If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(10)

This might be the most foolish, ridiculous thing I’ve ever done. Or it might be an absolute stroke of brilliance. But I refuse to let that uncertainty stop me from giving it a shot. Finally, I have an idea for Project Ziggy Bergman 2.0.

Involving a certain fallen-from-grace hockey star who has exactly what I need, and who needs exactly what I have to offer: A public image overhaul.





4





SEBASTIAN





Playlist: “Shine A Little Light,” The Black Keys





Until Frankie figures out how to get me back on everyone’s good side, I am under strict instructions to stay in my house and out of trouble.

For once, I’m doing what I’m told.

Granted, if Frankie saw me right now—and I’m very glad she hasn’t—she’d probably disagree.

I sit on my second-floor balcony overlooking the Pacific Ocean, wearing nothing but bedhead hair and black boxer briefs, my bruised foot free of the boot but propped up on a cushioned deck chair. My stomach hurts, the pain somewhat dulled by the joint I take another long drag from, its pungent smoke curling into the air. I glare at the horizon, resenting the low, dying light as it spears my eyeballs and stabs my thudding brain. I drank a lot of whiskey last night.

No, Frankie definitely wouldn’t agree that I’ve been doing as I’m told. But, technically, I have. I’ve stayed in and stayed out of trouble by misbehaving in private, thanks to a highly sophisticated security system.

Relaxed, confident in that, I shut my eyes and hold in the smoke from my joint, feeling its acrid sweetness burn my lungs. And then I promptly choke it out at the sound of feet landing on my balcony.

I sincerely hope I’m hallucinating.

“You’re not,” Ziggy says.

She’s either a mind reader or I said that out loud. Either way, she’s no hallucination.

Ren’s little sister stands on my second-floor balcony, the sea breeze tugging her hair loose from its braid, fiery ribbons dancing across twilight’s fading blue. Her cheeks are flushed, glowing pink as the dwindling sun. If my heart weren’t about to pound right out of my chest from being caught so shockingly off guard, I’d be fixated on that blush that I recognize from our little terrace encounter at Ren and Frankie’s wedding.

Not that I’ve thought about that night at Ren and Frankie’s wedding since then. Or Ziggy’s blush.

At all.

She stands, staring at me, hands on her hips—whose supple curves I most absolutely do not notice, thank you very much. She’s in nondescript athletic gear—dark-blue soccer shorts, matching lace-up high-tops, a loose dark-green athletic shirt that makes those emerald eyes jump against the peach of her skin, the fiery freckles splashed across her nose.

I’ve never had a thing for other athletes, but right now, hypothetically speaking, I could appreciate how the sporty look might be attractive.

To someone besides me. Because I am most definitely not even contemplating being drawn toward Ren’s sister, who’s on my balcony while I sit here, in my underwear, stomach aching, smelling like an overripe corpse and a dubious relationship to alcohol.

Just fantastic.

It isn’t that I give two shits what Ziggy or anyone, for that matter, thinks of my lifestyle choices—I gave that up long ago—but I do have a vanity streak a mile wide. No one’s seen me looking this disgraceful since I was born.

Pinning the joint between my teeth, I reach for the nearby black cashmere throw and drape it across my lap, then rake my fingers through my hair, smoothing back my messy waves until I can restrain the top half of them with the hair tie on my wrist.

Then I slump back in my chair, taking a long drag from the joint. “Ever heard of knocking on the front door, Ziggy dear?”

“I had a sneaking suspicion that if I did, it wouldn’t be answered.” She leans against the balcony railing and nearly gives me a heart attack. I lunge forward, wrap a hand around her wrist, and yank her my way.

Her eyes are wide as saucers as she stumbles toward me, coming to a stop at my feet. “What was that for?”

“You infiltrated my property and scaled my house. You don’t get to ask questions right now.”

I realize I’m still holding her wrist. That it’s soft and warm, and the faintest scent of strawberries clings to her skin. I let go.

Ziggy folds her arms across her chest and peers down at me as I try to settle myself with another hit of this very expensive, very smooth marijuana, and says, “Should you be doing that?”

I raise my eyebrows, holding in the smoke, then slowly exhale. Ziggy watches me, her expression a delightfully compelling blend of fascination and wholehearted disapproval.

“This is Frankie-approved.” Smirking, I lounge deeper in my chair. “Weed is about the only thing she and I agree on.”

“Frankie uses it for pain management,” Ziggy points out.

I’m not about to admit that my stomach’s in agony. I gesture with the joint to my bruised foot. “Ouch. I’m in pain.”

She rolls her eyes.

“So.” I bring the joint to my lips again, annoyed to see Ziggy making herself at home.

She plops down on the chair across from me and stretches out her long legs, arms folded across her chest. “So,” she offers.