Rocco wasted no time confirming my thoughts.
“Jesus Christ, Ky. What the fuck happened to you? You look like hell.”
Beyond relieved to have him home, I laughed off his observation. “You're too kind.”
In two long strides, Rocco crossed the room and pulled me into an embrace, except it didn’t feel right. He didn’t wrap his arms around me or crush me against his chest. In fact, it was the opposite of one of his patented, bone-crushing hugs. Rocco held back, almost afraid if he squeezed to hard I would crack like an eggshell.
“You know what I mean,” he whispered in my ear. “God, Kylie. You said you were sick, but—”
“You didn't expect me to look sick.”
Rocco stepped back to look at my face. “Yeah. I guess so.” He reached up and ran his thumb across my cheekbone, eyes filled with worry. “You've lost weight and I can tell you haven't been getting enough sleep.” He traced the dark circles, so stark against my pale skin they looked like matching shiners.
Not in the mood to discuss the reason for my insomnia—i.e. Rocco’s gorgeous, unattainable teammate—I pulled back and wrapped my arms around my waist, as if I could physically hold the pieces of my heart together.
“I’ve been sick,” I snapped, annoyed Rocco was giving me grief when I'd spent the majority of the last eight days hunched over a toilet, yarking my guts out. “I’m sorry if I'm not the picture of health.”
“Don't do that,” Rocco said, seeing right through my attempt to push him away. He gestured toward the couch and sat. Reluctantly, I curled up on the other end and hugged my knees to my chest. Rocco turned sideways and draped an arm along the back of the sofa. “I feel like a shitty brother for not being here for you.” His eyes glistened aaaand here comes the guilt for putting that look on his face. “But I'm here now. Maybe…” He cocked his head and narrowed his gaze. “I think I should take you to the doctor.”
Oh hell no. The last thing I wanted was to wear half a sheet, sit my naked butt on an ice cold metal table, and let someone poke and prod my body to his or her heart’s content. I gave Rocco what I hoped was a casual shrug.
“Let's give it another day or so. I've been able to hold down small meals. I really don't think it's anything worth worrying over.”
“I always worry about you,” Rocco stated plainly. “I always will. You’re my sister.”
I reached out and gave Rocco’s hand a light squeeze. “I know. And I'm grateful to have you.”
It was the truth. Without Rocco I didn’t know how I would have made it that far, let alone the previous few challenging weeks. Nat's visit was great, but it was a cute little Care Bear Band-Aid slapped on top of a massive, gaping wound. After Nat flew home, I spent too much time thinking about what I’d never have, while wishing circumstances were different. Time spent remembering the way Seb stared into my eyes as he brought me to new heights of pleasure, the way his hands moved across my skin, his touch almost reverent.
The myriad of emotions was so big and so overwhelming, every time my mind turned down that road, I expected them to burst from my chest. To stop the downward spiral, I would conjure up the image of Seb’s hurt and confusion, written plainly on his handsome face, as I walked out his door for the last time.
Seb probably hated me. Thought I played him. Used him for sex. Which had been my intention… initially. When I realized I was falling for him, everything changed. I had to end it before I got in too deep. Only, Seb didn’t know any of that, because I didn’t tell him. Instead of confessing how I felt and facing rejection like a big girl, I shut him out, then ignored his repeated attempts to reach out.
If I were him, I’d hate me too. I did hate me. Hated what I did. Seb didn't deserve it. And it didn’t matter that he was a shameless man-whore who probably treated every woman he hooked up with the same way I treated him. That didn’t give me the right to discard him like yesterday’s garbage in a bid protect my heart.
“Why don't I heat up some soup and you pick out a movie,” Rocco said, his smile plastic, oblivious to my turmoil as he freaked out over my illness. “Like old times.”
I managed to return the smile. Like Rocco’s, it felt fake. “If you want it to be like old times, we need to have popcorn not soup.”
“Meh. I figured your stomach would do better with something that doesn’t have a gallon of fake butter dumped on it.”
Rocco stood and patted me on the head before he wandered into the kitchen. I listened to him bang around as he prepared dinner. Cabinets opened and closed and the microwave hummed as he heated up the soup. I scored the nearest throw pillow and held it to my midsection so I could curl around it. Maybe a movie would help keep my mind off Seb.
I snatched the remote off the end table and turned on the gigantic, hyper-masculine, eighty-thousand and something pixel, flat screen TV, and scrolled through the movie menu. Of course, my one-track mind refused to be derailed. I wondered what kind of movies Seb liked and chuckled when I read one of the titles, Die Hard. Based on the way he behaved on the ice, I’d bet Seb favored hard-core action.
Rocco handed me a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup and sat down. I pushed start and heard the familiar opening music of the Bruce Willis flick.
What? So it reminded me of Seb? I guess I’m a martyr, because I seem to enjoy suffering. Grumpy and achy, I slurped my dinner and settled in for two hours of classic Hollywood shoot ‘em up entertainment.
Midway through, my thoughts drifted. Was that what it would it be like if Seb and I were a real couple? Would we cuddle on his couch, me in his arms so I could use his firm pecs as a backrest?
A barefoot, bloody, and battered Bruce Willis soared through the air with a fire hose tied around his waist and I almost burst into tears.
It was hopeless.
I was never going to get over Sebastien St. Clair.
Seb