The Langfield Brothers: Box Set

2. Gavin

TWO

GAVIN

TWO YEARS EARLIER

March

Me: Are you guys coming?

Brooks: Can’t. Seb has me working with Fitz tonight, since I’ll miss two practices while we’re traveling for the wedding.

Aiden: I met a girl. I think I’m in love. Can I bring her to the wedding?

Beckett: You can’t invite people to someone’s wedding at the last minute. Especially the wedding of a fucking pop star. They vetted everyone who is coming to the island.

Aiden: No plus-ones?

Beckett: Aiden, you are not in love. Sorry, Gav. I’m stuck in the office with Liv. We just ordered food.

I chuckle to myself as I pocket my phone. Despite being annoyed that they aren’t meeting me at the bar, thinking about Beckett and his insane obsession with Olivia Maxwell always makes me laugh. My poor besotted brother and his unrequited crush.

I look out the window at the rain pouring down in sheets. I should go home and have a quiet night before I have to get on a plane and head to Aruba for Ford’s wedding. My best friend is marrying Lake Paige. Yes, that Lake Paige. America’s sweetheart, one of the biggest musicians of our time, and his son’s ex-girlfriend. It’s going to be a huge weekend, and between the events and parties and dealing with my brothers, I doubt I’ll be getting much sleep.

I should go to bed.

Should turn in early and rest.

But ever since Ford started dating Lake, I’ve been restless. The way he looks at her, with contentment and a happiness I’ve never experienced before, has messed with my head.

The one-night stands aren’t cutting it either.

Women in general aren’t cutting it. I don’t know; I need something more than just a warm body. I need a challenge.

As the general manager for the Boston Bolts, I should feel challenged at work, but the opposite is true, really. Work is easy. I go into an office, make deals, talk to my friends about advertising spots, hang out with my brothers. I love it. I couldn’t ask for more. But it’s not challenging.

I’m not sure a woman or a job has ever challenged me.

“Sir, would you like to go home?” my driver asks.

I cringe. Jacob has been working for me for the last year. He’s young, and I hate that he calls me sir.

“Gavin. Please call me Gavin.” While I’m almost forty, I’m most definitely not a sir.

Jacob laughs. “Right. Gavin. You going into the bar or…?”

With a sigh, I button my jacket and reach for the door.

“I’ll get that.” He scrambles for the door handle, but before he can get out, I grasp his shoulder, pulling him against his seat.

“I’m not an old man. I won’t melt in the rain or slip and break a hip. Go home. I’ll call you when I’m finished or, ya know, walk across the street.” My apartment is literally one block over. And maybe a walk in the rain will get me out of the funk I’m in.

This mood, this bitter taste in my mouth, is it jealousy? God, I’ve never been jealous of a thing in my life. I have more money than I could ever spend, a body cut from stone that I don’t particularly need to work hard for—even at my age—and my face, fuck, my face is beautiful.

And I’m the funny one. I make everyone laugh. Everyone loves me.

I’m just not so sure I love me.

Ignoring that familiar pang in my chest, I push the door open and rush out into the cold rain, reminding myself that it could be worse. It’s March in Boston; I’m lucky it’s not snowing. As I enter the warm bar, music from the piano filters into the night air, instantly draining the tension from my body. I recognize the tune immediately, “Witchcraft” by Frank Sinatra, though the voice is female—alluring, raspy, and somehow magical.

Just inside the doorway, I zero in on the piano in the corner. Where Benny usually sits behind the keys is a woman whose dark hair falls like a curtain, obscuring her face. It’s a deep auburn color and wavy like it was styled for an old Hollywood film, though it spills over her shoulders. Her dress is low cut, and with the way she’s bent over and playing, I get an eyeful of her cleavage.

Utterly mesmerized, I freeze at the door, dripping onto the mat, until the song ends. She stands, and like a magnet, I feel a tug toward her. But before I can approach her, the hostess steps in front of me. “Mr. Langfield, may I take your jacket? I’ve got a spot available near the fire.”

I nod and shrug off my jacket, all the while scanning the bar for the piano player who seems to have disappeared into thin air.

“The piano player—” I say, scratching at my jaw. “She’s new?”

The hostess frowns. “No, Benny’s playing tonight.”

“A woman. There was just a woman playing.”

She tilts her head and hums. “Was there? Sorry, it’s been so busy I didn’t even notice. Maybe he allowed a friend to play. He does that every once in a while.”

Behind her, Benny settles on the bench and strings chords together. Damn, where’d that witchy girl go?

The hostess is right. It seems half of Boston is seeking refuge in my favorite bar tonight. Luckily, my family name and reputation mean that wherever I go, no matter how busy the place, I’ll have a table. And tonight, it’s the best one in the house. A spot at the end of the bar near the fireplace. The perfect spot to settle and warm up. The perfect spot to search for that piano player. She couldn’t have gone far.

As soon as I settle at the bar, the bartender sets a whiskey in front of me—Hanson, of course. A couple of my best friends own the company. I take a sip, and then I pull out my phone and tap on my other best friend’s contact.

I met Ford Hall a decade ago at a concert at my family’s arena. The headliner was one of his artists, though the singer has since fizzled out. Back then, before he signed Lake Paige, the artists Ford worked with at his label weren’t the kind who packed stadiums. These days, his label is the hottest in the industry.

When we met, Ford was divorced, and for years, he stuck to one-night stands and casual hookups like I have. He’s got three kids who he’s totally devoted to.

I just recently convinced Ford to let me offer his younger son, Daniel, a spot on my hockey team. For now, he’s our third- string left winger, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s starting by next season. The kid is a beast on skates and one of my proudest drafts.

That’s the part I love most about my job. Scouting. Looking for talent.

I’m a bit more hands-on than most owners. I attend practices often so I can keep an eye on the guys as they hone their skills. And there’s nothing I love more than the actual game. Watching my team fight it out on the ice. Watching them win.

It’s the best feeling in the world.

Ford’s other son, though? God, that’s going to be awkward. Wonder if he’ll actually show up to the wedding. Maybe he’ll bring his boyfriend.

I chuckle as I take another sip of my whiskey. The idiot dated Lake first and was stupid enough to cheat on her. So Lake hooked up with his dad to get even. And now she’s marrying him. It’s nothing short of savage. Ultimate revenge.

Me: Ready to get hitched?

Ford: Hell yeah.

Me: You’re so gone for her.

Ford: Have you seen my future wife? Of course I am.

I laugh, but the humor fades quickly, because there’s one thing that’s still keeping them from being 100 percent happy.

Me: Your daughter RSVP yet?

Ford: No. Daniel is still trying to talk to her. I asked her to meet us for dinner last night, but she didn’t show.

I wince. The only thing that made Ford hesitate before he finally took the leap with Lake was his daughter’s anger over the situation. Despite how perfect he thinks his daughter is, she’s acting like a spoiled brat. If Paul can get over his father marrying his ex, then why can’t Millie deal with it? Of course I’d never say that to my best friend. To him, Millie is perfect.

Me: She’ll come around.

Ford: Maybe. All right, my fiancée is calling out to me from the hot tub. This place is gorgeous. Can’t wait til you guys get here. Have a safe flight.

That damn pang I’ve been forced to ignore more and more hits me again as I place my phone down on the bar, face down. What I would do to find that person I’d want to rush to if she were calling my name.

“Another whiskey?” the bartender asks.

I glance down at my glass, surprised to see that it’s empty. Tapping it on the bar, I give him a nod. “Yes, thanks.”

I’m engulfed in an intoxicating fruity scent as someone sits beside me, and as I turn my head in her direction, a smile forms on my face unbidden.

The woman, though, keeps her attention on the bartender who has just slid my glass in my direction and looked up at her.

She gives him a soft smile. “Peach margarita, please.”

He mimics the expression, though his smile is a little more starry-eyed, like he may be as tongue-tied as I am over the gorgeous creature who’s just appeared.

It’s not just her long dark hair or the slinky black dress that barely covers her full tits. It’s not the cranberry stain on her lips or the alluring light-brown eyes with hints of gold speckled within them or even the damn beauty mark on her cheekbone. No, it’s the way her lips quirk, as if she knows she’s ensnared us both. The way she shifts on the barstool, moving her gorgeous ass in a way that leaves me instantly hard. This woman knows precisely what she’s doing. Seduction in a black dress, curves that are meant to suffocate every working brain cell.

She’s young. That’s obvious.

I’m just not sure how young. Legal, yes, but otherwise, I’m not sure I want to find out.

I’d rather not know if it’ll cause me to actually use my brain tonight. For the first time in at least a month, I’m met with a woman who has piqued my interest. Now let’s just see if she can keep it.

“Peach margarita? Bold for such a cold night,” I say, sipping my whiskey.

She peeks in my direction. Only one glittering eye is visible. The other remains hidden behind that curtain of dark hair. “I know what I like.”

Fuck, why is that hot?

Even when they’re my age, most people don’t really know what they like. Hell, I’m beginning to wonder if I even know what I like. I drink Hanson whiskey because my friends own it. I run the hockey team because I couldn’t play professionally and my father handed the reins over to me. I live in a huge penthouse with an incredible view of the Boston skyline because I was told it was the most expensive unit in the city. If it’s the most expensive, then it’s the best, right? And as a Langfield, I’m expected to own the best.

“Can you make me one of those too?” I ask the bartender as he pours my seatmate’s drink into a margarita glass.

Her lips quirk almost imperceptibly, and damn if the knowledge that I’m making her happy doesn’t have me growing harder.

That’s new.

Sinatra was onto something. It’s gotta be witchcraft.

The bartender slides her drink toward her and then gets to work on mine. While I wait, I keep my eyes trained on her. It might be creepy, and I should probably stop, but if the way those gold flecks in her eyes are dancing are any indication, she’s amused rather than bothered by my attention.

I’m used to being the entertainment, the funny brother, so I don’t mind in the slightest being hers.

The music starts up again—this time it’s John Mayer. The room grows quiet, as often happens when Benny plays. For a Boston crowd, this one is subdued. This is exactly why I frequent this bar. I appreciate Benny’s relaxing vibe after a long day. There’s no one waiting for me at home, so most nights, if I’m not at a hockey game or watching the local MLB team—my older brother’s baby; I oversee the Bolts, and he oversees the Revs—I either drag my brothers out or end up here by myself.

When my new drink is placed in front of me, the woman to my left angles herself toward me and presses her lips together in a hint of a smile as she waits for me to take a sip.

I can’t stop the cringe that overtakes me the moment the tangy sweetness hits my tongue. “Oh god. That’s awful.”

The bartender’s eyes go wide and panicked.

Coughing, I hold up my hand. “It has nothing to do with your skills. But fuck, I don’t like that.”

The woman beside me giggles, then turns back to face the bar—away from me.

I wince. “It’s not that it isn’t a good drink, it’s just?—”

“Not for you.”

The bartender slides a glass of water in front of me, so I snatch it off the bar top and down it.

“Yes. It’s not for me at all. Sorry,” I say, nodding at the man behind the bar this time.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “’Nother whiskey?”

I sigh. When was the last time I drank anything other than Hanson whiskey? “You have a menu?”

“You seemed to be enjoying your whiskey,” the woman beside me says.

“What’s your name?” I ask her, shifting her way.

She assesses me, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together, as if to say why the hell do you want to know?

“I’m Gavin,” I offer.

She shakes her head and picks up her glass. “Not interested.”

I cough out a surprised laugh. “I was just being polite.”

“No you weren’t.” Her cranberry-painted lips tip up into that knowing smirk. “What’s with the drink menu? We both know you’ll only end up with another drink you dislike. Clearly, you are a man of habit who always drinks whiskey.”

Amusement flits through me. “You been spying on me?”

She delicately licks the edge of her glass, her tongue peeking out just enough to swipe at the salt, then hums and takes another sip. I realize then that her eyes aren’t truly brown. As the light hits her perfectly, the golden specs seem to blend together, revealing a rich, mesmerizing rose gold. They fix on me as she sets her drink down again. “No. Just know your type.”

“Well, you happen to be wrong, witchy woman. I am a man who likes to try new things.”

She smiles. “Witchy woman?”

“That was you playing when I came in, right?” I play dumb, as if I didn’t know precisely who she was the minute she sat down.

She presses her hands against the edge of the bar and pushes back, as if she’s going to leave. “I don’t play games, Gavin. Have a good night.”

On instinct, I grasp her elbow, holding her in place.

She looks down at my hand, and her brows furrow before she looks back up at me.

Stomach sinking, I let her go, holding my hand up, fingers splayed. “I’m sorry. I just—You were incredible up there.”

Her face softens, and she might even be blushing under the praise. Like maybe she isn’t used to being complimented for her talent. So far, she’s been bold, confident. She’s comfortable in the revealing dress, like she knows exactly what she’s working with. But when it comes to her ability to sing and entertain a crowd with her piano playing, she’s suddenly shy.

And damn if the juxtaposition isn’t intriguing.

“Thank you.”

“Will you stay?” I ask, because damn, do I want her to. I’m not ready for her to walk away. “Help me find what I like?”

She watches me with a thoughtfulness so profound it’s hard to comprehend. Like she sees something in me, understands me in a way I don’t even understand myself. She’s an old soul. That much is clear. I’m afraid that if she looks too closely, she’ll realize I’m shallow and have nothing to offer, that if she sees the real me, she’ll pull back and say good night.

So I’m pleasantly surprised when she instead settles back on her stool and motions to the menu that’s been placed in front of me. “Well, what are we trying?”