“Really?” He gave a headshake. “Huh. Well it was really, really good.”
“Nice to know.” His smirk matched the pride that lit up his eyes.
Men. She jabbed him lightly on the chest before stretching to plant a quick kiss on his lips. “What time do you have to leave?” He had a home game tonight.
He stretched around to glance at the bedside clock. “In an hour.”
“Am I interfering with your pregame ritual?”
His soft puff of laughter and hug flooded her with another wave of contentment. “No. Not at all.”
This was bad. So, so good, but bad too. Her promise of one more time with him had tumbled away long before his refusal to fuck her. I’ll cherish you. Her heart hitched, constricted. “Do you have a ritual?” she asked, hiding her internal confusion.
He rubbed at the stubble that darkened his jaw. “I don’t shave until after a game.” That explained the dark dusting in every game picture she’d found of him online. It’d also added some unexpected stimuli to their sex. Was it possible to have beard burn on her inner thighs? “And I like to get to the rink early.”
“That’s it?”
He shrugged and trailed his fingers through her hair. “There’re more little ones as I’m getting ready. Nothing big.”
Her brothers all had quirks or superstitions they still insisted on following before games. “My oldest brother, Dan, will only eat PB&J before a game. And Colin refuses to let anyone touch his stick on game day. Finn has to go for a run no matter how early or sucky the weather is. Now Aiden,” she went on, grinning. “He won’t wash his socks until the team loses.” Henrik wrinkled his nose, and she nodded, mimicking him. “Mom made him leave them in the garage but then the entire space stunk.”
“You have four older brothers, right?”
“Yup. Any siblings for you?”
His swallow was deep, his Adam’s apple bobbing heavily. A sadness dropped over his face, and she realized she’d unknowingly stepped into painful ground. “Two.” Another swallow. “But my little sister died. Ten years ago now.”
Her heart immediately went out to him. To the hurt he so obviously still carried. “I’m sorry.” She cupped his cheek and held a kiss to his lips. His eyes were dark and pain-filled when she leaned back. “I can’t imagine losing a sibling.” Even though her brothers had almost lost her more than once.
He cleared his throat, a rough grind that rattled his chest. “My brother is ten years older than me. We’ve never been close.”
“But you were with your sister.”
“Yes.” He closed his eyes, blocking the grief from her. “But not enough.”
She resettled into the crook of his arm, giving him space. She traced a lazy path over his chest that had no direction or pattern. “I doubt that’s true,” she finally said, believing it. She’d only experienced a glimpse of his giving heart and was overwhelmed by his capacity to love.
Not that they were there. Or close to there. Or going there.
Her stomach rolled, doubts and fears festering in the mess of her confusion.
“Is your family close?” he asked.
“Yes.” She jumped at the chance to forget where her thoughts had taken her. “Everyone still lives around here too. Plus most of my cousins.”
“And how many are there of them?” His voice was losing some of the tension that’d held it tight.
She did a quick mental calculation then gave up with a soft laugh. “Fifty or sixty. Maybe Seventy. I can’t keep them straight. Mom was one of eight kids. Dad one of five. Our extended family stretches across Minnesota and northern Wisconsin.”
His hand stilled in its absent caress of her hair. “I can’t imagine that.”
“Irish Catholics,” she supplied. “Before birth control pills became accepted.”
“So they are now?”
“Not officially. But unofficially, hell yes.” She lifted up. “Giving birth to eight kids is damn hard. Let alone raising them all.”
His laughter was full now, his melancholy absent. He hugged her tighter, eyes sparkling. “So eight kids isn’t on your wish list?”
Bam. The innocent question hit too fast for her to withhold her flinch. His smile dropped, and she cursed her reaction. “Definitely not eight,” she forced out with a stiff smile. “I’d be fine with two.” If I can have any at all.
“What happened?” He stroked her cheek, tenderness flooding out of him.
“Nothing.” She shook her head, glancing away with a dry chuckle. “Did you like growing up in Boston?” That might be the worst subject change ever, and the prolonged silence confirmed it.