Kiss and Don't Tell(80)

Josh: So that’s where we’re at?

Pacey: You put us there.

Josh: So is that why I’ve seen your picture on the Internet . . . with Winnie? Is that so you can get back at me?

How the fuck . . .

Jesus Christ, I should have known people were taking pictures of me and Winnie when we were out on the town, exploring.

Pacey: You really don’t know me at all.

Josh: You’re right, I don’t. But you realize, you’re with my Winnie, right?

Pacey: She’s not yours anymore. You gave up the best thing that’s ever happened to you. You were an asshole to her. You can’t claim her.

Josh: So you’re not doing this out of spite?

Pacey: I have better things to do with my life than figure out ways to spite my half-brother. You act as if I spend time thinking about you.

My fingers are flying.

My mind is shooting off with angry fireworks.

I can’t seem to control this mad, pulsing beat through my veins that’s propelling me to stoop to Josh’s level.

Level asshole.

Is that why he’s reaching out? After all these years? Is that why Dad is forcing me to speak to him? Because of Winnie? Does Dad know about her too? Fuck.

Josh: It’s just convenient . . .

Pacey: You can take your ellipses and shove them up your ass. Our meeting is purely coincidental. She doesn’t even know you’re my half-brother and I plan on keeping it that way.

Josh: Want some advice about Winnie? Never keep a secret from her.

Pacey: Pretty sure I’m not going to take advice from the piece of shit who left her alone when her mom was sick.

Josh: Watch it. You have no idea what you’re talking about.

Pacey: She’s told me everything, you prick. I know exactly what I’m talking about.

Josh: I see.

Pacey: Good. Now fucking be gone.

I set my phone down and take a deep breath.

Fuck.





After eating dinner alone out on the patio and booking a private plane to Vancouver for tomorrow, I take my dishes into the kitchen, where Stephan is cleaning up. Winnie has been in her room since she left me on the lounger, and I decided to give her space, because it seemed as though she needed it.

I needed it too. I needed time on my own to think, to weigh the consequences of my decisions. Being bombarded by my teammates about my head and my future wasn’t what I was expecting to happen today. Nor was I expecting Josh to talk to me about Winnie. It’s been a rough night, to say the least.

When I turn to face the living room, I notice Hornsby and Taters playing chess, while Holmes and Posey are both reading. Looks as if Holmes started Winnie’s book that she got him. I would be excited to see that if I wasn’t ready to take him out with a right hook. All of them—I have a consuming urge to take them all out. I get that they’re being protective, but they have no idea what their good intentions are putting me in. They don’t know . . . fuck, they don’t know how scared I am. I’m too goddamn young to retire, I have plenty of time left in my skates.

When I start to move past them, they all look up.

Instead of ignoring them, I say, “Booked my plane. I suggest you leave me the fuck alone until I contact you.”

“Can’t be mad at us for caring,” Taters says.

“I can be mad all I want.”

“Not if you need me to drive you to the airport,” Hornsby says, moving his rook up the board. He flashes me a smile. “See you in the morning, sweetheart.”

Not bothering to comment back, I head to Winnie’s room and knock on the door gently.

“Come in,” she calls out.

I open the door and quickly shut it behind me, blocking out the guys. Anger sears through me, but the minute I see Winnie, that anger begins to dissipate.

I lean against the closed door and study Winnie, who’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, notebook in one hand, pen in the other. She’s wearing her pajamas—silk shorts and a tank top—and her blonde hair is braided into two French braids. She looks so goddamn adorable.

“Hey, how are you?” I ask her.

She smiles at me, and this time it reaches her lips. “Good. Spent some time reading over my mom’s old diary. Felt good to reconnect with her. How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” I answer honestly—another reason why I didn’t want to see Doc, because I am feeling better. This migraine didn’t last as long as the other ones, which could take up to twenty-four hours, sometimes longer, to fade. And that knowledge irritates me, because it’s not something the boys took into consideration before throwing down their threats.

“Good.” She sets her notebook and pen on her nightstand and pats her bed, inviting me over. She looks so happy, I feel as though I’m going to steal that joy from her with the news of my departure.

Knowing I have to say something to her, that I can’t just leave and hope for the best, I take a seat on her bed. “I have to talk to you about something.”

Her brow pulls together. “What’s up?”

I pull on the back of my neck. “I have to fly to Vancouver tomorrow.”

“Oh . . . why?”

“The boys were really concerned about my migraine. They told our team doctor, and he wants me to come in so he can check me out, run some tests. I didn’t want to, but Holmes threatened to tell our coach, so . . . I booked a private jet to get me there tomorrow. I don’t plan on being gone for long, but I do have to leave.”