Make It Sweet

by Kristen Callihan

“Oz! I can’t believe it’s you.” Oz. They called him Oz like Sal had. Who the hell was he? Lucian tried valiantly to adopt an easy expression, but I knew him enough now to te...

The questions peppered Lucian like pellets, and his expression grew more remote with each hit. Sal hustled over, looking more than a bit panicked. The boys didn’t notice; they were too busy gazing upon their idol.

The young guys posed for a few photos with Lucian “Oz,” and more people started to hover, the crowd murmuring with greater intensity. How the hell did everyone know him? Why didn’t I?

His face had been familiar, though, when I’d first seen it. But I hadn’t been able to place him. And then he’d opened his mouth, all gruff and snappish, and he’d simply become Lucian—hot but closed-off man who liked to take late-night naked swims and make me laugh despite myself.

He grabbed his tray without looking my way, dumped it, and began to stalk off, as though in a trance, leaving Sal and me to hustle after him or be left behind.

Sal’s expression was taut with unhappiness. “It’s his story to tell. Just know . . . he’s going to be difficult for a while.” Difficult? The man already was.

Worse, though, was my concern because he was hurting. The encounter had shaken him.

He snorted with feeling. “You’re operating under the misconception that I owe you anything. I don’t.” Definitely touchy.

I stopped on the trail, my arms falling to my sides as I caught my breath. To hell with it. I didn’t need to be chasing a man who didn’t want to be bothered. Weirdly, as if compelled, Lucian came to a halt and half turned my way to glare at me from over his wide shoulder. His body remained tense and poised to take flight once more.

“We owe each other nothing,” I said, raising my voice enough to be clear over the ten feet that separated us. “But no one lives in a complete void. Your grandmother and Sal walk on eggshells around you.” Oh, but that got him. Red suffused his neck, and he stalked back my way, coming within touching distance. “You know nothing about them. Or me.” Yeah, that hurt. It shouldn’t have, but it did.

“Who the hell are you?” I blurted out. At that, he laughed, but it was without humor. “I’m Brick, remember? The sullen ex–star athlete, washed up and hiding away in the big house.” “Fine. Be a dick.” I turned to go, when he spoke again, sharp and broken, like shards of glass. “You were so close to the truth, Em.” Eyes of frosted sea glass met mine. “The world knows me as Luc Osmond. Oz, the great and powerful. One of the best hockey centers to dominate the ice, or so I was told.”

A glimmer of recognition flickered to life. Of his spectacular body clad in scant boxer briefs, his face smiling down at me while I drove through LA traffic. “You have a billboard.” He winced. “Of all the things you had to remember . . .” “It’s an impressive billboard.”

He didn’t take the bait and smile but merely shrugged, the tiniest lifting of one shoulder. God, how had I not recognized him? He had ads. Lots of them. His face had brooded at me in magazines, ads for watches, colognes. I was fairly certain I’d seen hi...

“Concussion syndrome. One too many knocks to the head.”

It hadn’t been his health on the line; it had been his life. The thought of this proud, intelligent, loyal man no longer being here . . . it made my insides scream in horror and my arms ache to hold him.

“Out of the game and fixing up my grandmother’s estate.” That blazing gaze swung my way, angry and hurt. It sliced through my tender skin. “Is that enough for you? Or do you want a rundown of my symptoms too?” “No.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “You sure?” He stepped closer, eyes wild. “You don’t want to hear about the short temper? The memory lapses? Headaches? Well, hell, you know all about those, don’t you? I can’t even pick a woman up at the airport without having a spell.”

“Lucian . . .” “Call me Oz. The old man behind the curtain, pretending to be something he’s not.” Now he was feeling sorry for himself. He had good reason. But it didn’t help him. Not one bit.

“No. You told me to call you Lucian.” “Because I was hiding,” he bit out. “So you wouldn’t know what a damn wre...

If anything, he got more agitated, his skin darkening with displeasure and frustration. “Do not pity me.” “Don’t you yell at me,” I snapped back. “I’ll pity you all I want.” “What?” He gaped in out...

We were nearly nose to nose, both of us shouting like children. Didn’t stop me, though. “Why not, when you’re acting pitiful, stalking off to sulk, or lashing out at anyone who dares to care?” An irate growl escaped him, like he just might blow. With a jerky, harsh movement, he raised hi...

Worse in hindsight, because I could clearly see by the angle of his arm—now frozen in shock—that he had been about to run his hand through his hair in frustration. He’d seen my reaction. There was no escaping that.

He finally broke the taut silence. “You thought I was going to hit you.” Not a question. We both knew it. I hated that I’d flinched, that I was ashamed of my reaction. I hated that a vital piece of me had been altered.

It was another thing taken from me without my permission. But I couldn’t change it; I had flinch...

And you’re right—I don’t know you from Adam. So yes, I’m going to be wary.” When Lucian spoke, his voice was soft and carefully modulated.

“If it makes you more comfortable, I’ll stay out of your way for the rest of your visit. Regardless, I want you to feel safe, so can I explain something?”

“I apologize that my behavior made you feel unsafe. It wasn’t my intention. If you believe anything about me, believe I will always be the guy who stands with you, never against you.” As if that settled everything, he moved to go.

“I wouldn’t do those things,” I said. When he quirked a brow in confusion, I clarified. “I wouldn’t hit you or disparage Amalie. I’m not abusive either.” His expression turned baffled, as though he didn’t know what to make of me. “Okay.” That was it.

Then he gave me his back once more and stalked off. “Jerk,” I snapped. “I heard that,” he called, still walking. “Good,” I cried back, lifting my voice so he’d hear me loud and clear. “Because I never said I wouldn’t call you names.”

Well, as relaxed as I could be with a certain hot, annoying ex–hockey player stuck on my mind. God, but I had to repress the urge to google him. I itched to watch him play. But I knew it would be a mistake; I wouldn’t be able to function properly around the man if I saw him all bulked up and badass in hockey gear. I wasn’t a fan, but I knew I would be if I saw Lucian play.

Frankly, I wasn’t sure what I’d do when I left here. Probably go into withdrawal. For the first time, I truly envied Amalie having such an incredible chef.

Here, I was pampered with an exacting attention to detail that left me feeling utterly cared for.

The fact that the raisin rolls were not included made me think that yes, Sal had blabbed, and yes, the house had listened and tried another approach to please me.

“I don’t have food delivered to me. That’s only for guests.” He seemed to find this amusing. I found it a tragedy. “You are missing out, then.”

I liked Emma, but I loved the way she teased. It reminded me of the camaraderie I’d had with my guys, but better. I’d never wanted to haul any of my teammates onto my lap and devour their mouths. The mix of needful lust and fun was strangely intoxicating.

“Snoopy, honeybee . . . I’m not certain I like that you have so many names to tease me.” Lie. I loved it. But he didn’t need to know that. Lucian, however, got that gleam back in his eyes, even though he kept them on the road. “Put Brick back into the rotation, and we’ll be even.”

My heart skipped a beat. He’d noticed I’d stopped using it.

There was an undercurrent of pure panic in his tone, and I felt compelled to brush my arm with his just once, my finger trailing over his curled fist.

He jerked his gaze my way, pale eyes pained, panicked, and a little surprised. But he’d felt my touch, and his pinky twined with mine for a brief moment of acknowledgement.

The man’s smile was still in place when he let Lucian go, but it was strained now. And I knew he was unsure of his welcome. A pang went through me, because it was clear this man thought the world of Lucian.

His blue eyes glanced over at me and paused. “Hello . . .” I was treated to another tilted but charming smile. “And you are . . . holy shit.” His booming voice cracked. “You’re Emma Maron, aren’t you?” Instant spotlight on me. I felt it every time. My smile automatically wanted to go into public-relations mode. I resisted the urge. This was Lucian’s friend. “Yes.”

The worst of it was he noticed my study of him and liked it. I had the idea that he assumed I was interested. I wasn’t. The man was gorgeous, but I didn’t feel a glimmer of attraction.

It didn’t stop him from rising and kissing my hand as Brommy had done. But where Brommy made me want to laugh, this guy had me wanting to snatch my hand back as soon as possible.

He wanted to escape. Badly. But he was rooted to the spot.

That body. God.” “Hey,” Brommy cut in. “Hot-bodied men right here.” “Oh, are there?” Tina squinted, peering around. “I’m having trouble locating them.”

“My ex-fiancée.” And it hit me: Lucian had lost a lot more than his profession.

“It’s horrible, isn’t it? I was going to marry that woman, and I was too complacent to even notice that I didn’t love her. Hell, I barely liked her.”

“I don’t know what I’m saying. Other than I cannot stand the fact that the only thing holding me back is my head.”

I was twenty-seven years old, and suddenly it felt ancient in the face of her assumption that my life was secure and well ordered.

I was no better than a teen sneaking out in hopes that my crush would hear me and show up. I knew this and berated myself for it, and still I toed off my sandals and undid my bathing wrap.

I shouldn’t have been surprised; I’d wanted him to show up, after all. But a surge of adrenaline hit me like a drug, and my dreary night sparked with promise.