The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers 1)

"I told you, I've been busy with work and when I'm not there I'm catching up on sleep."

More lies. God, Rocco deserved so much better. But it wasn’t as if I could tell him why I couldn’t go to his games. The possibility of Seb trying to, or worse, successfully making contact where Rocco would see, scared me to death. No way would Rocco miss his arch-nemesis chatting up his little sister. Nothing good would happen if I went to the Comets games, both in terms of Rocco, and my fragile, melancholy heart.

Rocco shot me a glare. He didn't buy my pathetic excuse and, in his defense, it was pretty crappy. Plus, I let him down and that sucked.

"Then they’re working you too hard. You shouldn't be so worn out that you can't spend a couple hours watching hockey on your own free time." He resumed his pacing. The long legs on his six-foot-six frame devoured the room in a couple of strides before he turned and went the opposite direction. "And what about weekends?" Rocco stopped and threw his hands in the air. "Why all of a sudden do you have to work on weekends?"

Of course, he was right. I was Sunday, and I didn’t work weekends. That was what I said to avoid the exact argument we were having. I actually spent the day before hiding at Piper’s, not at work.

It had been a little over a week since I saw Seb and, to my frustration, my intense desire for him hadn’t dulled over time. Instead, it only seemed to grow bigger, the chasm wider, emptier, and needier.

Piper told me to suck it up and call him, but I couldn't do it. For one thing, Sebastien St. Clair is a love ‘em and leave ‘em type of guy. And second, spending time with him was way too complicated. If I had been thinking with my head instead of my hormones the night he asked me to meet him at the hotel bar, I would have said no. Especially if I knew saying yes meant I would never watch my brother play hockey in person again.

I frowned and the more I thought about it, the dumber the logic sounded. I mean, was I serious? I wasn’t going to any of Rocco's games as long as he played on the same team as Seb? The whole thing was stupid. So stupid, in fact, I was beyond over it, over Seb and Rocco and their macho ridiculousness.

"Fine," I said. Rocco froze mid-pace. Since Saturday’s was a matinee, the Sunday game would be at night. "I'll go tonight. Does that make you happy?"

Instead of answering, Rocco grabbed my hand and hauled me off the couch, straight into one of his patented, bone-crushing, bear hugs. "It makes me ecstatic, Ky. You being there means everything to me."

I winced. Way to plunge the knife in further.

"I know it does.” I held back a snuffle. “I’m sorry I haven't been there for you, Rocco.”

“Well, you'll be there tonight and that's all that matters."

You won't be saying that if everything goes to hell.

Good thing I had a plan. A stupid one, but hey, everything I did lately turned out to be stupid.

Why change things up?

The Comets easily defeated Chicago 4-2 and Rocco played one of the best games of his career. At first he didn't understand why I insisted on switching seats. When I explained I'd rather sit a few rows back than have the penalty box block my view of the ice, he understood. Sort of. The divot between his brows said no, but he didn’t argue. Good enough for me.

Because I’m an idiot, I kept stealing glances at Seb from under the rim of the baseball cap I wore low on my head. Seb glanced toward my old seat several times throughout the game, searching for me. At first, it made my heart hurt. Then, once I had time to mull it over—and maybe two or three beers. Okay, fine. Four beers—it made me mad. Seb knew how to reach me. If he missed me so damn much, which I doubted was the case, he had no one to blame but himself.

And yeah, it stung that he hadn't bothered to reach out—no calls, no texts, nothing. I kept reminding myself Seb’s behavior wasn't anything unexpected. We weren't dating. We weren’t even friends. We had sex, period. That was what he did, right?

So why did it hurt so much?

I slunk out of the game early and passed out on my bed fully clothed.

All right, fine. I had five beers. Don’t judge.

Nearly two weeks to the day since Sebastien chained me to his bed, my desk drawer vibrated. I was almost done typing up a report on gang violence in Chicago and didn’t want to break my concentration, so I finished the last sentence and hit send before I checked my phone. When I slid the drawer open and caught sight of the screen, I might have stopped breathing.

A text. From Seb.

My pulse kicked into high gear and I chewed on the inside of my cheek. The arctic temperature of the open newsroom shot up a good twenty degrees. Celsius. I picked the phone up carefully, as if it might bite my hand, and swiped the screen. I fumbled once or twice and had to read the message several times before it sank in.

Seb: Plans tonight?

Holy. Crap.

I blinked. Then blinked again before rereading the text two more times and looking up at the high ceiling as if it might collapse on my head.

I figured the sky must be falling because Seb actually reached out.

“Oops!” The phone slipped and I flailed. I probably looked demented as I juggled the thing over my desk to keep it from clanking back into the open metal drawer.