Push (Colorado Storm Hockey #3)

Chapter 3

3

ADALINE

When I slip into my room, I don’t expect Jackie to be there. I figured she would still be out with Kyla and the rest of the bridal party.

“There you are,” she says and tosses her phone beside her on the bed. “Where did you go with that guy? One minute you two were making out and the next you disappeared and so did all those guys he was with. I’ve been so worried.”

“I texted Kyla to tell her I was fine. Didn’t she tell you?”

“No, I went looking for you. Kyla didn’t seem to care. She said something like, Ada is pushing 40, I’m sure she’s fine. That’s when I went looking for you.”

I laugh as I set my purse down on the dresser. “I’m 36, but okay, one could say I’m pushing 40.”

Jackie leans forward over her bent knees. “So what happened? Did you sneak off with that guy?”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. How do I explain what happened? I don’t. I don’t have to explain what happened at all. “Only for a little while,” I tell truthfully. Time is very relative.

“And? ”

“What and ?” I ask, as I take off my earrings. Definitely a stall tactic.

“Did you hook up?”

“Oh, well, we definitely bonded.” I laugh a little at my own truth telling.

She smirks. “And?”

“And…then we called it a night. And now I’m back here,” I say as I grab for my hair tie in my pocket and pull my hair back into a ponytail. The elastic tie breaks as I try to get around my hair one too many times. “Shit.”

“Do you think you’ll hear from him again?” Jackie asks.

The answer is on the tip of my tongue. Yes, most definitely. For an annulment. But before I can even respond. Jackie asks another question, “Where’s he from?”

“Colorado, actually.”

“Oh! Wow, perfect. So you can meet up when you get back to town?”

“Yep,” I say, leaving it at just that as I head to the bathroom. “I’m gonna get ready for bed.”

The bathroom lights illuminate everything. Every imperfection, every crease. My eye makeup is a disaster. My lipstick faded from all those dance floor kisses. It even illuminates the new gold ring around my finger. I tug it off and examine the indent in my skin it’s left behind. I slip the ring into my makeup bag and shake my head. There’s not enough makeup remover in the world to erase wedding vows. And no amount of toothpaste will make me forget the glorious way he kissed me.

As I slip into bed, a married woman, I close my eyes and remember the way he gazed at me as he said those two little words. I do . It wasn’t a look of love or even truth. It was a rebellion. And I suppose that’s what it was for me as well. I could have been anybody. He made that abundantly clear when he couldn’t even get my name right. Yet, hearing him say it felt good. I don’t know why—not even an inkling of why—for feeling that way, but even now, as I lay here and let myself remember what it felt like to sink into his warm brown eyes, I feel good. Being married, being tethered to someone for even just one night, is a relief I didn’t know I needed. For just one night, the pressure my family puts on me is gone. It’s the best night of sleep I’ve had in Vegas.

I believe in coffee above all things. Coffee is magic. Coffee is life. The hotel bakery has been my go-to for an Americano every morning and afternoon while we’ve been in Vegas. It’s also been my favorite moment of peace, away from Kyla and her obnoxious friends. On our last day, before we head back to Denver, I made sure to get up extra early to enjoy it for as long as possible. With my Americano and an almond croissant, I find a corner table with a bench seat to relax and enjoy it. The coffee has just touched my lips when I see him. My husband.

He doesn’t see me, which is just how I want it to be. It gives me a chance to check him out freely, without limits. He’s wearing black slacks and a tight white dress shirt, with the top few buttons undone. No tie. He has a matching black jacket hanging over one arm. He looks even better this morning than he did last night. Freshly showered, his dark hair is wet and tied back, his beard trimmed up, and his muscles seem to ripple with every motion he makes beneath his white dress shirt. Something I didn’t even notice last night was how he fills out a pair of pants. His thighs are thick. The word that comes to mind is powerful . And I suppose that makes sense. He plays hockey. I don’t know much about the sport, but I’ve got to imagine it takes a lot of core strength.

And then another thought comes to mind. He’s probably incredible in bed. The men I’ve been with have never made me feel small or dainty by any means. But this man right here— this husband of mine, at least for today—could probably toss me onto a bed easily, and for the first time in my life, that idea is extremely appealing to me.

He’s like a sexy lumberjack and I can imagine him splitting wood without breaking a sweat, then lifting me from the ground and carrying me over his shoulder directly to the bedroom.

Coffee? What coffee?

Maybe my higher power is a lumberjack of a man with thick ass thighs that could flip me over like a flapjack and take me from behind.

I’m lost in that thought as the barista stretches across the bar to hand him a large coffee of his own. I wonder how he takes his coffee. I’m betting black. I know absolutely nothing about this man I married.

Having all the confidence in the world in my wallflower super powers, I expect him to take his coffee and leave without noticing me. But apparently, Nikolas Huxley should not be underestimated.

He turns toward me like he has eyes in the back of his head and knew I was sitting here all along. He heads in my direction and I start to fidget with my almond croissant, tearing it into little pieces but not eating a single bite.

“Good morning, Adaline,” he says, quite deliberately pronouncing my name. I appreciate the point he’s making.

I brush off the croissant crumbs from my fingertips. “Good morning, Nik.”

He shakes his head. Did I somehow botch his name now? I’m pretty sure I didn’t. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Are you asking about a hangover or about marrying you?”

“Both,” he says with a repressed smile, like he’s trying to hold in a laugh.

“The hangover is okay. Coffee helps.”

“And about the other thing? ”

“Being your wife?” I reply and laugh. And for the fortieth time today, I think to myself, I can’t believe I’m someone’s wife.

He noticeably flinches before taking a sip of his coffee. His eyes haven’t left mine since he approached my table. He doesn’t answer my bratty question.

“Coffee helps with that too,” I answer, incapable of answering him seriously.

“I think it helps too,” he responds dryly, then takes another long sip of his drink. He sets his cup down on my table, then slips his jacket on so smoothly it makes me wonder if he used to model before he made his way into hockey. “When do you head back to Colorado?”

“Later today,” I answer, but then have no idea what to say next. I’m sure there’s a question I could ask him, but absolutely nothing comes to mind besides, so how do you really feel about marrying me?

An awkward silence grows between us, and it’s filled with all the things we’re not saying about last night.

Finally, Nik breaks the silence. Thank God . “Safe travels, Adaline.”

“You too, Nik.”

His eyes linger on mine, and I let him stay there without breaking contact. He gives practically nothing, and it’s maddening. “I’ll be in touch after I talk to my attorney.”

As I watch my husband walk away, I get the feeling like it might be the last time I ever see him.