Roman (Cold Fury Hockey #7)(13)
Gray doesn’t even falter in her step, nor does she look back, but merely says, “Well, come on, Lexi. We don’t have much time and we have a ton to talk about.”
Brian hands me my purse, and with his other hand reaches out and squeezes me on the shoulder, and murmurs, “Good luck.”
I don’t say anything, but I reach my left hand across my chest, lay it on top of his hand, and give him a return squeeze.
“I’ll check in with you later,” Brian tells me, and his voice sounds very dadlike. Well, what I would imagine a dad voice would sound like. I wouldn’t know since I never had a father figure in my life. My mother just never found the one, although she had dated some very nice men throughout the years. Regardless, this is very new to me.
“Okay,” I murmur as I release his hand and pull away from him, following Gray to her office like I’m on a death march.
My sister’s office sits at the end of the hall that extends from the lobby. It’s not posh and opulent the way Brian’s is, but rather cluttered with books, binders, and loose papers all over the place. It’s large and expansive, but it seems like every piece of furniture holds stacks of stuff, giving it a slightly cramped feeling. About the only nod to the fact that Gray is something other than a high-powered general manager of a professional hockey team is that the credenza and hutch behind her desk has framed photos of her family. A brief glance and I see a photo of her husband, retired goalie Ryker Evans, as he hoists the Stanley Cup above his head. There’s another photo of just her and Ryker together, him standing behind her with his arms wrapped tightly around his wife, and both of them beaming at the camera. Finally, I see a larger picture of Gray and two little girls, and I have to assume they’re Ruby and Violet, Ryker’s daughters from a prior marriage. Brian filled me in on his newly acquired granddaughters and talked about them as if they were meant to be his all along.
“You can just clear one of those chairs off,” Gray says briskly as she sits behind her desk, which I take to mean she sees this as a business meeting first and foremost.
Just before I turn to the nearest chair, I see a small black-and-white picture, maybe four by four inches, unframed and propped up against a row of binders on the hutch. I can’t help the slight smile that comes to my face as I realize it’s an ultrasound picture, presumably of Gray’s baby she’s carrying.
I nod toward the picture, which I figure is an early one, since it looks like nothing more than a blob. “When was the ultrasound done?”
For the first time, Gray’s face softens while in my presence and she turns to look back at the picture. “Just a few days ago.”
“And how far along are you now?” I ask, although I know the answer to this based on my conversations with Brian. He’s only far too happy to talk about Gray and her first child.
“Twenty weeks,” she says as she turns back to me, and the softness is gone. So is the hardness, but her gaze is determined as she nods toward the chair again and takes hers behind the desk.
I turn quickly as I let my purse slide from my shoulder to the ground. Pulling a stack of four books off a chair, I bend to set them on the floor before I sit down. Just as my butt hits the cushion, I try to keep the personal conversation alive as I meet her gaze again. “Do you know what you’re having?”
I also know the answer to this, but I’m struggling to make a connection.
“We’re going to keep it a surprise,” Gray says matter-of-factly, and in a way that lets me know she’s done talking about her pregnancy.
Still, I try one more time. “Guess you’ve got a lot of gender-neutral baby clothes at this point, huh?”
“Mmmmm,” is how she acknowledges that, and then she makes it absolutely clear that the warm and fuzzy conversation is over when she says, “I’m curious as to why you lied about Roman Sykora helping you with a contact.”
I wince slightly, and that’s just fucking great. I’m really starting this relationship off with a bang. “I’m sorry. I knew he was late to practice and I just sort of blurted it out before I thought. He was just being nice and making conversation. That’s all.”
Gray studies me a moment, and I can see when she decides to let that go, because her gaze becomes more focused.
More intense.
“I’m not ready to accept who you say you are,” she says briskly. Almost formally.
“I understand” is all I can say to that. Because I totally understand where she’s coming from.
“Assuming that the paternity test that you and my dad have taken,” she says with pointed emphasis on the word my, “what are your intentions?”
“Intentions?” I ask, confused.
“What do you want from us?” Gray says as she crosses her forearms and leans them on her desk. She doesn’t sound skeptical but merely resigned, as if she’s trying to head off an extortion attempt or something.
“I don’t want anything,” I tell her honestly. “Well, except to get to know you and Brian.”
She arches an eyebrow at me. “You don’t want anything? Not a job here with the organization? Or with one of the other Brannon companies? You don’t want a part of your legacy if you are who you say you are?”
I really wanted to play nice with Gray, but I need to nip her slanderous thoughts toward me in the bud. “Why don’t you just say what you really are trying to say, Gray? You want to know if I want money, right?”