Ice water doused Faith’s last flicker of hope. Natalie had been right. Grant wouldn’t ask her to come with him because she didn’t belong in that world. His real world. Holly was his temporary fantasyland. Hockey and all the locations it took him—that was Grant’s real world. The world with all the lights and cameras, autographs and interviews, dates with supermodels and CFOs, and meeting the freaking President of the United States.
And Faith, small-town hardware store owner on the verge of bankruptcy, not only didn’t belong, she couldn’t fit in no matter what she did or how she tried.
The reality of that hurt in a way she couldn’t put into words.
“You bet.” She forced a smile, patted his chest, and stepped out of the circle of his arms. “I’m going to let Natalie know she’ll be judging the contest on her own, and I’ll be sure to surf cable tomorrow night to see if I can catch sight of you.”
He looked disappointed and a little lost. Twisting his wrist, he glanced at his watch, then dropped his arm. But he didn’t ask her to come. Didn’t suggest plans when he returned. And she couldn’t bear dragging out this good-bye any longer.
“Don’t be late,” she said with a smile and shooing gesture as she walked backward. The more space she created between them, the less likely she would be to lunge after him when he turned to go. “You shouldn’t keep the President of the United States waiting.”
“I um…I looked through all Taylor’s numbers and jotted down a rough sketch of a similar plan for you. It’s on your desk.”
“Great. I’ll look it over tonight. Thank’s again. For everything.”
“I think it’s a great idea,” he added, still not moving.
She nodded, kissed the fingertips of one glove, and used that hand to wave to him. “Safe travels, Grant Saber.”
And she turned away, put her gaze on the dirty snow path leading to the parking lot, and kept her head down and her mind focused on getting one foot in front of the other.
Thirteen
Grant was fucking miserable.
Everything about this gig had been as tedious as he’d expected—the flights to get here, the traffic from the airport, the wardrobe fitting for a tux, Bridgette’s pawing at the cocktail party before hand, and now, he and his teammates were standing in the cutting cold just to watch some lights turn on.
“How the fuck did we get here?” Grant muttered, taking a covert glance at the face of his phone to check for texts, emails or voice messages.
Still nothing.
“More importantly,” Beckett Croft, one of the team’s best defensemen added, “how do we get the fuck out?”
“Better question,” Tate Donovan said under his breath, “is how to shut you guys up so we don’t get kicked out.”
“Who’s idea was it to bring the fuckin’ Boy Scout along?” Rafe Savage cut a look at his best friend since childhood and his current teammate on the Rough Riders. “I’ve got my eye on a couple of sweet pieces of ass from the cocktail party, and I’m taking at least one of them home. So if you plan on acting as the goddamned hall monitor tonight, stay the fuck away from me.”
“I’m going to repeat that to you the next time you call me from jail looking for someone to bail your skanky ass out,” Tate shot back, using a high-pitched girlie voice to repeat, “Stay the fuck away from me.”
Normally, Grant found Rafe’s and Tate’s bitching entertaining. Tonight, he found nothing entertaining. Absolutely nothing. He’d only been away from her for about thirty hours and all he could focus on was the hollow ache in his gut.
Rafe pulled his jacket tighter against the bitter DC wind and refocused on the President. “Bet he wouldn’t talk so damn long if he were out here instead of up there, shielded and warm. Fucker.”
“Say that a little louder,” Beckett told him. “Maybe to that Secret Service agent on your right.”
“It’s a free fucking country.” He met the steely gaze of the noted agent. “Isn’t that right? Um, sir.”
The agent didn’t respond, but took in every last detail of their group, before scanning the crowd again.
“Would you guys shut up?” Hendrix said from behind them, his arms crossed, jacket pulled up around his ears. He stood between Andrade and Lawless, all three of them using Grant, Beckett, Rafe and Tate as wind blocks. “I’m trying to sleep.”
“Jesus Christ.” Grant bounced from foot to foot trying to stay warm. “Don’t stand still, boys, or your ass cheek’ll freeze together.”
“That ain’t all that freeze together,” Lawless offered.
A murmur of movement rippled close to them. Someone nudged their way to the front of the crowd. Grant glanced that direction just as Bridgett stepped up beside him. She wore a winter white wool trench over the barely-there midnight blue dress she’d had on at the pre-party, and slipped her arm through Grant’s, snuggling up beside him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. She hadn’t been invited to the lighting, only the parties before and after as Grant’s arm candy. “How’d you get in?”