes. We’re going to the retirement village.”

“Oh. Is it for something special?” If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was hurt that I didn’t invite him. But it’s only been two days since my brothers took him on the longest hike in the history of the world, after which he came over and ate me like a starved man, so I was giving us some much-needed space. He’s too damn good at getting me off. I want more, and that’s a problem. Also, my hate for him is eroding because he keeps doing sweet shit, and it’s making my life even more challenging.

I don’t want to like Dallas or be addicted to his orgasms. He’s only providing them out of obligation because he’s turned my life into a circus. It’s an obligation, not a desire. Considering anything different makes me feel vulnerable, and it’s a slippery slope. I can’t keep my feelings about Dallas out of the equation, and they’re becoming a tangled mess.

“It’s ballroom-dancing night—well, afternoon because they have dinner at four thirty and are in bed by seven thirty. I set it up for Flip because it’s good for his image.”

“He’s been better lately, though, hasn’t he?”

“Yeah. Definitely, but trade talks have started, and he gets antsy.”

“They’re not thinking about trading Flip, are they?” Worry laces his tone.

I wave a hand. “No. Of course not. I just want to keep him on an even keel for as long as I can.” Anything could happen, so he needs to be on his best behavior.

His shoulders relax. “Okay. That’s good. This year’s draft was full of surprises.”

“Agreed.” There have been some interesting picks this year. Not to mention Quinn Romero, who was drafted years ago, but has never been on a pro team, just signed his first contract. It was a shock to everyone. Romero included. “Anyway, Hollis is tagging along, but I’m ninety-nine-percent sure it’s an excuse to spend time with Hammer.”

Dallas sets the flowers on my conference table, then moves closer and props his hip against the edge of my desk. He sets the takeout bag beside me and crosses his arms. I try not to notice how fantastic his forearms look. Or consider the memory of how good it looked when his hand was between my thighs and his fingers were filling me. I’m not super successful. So I focus on my computer screen instead of him and pull up my email.

“Can I tag along, too?”

I side-eye him. “Why?”

“A few years ago, when the date auction became a thing…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I, uh…I wanted to be able to get on the dance floor and not look like an idiot, so I took some classes.”

“Huh.” Dallas is always full of surprises. “You can come if you want.”

“Knock-knock! Who’s ready to get their dance on?” Hammer appears in the doorway. “Oh! Sorry. I didn’t realize I was interrupting.”

“You’re not. Dallas is joining us on this adventure.”

“Oh, awesome!” Hammer flops down in a chair at the conference table. “Hollis will appreciate the company. I don’t think he’s had a ton of ballroom-dancing experience, but apparently the idea of having to spend a full eight hours away from me is too much for him to handle.” She fingers the petal on a blossom. “These must be from you.” She gives Dallas a knowing smile. “They’re beautiful.”

“Just like Willy,” Dallas says.

I give him the stink eye. I don’t know why he still calls me Willy. Other than to annoy me.

I peek in the bag, unable to resist the smell. He’s right, I have a terrible habit of skipping lunch and end up eating carrot sticks and freaking Cherry Blasters—the carrots are for balance and vitamin C—and regret it later when the hanger hits.

Whenever we do a retirement-village event, they insist on feeding us. Secretly I love it when they serve things like meatloaf or chicken pot pie. It reminds me of my grandma Grinst. But waiting until four thirty is a terrible idea. I haven’t had anything since breakfast, and it’s already one thirty. I pull out my paper plates and extra cutlery and share the food with Dallas and Hammer, and then Hollis, when he arrives.

Flip arrives a few minutes later and finishes the salad. He never says no to food. I pack up, and the five of us head for our vehicles. Dallas insists on holding my hand and driving with me. I don’t want it to feel nice. I don’t want to like the attention, or being doted on. Adding in the sexual servicing makes it feel…less fake, for some reason.

It’s hard to process how he’s different compared to our childhood. He has always loved pushing my buttons. Admitting that I’m scared of how I’ll feel after this is all over, or even what it means that I’m trusting someone who is party to so many bad memories, feels like a weakness I can’t afford. I don’t want to get comfortable with him, and if he keeps being sweet, that could happen. The lines keep blurring, and when he’s like this, it’s hard to remember this isn’t real. It’s dangerous to like this version of him.

When we arrive, the little old ladies at the retirement home are dressed to the nines. “I love this so much. How cute are they?” I murmur to Dallas, who seems committed to staying by my side.

“So cute. I especially like the one in the red flapper dress.” Dallas’s lips are at my ear. His warm, minty breath breaks across my neck and sends a shiver down my spine. “Picking her as my dance partner. Don’t get too jealous.”

The room is a sea of sequins and loud floral prints. All but a few are wearing their orthotics. A couple of brave souls wear chunky heels. Their makeup is done, lipstick not always inside the lines, and a few women have on enough blue eyeshadow to make the eighties cringe. But they’re adorable, and all the men are dressed in suits.

The afternoon starts with tea and cookies served by the players, followed by an hour of ballroom dancing. Even I get pulled onto the dance floor, and so does Hammer. I’m in the middle of a two-step with Dougie, a spry ninety-three-year-old with an exceptional amount of ear hair, when I notice Dallas crossing the room. He crouches in front of Hester. She uses a wheelchair and has been watching from the sidelines. Often, she skips these events and says she’s tired.

Whatever he says brings a wide smile to her lined face. He wheels her into the middle of the dance floor and makes a complete spectacle of himself, shaking his ass in front of her. She’s laughing and clapping and smiling so wide my heart feels like it’s about to burst. Sometimes, I forget that under all that sweetness, he’s the same guy who put a frog in my lunch box in fourth grade.

After dancing, we join the residents in the dining room. Dallas and I end up at the table with Hester. She lost her husband of sixty-three years this winter. I can’t even begin to imagine how untethered I would feel if I’d loved someone that long and suddenly they were gone.

“Miss Wilhelmina, this is new!” Irina, another lady at our table, takes my hand in hers and examines the engagement ring. “Who’s the lucky fella?”

Dallas wraps his arm around my shoulder and hugs me to his side. It’s tough not to appreciate how good he smells when he’s all up in my personal space. “That would be me.”

Irina, who’s a spitfire, gives Dallas an appraising once-over. “He’s a real looker, isn’t he?”

‘He’s quite pretty,” I agree.

Everywhere he goes, people fawn over him. Even if they don’t know he’s a professional hockey player, they’re immediately taken by his wide, infectious smile and his charming personality. It’s been like that since we were kids. He has a wicked sense of humor, and he can be exceptionally kind—as I’ve recently learned.

But the fact that I’ll have to come back here eventually for another one of these events and share the terrible news that we broke up makes my chest ache. None of this is real. Both times he got me off, he didn’t even ask for reciprocation. Our chemistry adds another layer of complication. The lies just keep building, and it makes his casual affection harder to take. What will people think when I allow the prom king to hurt me again? How desperate will I look then? How pathetic? How much will I regret the memory of how good he made me feel?

I’m all up in my head, so I must miss the next question.

“Wills?” Dallas’s eyes hold mild concern. He must see my confusion because he adds, “Would you like me to tell the story?”

“Oh. Sure.” I don’t think I can bring myself to share another fabrication about how we fell in love without losing it.

“Wilhelmina and I have known each other since we were kids.” Dallas’s thumb strokes along the skin at the collar of my blouse, sending another annoying shiver down my spine. “We went to school together all the way from kindergarten to high school.”

Irina claps. “Oh! Childhood friends? That’s one of my favorites!”

I laugh, because my disdain for Dallas and his friends started at a very young age. And it only grew. Now that those feelings have shifted, I like it even less.

“Oh no.” Dallas shakes his head solemnly. “Wilhelmina couldn’t stand me when we were kids. Not that I blame her. I was a jerk. But by the time we reached high school, I knew she was the one. I had a lot of growing up to do, though.”

I grit my teeth, hating how good he is at this. It’s nothing for him to weave a story any woman would love to hear, if it was actually true.

“So how did this happen?” Irina motions between us. The whole table is engrossed in his tale now.

“When Wilhelmina started working for the Terror, I knew it was the only chance I’d get to show her I wasn’t the same jerk she grew up with. I signed up for every promotional opportunity I could to be near her. Over the past couple of years, Wilhelmina has seen a different side of me.” He smiles down at me. “A better side. She knows how to manage me better than anyone. And then, like I’d hoped, she finally stopped hating me. And here we are.”

The girl I used to be, the one who didn’t really fit, wants a love story like this.

“That is just the sweetest.” Irina’s hand is at her heart, and her eyes glisten with unshed tears.

“It really is.” Another woman dabs at her eyes with her napkin.

Irina takes my hand in her soft, wrinkly one and squeezes. “You hold on to this one, sweetie. He’s a keeper.”

I plaster a smile on my face and I fight to keep my voice steady, to be as smooth as he is. “He’s a gem, isn’t he?”

Dallas kisses my temple. It’s tender, and so unexpectedly sweet. “I’m the lucky one here. She puts up with a lot of crap from me, and she knows exactly how to keep me in line. Wilhelmina is the real keeper.”

That I’m beginning to crave this kind of casual affection scares the hell out of me. I tip my head up, intent on communicating through my eyes that he’s pouring it on a little thick. But I’m shocked by the look on his face. If I didn’t know better, if this wasn’t all a performance and he wasn’t just practicing here to get back at the assholes we grew up with, I’d think he meant what he said.

“Kiss her!” one of the men calls out.

Everyone around us has stopped to listen to the story—even Hammer and Hollis, who are sitting at the table kitty-corner to us. Both wear soft smiles. Hollis’s arm is draped across the back of her chair, and he drags a single finger up and down the nape of her neck.

Not for the first time, I’m hit with a wave of sadness. Hammer’s one of my close friends, and here I am, lying to her face every day. And how convincing must we be that she buys it? What will they all think when they learn the truth? How hard will it be when it all comes crashing down? When they learn that this was all a ruse because Dallas got drunk one night and I refused to go to my high school reunion alone? That I let the boy who teased me relentlessly as a kid be my date to avoid risking both our jobs?

“No pudding for you unless you kiss! And it’s chocolate marshmallow fudge, which is your favorite,” Irina threatens.

She’s not wrong. The pudding here is good.

Everyone around us joins the chant, calling out kiss, kiss, kiss.

“And make it a good one!” Irina orders.

The flutter of anticipation in my stomach is unnerving. As is the way Dallas’s eyes heat as he turns to face me. His fingers drift from the edge of my jaw to my chin. I swallow the lump made of desire and anxiety as he tips my head up and leans down. At first, it’s the softest brush of warm velvet. But it sparks need, stoking the coals and turning them into fire.

Even in a room full of old people, I want more of his mouth on mine. Of his hands on my skin. Of him showing up at my door, asking to take care of me. No matter how things seem right now, I know better than to wish for something real with Dallas Bright.

He cups my face in his hands, warm, rough fingers pressing into the hinge of my jaw. He angles his head so he can deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against mine. I grip his wrist, nails digging into the skin.

He groans low in his throat, and his tongue sweeps my mouth. Owning me. Possessing me. I want to climb into his lap and feel all the hard lines of his body against me.

But instead, he pulls back, and the spell breaks as the room bursts into a round of exuberant applause.

I turn away from Dallas, unable to handle the fire in his gaze. This chemistry between us is seriously inconvenient.

I blush and laugh, and roll my eyes when I’m offered not one, but two servings of pudding. But inside, I’m all over the place. My heart is racing, my hands are clammy, and my lips are tingling. It’s discombobulating.

I’m starting to believe in those kisses, in the soft ways he shows up for me. And that’s dangerous and stupid. The last thing I want is to turn back into the girl he fucked over all those years ago.

The only way I’ll survive this is to throw my walls up and stay strong. No more flirting. No more kissing. No more weakness.