10. KAVI

10

KAVI

As I'm storming away under stormy clouds, and suffering from very stormy thoughts—a loud honk pierces the air. There's a second where my head jerks and the scene arrives like the snap of a rubber band. I'm in the middle of an intersection where the walking sign stopped a few heartbeats ago, and the wild-haired driver of a two-seater bug of a car has spotted me early enough to slam his brakes on, but late enough that the front bumper is at risk of bopping the front of my knees.

With terrible survival skills, my limbs freeze.

My whole life is supposed to flash before my eyes, but it's the last half hour that does. Hardened Dmitri Lokhov, with the roughest calluses on his hands, wiping a tear off my cheek. My pulse skittering at even the slightest touch. The other impulse to tuck my head against his hand like it could hold me there for a while. That moment when he called me Princess, clearly a sarcastic insult—which, tell my body that, because the way my thighs squirmed…

And. God.

How I'd almost admitted to him a very private, personal confession. Maybe Tyler wants an open relationship because he knows I faked my orgasms with him the whole time.

Another honk sounds.

Maybe a split second has passed, but the driver's follow-up warning jolts me into action. I stumble to the side, but it's too late?—

A large body lifts me out of the way. The driver screeches to a stop with me safely a few steps away.

As heat sinks into my skin, I realize I can't shift my head as it's currently crushed against a wall. My racing heart is matched—no, outmatched—by the one I feel under my cheek. Whoever rescued me has the steadiest, most rock-solid arms but isn't steady on the inside.

My eyes land on tattoos.

" Lokhov," I gasp.

A follow-up realization: He must think I'm actually brainless considering what just happened. I try dislodging myself, but he allows precious little movement. My nose is buried in his chest. Massive arms tighten around me as if I'm not trusted to move on the power of my own feet.

From the sounds of it, the driver of the car has gotten out and is very apologetic. Lokhov does not care. He's barking out questions, including whether the man understands speed limits, what he was thinking, how he could hurt people, and whether he should own a fucking vehicle.

It's the loudest I've ever heard him speak. Harsh, really.

"The walking sign was done!" the driver pleads. "I didn't think?—"

Lokhov's chest reverberates with an agitated noise. Against me, that's—a feeling I will remember alone later.

Rain is falling harder and our clothes are getting damp. Certain muscle ridges are outlined. His strength is so solid and supportive. I could melt into it, surrendering to whatever he wants to do with me, literally anything?—

I wrench myself away.

"Stop harassing him," I scold, feeling disoriented. "The walk sign was done and everything is fine. Look. I'm fine."

As Lokhov stares at me, I use my hand to shoo the driver away, in a quick leave-while-you-still-can movement. Not needing any more encouragement, the driver leaps into his seat and screeches away.

More honks sound because, glancing around, I see we are still in the middle of a street, albeit a smaller one that is branched off from the main one, so there hasn't been more traffic until now.

Lokhov turns his head to the car approaching us and stares. (He really has a staring problem.)

Tattooed, wet, and wearing black. The effect is that instead of us moving to allow the car's right of way, the vehicle waits for us to figure out what we want to do next.

"Stop scaring the public!" Grabbing Lokhov's arm, I pull him off onto the sidewalk, knowing it's only possible because the big hockey player has allowed himself to be moved.

Once we're safely tucked into the nook of a closed storefront, and no longer a menace to society, Lokhov turns his displeasure back on me. His jaw is a brutal line.

"You almost got hit," he sneers.

"Yes. Would you like an apology?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I should thank you," I say. "You saved me from—well—knee scratches, at the very least. But I also feel like lecturing you at the same time."

"Basra."

"That driver is probably crapping his pants right now."

"Good. He should have?—"

"No," I interrupt. "We're not getting into that."

Taking a deep breath, I make myself smile. "Thank you. And sorry. For this and—" My hand waves in the air. "All of it."

Since we're under a canopy, we're protected from rain. My backpack isn't waterproof, but it's lined with a plasticky barrier on the inside. Considering the most precious cargo I have on me is my camera, I slip off my jacket and wrap it around my bag for extra protection.

I'm left in a thin tank-top, but my hotel isn't far from here.

Dmitri's eyebrows snap down. "What are you doing?"

"Getting ready to make a run for it."

"Put your jacket back on."

"No. I have to protect my camera."

Outside, it's not a curtain of rain but plops of droplets. Peeking my head out, one lands on my nose. I duck back to safety, thinking Ugh.

"Stay here," orders Lokhov. "I'll bring my car."

I smile sweetly. "Sure."

He towers over me. "You're lying to me."

Yes. But only because my hotel is literally a three-minute run from here. And because I have to leave Lokhov's presence immediately. It was only a minute or less, but being held in his arms?—

I tamp down a shiver. It was so warm and overwhelming.

My parents used to hug me when I was little, but in my adult years it's as if they don't think I need affection anymore. And Tyler hugged me, but never in front of other people. Our hugs were brief and more of a precursor to sex. His crazy schedule meant never cuddling.

All of this to say, I must be reacting this way because it's been a sad, long time since I've been gathered securely. Tightly. Safely.

But it doesn't matter. I've just ended a relationship with my ex.

It's so pathetic to want another man—another hockey player—holding you as if everything is okay because you're in the arms of someone who cares enough to rescue you from getting hurt. Who yells at strangers, raising his voice to a volume you've never heard before. Crushing you against his chest as if actually afraid something very terrible could have happened.

And—again—it's Lokhov.

He'd never touch me of his own volition, and only did this time as a public service act. Not the most flattering of circumstances. More pathetic, honestly.

"Go get your car," I say conversationally to him.

He frowns. Then fiddles with the bottom of his shirt which has clung to contours I'm strictly ignoring. Looking up at his face, I almost see gears turn in his brain. His eyes survey my exposed skin. Then go back to his top. His throat gets cleared.

What's the issue?

Vancouver is a warm city, so even in the rain, the temperature is mild. Clearly, Lokhov thought that, considering he's not got a jacket on. Or he's used to driving everywhere in his fancy car wearing no outerwear.

That seems to be a problem since he admits, "I don't have a jacket for you."

"Not an issue."

"Take this."

He starts taking off his shirt, which would be a gifted extra layer of protection for me if I use it to cover my head, sure, but the sight of a defined V-line inked with dark tattoos makes me run.

I literally run.

Out in the rain.

Weaving in and around people, I push to make it to the hotel in under two minutes. At the last second, before rushing inside, I glance backward.

Lokhov followed me. The rain makes his dark hair curl under his ears. I can't see from this distance, but I imagine even his eyelashes have thickened with water.

He's seen to it that I got home, and now that the nuisance of my safety is no longer on his conscience—for who knows what other silly accidents I could have gotten into—he turns and walks away.

"Sorry," I whisper, as if he can hear. It's not my intention to keep bothering him, asking for all these favors.

Let me in your hotel suite. Call my fiancé to prove he's shady. Keep my backpack safe. Come to the café and return said backpack. Save me from a minor run-in with a car. Offer to give me the clothes off your back. Walk me home in the rain.

It's a lot.

This should be the last time I burden Dmitri Lokhov, the enemy of my ex. We don't have a reason to meet after this. I shouldn't be thinking about him.

I shouldn't be thinking about any man. Not after I was betrayed by one in the worst way when I thought I loved and trusted him.

My judgment is screwed up. I need to sort myself out. I need to get back up and figure out what happens next… Somehow…

As I head up to my hotel room, my mind reels and offers me an inappropriate thought. What would it be like to be faking it with Lokhov? To be seen with him?

His offer burns in my mind.

Tyler would be livid, my mother disappointed, and my father upset.

I press a hand to my cheek. It's so warm and my heart is pounding so loudly at the thought.

To prove to everyone I have options, but also an option like him. To be purely selfish and completely self-centered. To ignore what anyone else thinks and to go for it.

But that's not even the main reason I am wondering about this, I realize. I am fantasizing about it not just because Tyler wouldn't want it to happen…but because I just might want it to happen.

My ragged sigh fills the room up.

For longer than a split second, I want to be that person. The person who just says fuck it and goes for it. Who steps forward and puts myself out there.

It's not going to happen.

Chances are, I'll never see Lokhov again.