Chapter 11

Her smile is fucking breathtaking.

Even though she's giving me shit, the sass dancing in those emerald eyes.

I want to kiss her.

She's bright and happy and beautiful.

A siren calling me to shore.

And, for a moment, I don't care that a shipwreck is imminent.

I just?—

"You seriously have a schedule to contact your siblings?" she asks, jerking me out of my thoughts—thank fuck.

"I have a lot of siblings," I hedge.

Grinning, she runs a finger down the page, reciting from my notes, "Jakob text every Tuesday. Jensen on Thursdays. Leif on Wednesdays. Annie on Monday, Friday, and Sundays. Tanner on Saturdays." Her eyes flick up, green depths dancing with mirth. "Poor Annie—" I sigh. "Does she get a moment of space with five overbearing brothers?"

"I resent that," I tell her, even as my heart starts thudding. Why did I show her this shit? It's dumb—ridiculous that I need a schedule. Why can't I be a normal sibling who just?—

"Calls for Annie on the first and twenty-second, for Leif on the fifth and twenty-eighth, Jakob the seventh and twenty-first, Jensen the third and nineteenth, and Tanner on the sixth and twenty-seventh." Her mouth quirks. "What happens if they call you and mess up the schedule?"

I shrug. "I'm flexible."

Plus, I have erasable pens and can adjust the schedule as needed.

"Sure you are," she says lightly. "Because this"—she waves a hand at my binder—"screams flexible."

I open my mouth to reply—not that I know what I can say in response.

Pandora's Box has been opened.

She's seen behind the veil.

There's no saving me, not now.

"I'm impressed though," she says before I get a chance to reply, to attempt to dig myself out of this hole. "Two days per sibling—" Another mischievous glance. "At least Annie is spared extra phone calls from her protective older brother."

God, she's pretty.

"Annie," I say, reaching a hand toward my binder, "can put any of us in our place any time of the day."

That makes Rory smile.

Not a surprise, I suppose, considering that this is a case of like recognizing like—a strong woman recognizing strength.

"Now, as for Mom," she says, tapping a finger on the paper. "I see that you call her every?—"

"Right," I say, snagging the binder, closing it up and setting it to the side. "I think you've seen enough, princess."

"You call her once a week?" Rory asks.

"Yeah," I mutter. "I love my mom. She's the original GOAT—raising six kids virtually by herself for half the year when my dad was playing and then coaching, all while working a full-time job."

Rory's face changes. "What does she do for work?"

I shove the binder back onto the shelf. "She's recently retired, but she was an elementary school teacher."

"Surrounded by kids at home and at work." She smiles, and it's soft this time rather than filled with mischief. "Your mom must be pretty special."

I nod. "She is definitely that. Truthfully?" I pause and Rory nods. "She's amazing. And just as busy now as she was when she was working—volunteering her time, visiting her kids." I grin. "I wouldn't be surprised if she has her own schedule that we're not privy to."

"You had to get it somewhere."

You're not your father.

I freeze, grind my back teeth together, hating those words, the woman that implanted them into my head.

"You all play hockey, right?"

Thankful for the distraction from the bullshit in my head, I grab on to the conversation gambit. "All of us play except for Annie. She's a skating coach now for a team in New York, but before that, she was a competitive figure skater."

"Did she go far?" Rory asks.

"All the way to a silver medal at the Winter Games."

Admiration on her face, in her voice. That nice I've seen so often directed at other people making a reappearance. "That's amazing."

I lean back against the counter. "She is."

A pause, her expression considering. "And what's your dad doing while your mom is doing all that traveling and volunteering?"

"He's still coaching."

"And they're both in Minnesota?"

I blink. "How'd you know?"

"Those long O sounds?" She grins. "Next thing I know, you'll be saying you betcha."

I jokingly narrow my eyes. "You really want to go down that road, Prickle Princess?"

Her brows lift dangerously. "I thought I told you to cool it with the cactus talk."

"Are you threatening me, Tiny Spikey Queen?"

"Yes."

She's fierce, those green eyes sparking now, and I can't help the laughter that bursts out of me at this ridiculous conversation—something that distracts me enough that I don't really process what she's doing, what she's moving toward.

My binder.

I jerk forward. "What?—?"

She holds up my planner threateningly. "You really want to go down this road, Sir Organizer Color-Coding McGee?"

"Excuse me?"

She lifts her brows, then opens the binder, rings down, fingers wrapping around the bottom and top hoop, like she's preparing to?—

"Stop," I order, all amusement fading.

"Oh, so you don't want to play this game after all, Mr. Spreadsheet?"

"Ror—" I begin, moving toward her.

"Uh-uh-uh," she tuts, shaking my binder—my life—threateningly. "I wouldn't if I were you."

I freeze. "Princess?—"

"Don't you mean Prickly Princess?"

"I—"

But I don't get to finish what I was going to say because?—

She gasps and I watch in horror as the binder slips from her hold, the flash of horror on her face, clinging to her voice. "Shit!"

She dives for it.

So do I.

Our bodies collide.

She gasps.

I grunt as her elbow hits my ribs, but I react fast enough to ensure that I don't crush her, rolling so that I land first and my body breaks her fall.

The binder bounces off my shin, skittering away, the sickening sound of papers flying making my stomach twist.

"Oh my God," Rory whispers, pushing off my body in a rush, making me grunt at the contact. "Oh my God," she says again. "I'm so sorry. I was just messing around." She clambers over to my planner on her knees, hands darting out this way and that. "I didn't mean to ruin it. I-I?—"

It's the break in her voice that finally unsticks me enough to push up from the floor, to move over to her, snagging her hand when she reaches for one of the papers scattered around. "Princess, it's fi?—"

"I ruined it," she says and I don't miss that her eyes are glassy with tears, that regret is painted into the lines of her face. "I fucking ruined it and?—"

I take her hand. "Ror?—"

Her eyes lock onto mine. "I'm so sorry."

"Princess—"

"Really. I—" She swallows hard and looks away. "You've been so nice to me. This whole time you've been nice to me, and I've been a total bitch because I assumed you were what social media and the blogs say you are, and I believed the reputation?—"

I touch her cheek. "Everyone does."

"That's not you," she says. "The playboy"—she lifts her hands, makes air quotes—"King Bang. You're not what they say you are?—"

"I'm not a fuckboy, no," I say.

But the rest of it?—

You'll never be half the man your father is.

My eyes close and this time I'm the one looking away, those words a razor-sharp slice of memories.

"King—"

Right.

I know that tone—soft and gentle and sweet.

And I don't want to think about it now, don't want to think about a woman being soft and gentle and sweet…and in love with me.

And then…not.

"The pages are numbered," I blurt.

She rocks slightly, brows drawing together. "What?"

"It's not a big deal that the pages fell out," I whisper. "They're numbered."

Still. So still. Then she seems to process my words. "Oh," she says, glancing at the bottom corner of the page in her hand, where there is indeed a number. "Right." She reaches for the binder, starts organizing the sheets then glances up at me. "But I'm still sorry."

I shrug. "It's fine."

"I—"

But I ignore her, just grab a handful of papers, start organizing them and pass the stack over.

She takes them, but doesn't move for a long moment, long enough that I look up and meet her gaze again. "I don't make plans," she tells me quietly. "Because they always go to hell."

I'm frozen, the glimpse of heartbreak in her eyes slicing nearly as deep as the memories in my mind had. I open my mouth and ask, some perverse piece of me needing to know, "What do you mean?"

She's silent for a long moment.

Then sighs.

"Well, obviously you know about the cancelled wedding."

Fucking asshole Phillip. "Yeah," I bite out.

She touches my hand. "I'm okay."

Maybe.

But I still want to murder the asshole.

"But before that—" She presses her mouth flat, releases it on an exhale. "For my whole life I've had to be flexible, had to adapt."

"What do you mean?"

A hesitation and then?—

"My mom died giving birth to me."

Shit.

I turn my hand over, gently capture hers. "I'm sorry, princess."

She exhales. "It's hard to miss what I never knew." A shake of her head. "Okay, that's not precisely right. I did miss it, miss what I never knew. But my dad was great?—"

She stops.

Probably because I went stiff at the word was.

"He died when I was twelve," she says, giving a shrug that belies the serious words. "Then it was just my stepmom and stepsisters and…me."

Why do I feel like there's much more to the story than that?

But even as I open my mouth to ask, she's finishing with the binder, popping to her feet, and slipping it back onto the shelf.

I'm finding my feet too. "Princess?—"

"I really am sorry about your binder," she whispers, gaze sliding away. "I was just?—"

I touch her cheek, turn her back to face me. "I'm telling you the truth, baby. I'm not upset."

Her eyes close—just for a second—and then she's nodding.

"Thank you for the cookies," I murmur, knowing I should drop my hand, should back up and let her head off to do whatever she wants to for the rest of the evening.

"It was nothing," she whispers. "Not after everything you?—"

Her throat bobs.

And my heart aches.

I cup her jaw. "You didn't deserve for him to do that to you."

Her inhale is sharp. "King?—"

"And I'm sorry about your parents."

Glimmering green orbs of light.

Plump, pink, kissable lips.

"And I want you to stay here for as long as you need." I stroke my thumb over her cheek. "It's nice to have someone else in the house." My mouth quirks. "After growing up with the Bang crazy, it gets a little quiet with just me and Zeus."

"Thank you," she whispers. "Though I'm not entirely sure you mean that."

My brows lift.

"Did you forget the rant you gave us all about your mom the last time we were at Rome and Chrissy's?"

My mom, who as we've established, I love to the fucking moon and back.

But who also drives me fucking insane.

Mostly because she seems to have made it her mission to marry me and my siblings all off as quickly as possible.

"I haven't forgotten," I grumble. "She's coming to town next week, so I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to revel in the tornado that is Mama Bang."

Her lips twitch. "Mama Bang?"

I lift a shoulder, drop it. "Nicknames are rampant in hockey," I tell her sagely. "And it's all too easy for those around us to lack creativity when it comes to having a last name like Bang."

She giggles. "In fairness, it's quite a name."

"Technically, it's B?ng," I say, pronouncing it with its proper Nordic phonetics. "But no one seems to remember that detail."

"No"—her mouth is curving—"I can't say they do."

"And, anyway, I love my mom—as I've made clear—I just wish that she would stop with the matchmaking." I shake my head, exhale as all of those bad dates flash to the forefront of my mind. "It's already cost me a watch and a laptop…and that's not including my time dealing with the drama the women she picked unleashed on my life."

She winces. "That sounds like a lot."

"That's my mom," I say and shrug again. "She gets an idea in her mind and then just…puts her head down and grinds through."

Rory's lips twitch. "Like a certain hockey player I know."

"Prickle—"

She leaps forward, covers my mouth with her hand. "We've been getting along so well," she says like she's imparting state secrets. "Can we just leave the prickle insults alone?"

She's close enough that I can see her eyes have specks of peridot amongst the emerald, that she has a small scar on her chin, that the tiny stud shaped like a flower she wears in her nose is missing a crystal in one of the petals.

And I don't think.

I press my lips to her palm.

She gasps, hand falling away from my mouth, the charms on the bracelet from her dad tinkling.

I go still—watching, assessing, searching for any sign of unease on her face.

But there's no fear in her eyes.

There's…attraction.

Need.

"King," she murmurs, her body drifting toward mine.

I settle a hand on her hip, draw her toward me until our bodies are pressed together. I inhale the soft floral scent of her deep enough in my lungs to scent the hint of Everything cookies in her hair, on her skin.

Soft curves.

A palm settling on my chest, just over my heart as she rises on tiptoe.

I bend down, mouth coming to hers?—

Just as the doorbell rings.

Sending Zeus barking and skidding down the hall.

I curse softly, but she smiles and backs away. "I'll get it."

"No," I murmur, taking her hand, drawing her to a halt. "You stay here and…" I trace my thumb over that plump bottom lip. "Hold that thought."

She inhales, eyes wary for a moment. Then they clear, determination entering their depths, and she nods.

I step back, turn for the hall and the front door and Zeus barking on this side of it.

I scoop him up, turn the handle, and?—

"Surprise!" my mother says, launching herself into my arms. "I'm early!"