If You Want Me (The Toronto Terror Series)

I’m still standing in the hallway, staring at the door Peggy disappeared through. Postie winds himself between my legs. “The diner will be awkward.”

Postie meows and trots over to his dish. He plunks his butt down and taps the bowl with his paw. Malone hustles out of hiding to join his brother. I shake out a few treats for my boys before crossing to my bedroom.

I should have warned Peggy that I was home early. Thank fuck I hadn’t come out bare-assed. She looked shell-shocked enough as it was. She’ll probably be embarrassed about the whole thing. She’ll feel compelled to overcompensate by saying sorry a million times and texting repeatedly to make sure it’s safe to come by. I don’t want her to feel bad when it’s on me to warn her. I know her routine. She stops by to check on the cats first thing in the morning and again when she gets back from class. I grab my phone from my bed, intending to send an apology message.

Malone hops onto the nightstand, and something clatters to the floor. He yowls and bounces like he has springs in his feet, tail poofed out as he races out of the room.

“What’s got you so freaked out?” I frown as I bend to pick up the object. “The hell?”

It takes several seconds for me to process what I’m holding. And when it finally clicks, my brain almost liquifies. I’m holding a superhero vibrator. More specifically, I’m holding Peggy’s superhero vibrator. It can’t belong to anyone else because aside from her dad, she’s the only person with access to my penthouse. And she’s the only woman who’s been here in a long, long time, apart from my younger sister and my niece.

So many questions arise. So fucking many questions.

Like why the hell is her vibrator in my goddamn bedroom? On my nightstand.

My mouth goes dry as I stare at my bed with the two cat-shaped dents near the pillows. Then I glance across the room at one of the two kitty cams I set up but didn’t monitor while I was away. I forgot to even mention they were there.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Did she get herself off in my bed? Why would she get herself off in my bed?

Or did she leave it here on purpose to tempt me? No. She could have anyone. There’s no way Peggy wants anything from me. And she can’t know what has been going on in my head over the past several months.

For the past few years Peggy’s been on the periphery of the hockey world, attending university, living in an off-campus apartment, around on weekends when she comes to visit her dad. I only saw her occasionally. She started watching my cats and kept me company during my injury last season, but even those things fit in very specific boundaries. We became friends. It was all fine.

At least until she took an internship position working under Hemi, the head of team PR in September. And then everything changed, even though I’ve tried not to let it.

I’ll never forget the moment I rounded the corner and spotted her doing a hip shimmy down the hall, fist pumping the air. I hadn’t realized whose curves I was admiring at first. Until she spun around, her wide smile aimed at me. It was such a damning moment. I’d been ogling my best friend’s daughter. Since then, I’ve done my best to compartmentalize that event. To force myself to see her the way I’m supposed to. But now here I am, with a whole new battle to face.

Because this…is exactly what I don’t need.

I try not to let any invasive, inappropriate thoughts root. I really do. But my imagination is a giant asshole. Not for the first time, an image forms of Peggy lying in my bed, lip caught between her teeth. Only this time, she’s holding the superhero vibrator. I shake my head to chase it away.

Do I have footage of this stored on my cloud? My self-loathing is immediate and warranted. I let go of the vibrator like it’s on fire. It drops to my bed and lies there. It looks so damn harmless. It’s anything but. The rechargeable silicone device taunts me, a horrifying beacon of untenable hope.

She wants you. I shove that thought back down. That’s impossible. “She’s Roman’s daughter, you fuckhead,” I chastise.

I rub my bottom lip. I can’t afford to indulge in these kinds of fantasies about her again—the kind where I replace the freaking superhero vibrator with my own goddamn body part. It’s bad enough when it’s outside of my control and happens in my dreams. I clench my fists, forcing those traitorous thoughts aside. I want to be wrong. I want this to be a bad joke. But the sheets have been changed. The dark blue ones were on when I left, and these are a lighter blue. They smell like my detergent.

I head for the laundry room. A basket full of towels and bed sheets sits on the floor in front of the machine. My throat tightens as I pick up the towel on top. It’s damp. Did she shower here? Do not picture her naked in your shower.

Under the towel are my navy sheets. For reasons I don’t understand, I pull them out. Maybe to prove I’m wrong? That this scenario I’ve conjured is all in my head? The top sheet is covered in cat fur. Postie and Malone like to burrow under the comforter and nap there like a couple of weirdos.

But then my fist closes around the damp fitted sheet. I frown at the very inconvenient semi tenting the front of the towel wrapped around my waist. My hand lifts without my permission, and I do something I’ll probably regret for the rest of my life. I sniff the sheet.

And my knees nearly buckle.

I catch a hint of Peggy’s distinctive shampoo, a combination of honey, banana, and coconut. But more prominent is a second distinctive scent that underscores what I already know to be true: she used my bed for self-gratification.

“Don’t be a dirtbag.” I angrily pull the previous load out and jam the sheets into the washing machine.

I need to deal with this situation. I set the sheets to wash, start the dryer, and return to my bedroom so I can get dressed. But my erection is excessive and highly inconvenient. Not to mention inappropriate. I need to keep my head on straight when it comes to Roman’s daughter. Wanting her in secret is one thing, but actually entertaining the possibility that we could be anything more than friends is ludicrous. Any man would be lucky to love her, and it can’t be me.

I put on jeans, a shirt, and a hoodie, ignoring my hard-on, then flip open my laptop and pull up the video feeds from the kitty cams. One is aimed at the living room couch, where the cats often nap. The second is on my dresser, focused on my bed. It only records when motion is detected. I’m unsurprised by the footage of my boys doing zoomies. I’m also unsurprised when it picks up Peggy entering my bedroom with the giant banana-duck purse I bought her last year for Christmas slung over her shoulder. I stop the feed immediately, move them both to the trash and hover my finger over the delete forever button. I’m disgusted with myself for even hesitating. I hit delete and close my laptop.

If I can talk to Peggy before the diner, it’ll make this less awkward. I hope. I can even bow out of joining Roman and Peggy. Say something came up. Let them have their time together instead of tagging along. I don’t want to admit to myself that it’s been purposeful. A constant reminder that she’s his pride and joy and whatever feelings I have should be kept to myself.

I send a single message, careful with my phrasing. It’s hers. She knows it. I know it.

Hollis

I think you left something at my place.

The humping dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. This happens half a dozen times before they stop altogether.

It’ll be an uncomfortable conversation, especially when I tell her about the kitty cams, but I can reassure her that any evidence is gone and we’re the only two who will ever know it happened. I grab a gift bag from the closet in the spare room and one of my clean bath sheets, which she’s apparently a fan of, folding it so it’s narrow enough to stuff into the bag. I roll the vibrator inside the towel, turning it into an inedible Maki roll, then stuff it into the gift bag, adding tissue paper to cover the towel.

I’ll set some very clear boundaries and then forget this ever happened. Or at least try to. But Roman is standing by the elevator when I step into the hall. Fuck.

“Oh hey, I thought you were already at the Pancake House,” I say.

“I spilled coffee on my shirt earlier, so I came up to change first.” His gaze drops to the gift bag in my hand. “What’s that?”

“Uh…it’s, uh…for Peggy.” Double fuck. Why didn’t I lie? “A gift for taking care of Postie and Malone.” I thumb over my shoulder and reach for my door. “I’ll drop it off at her place later.”

“Nah. Don’t do that. Bring it with. She’s meeting us there.” The elevator doors slide open, and he covers the sensor, waiting for me to join him.

It’ll raise more questions if I don’t bring it along, so I reluctantly follow. “How was your meeting with Coach?” I ask as he presses the button for the lobby.

“Good. They’re assessing options for backup goalies next year, preparing for the inevitable, you know?”

“How do you feel about that?” I wouldn’t love it, but goalies take a lot of training.

“I’ve had a good run, and there are other options to explore once I’m off the ice,” he replies.

I just nod.

“I know you’ve got some time, but sportscasting would be a nice option for a good-looking guy like yourself,” Roman says.

“I’m not sure my personality would be the right fit,” I grumble.

Roman is in a much different headspace than I am about retirement. He’s the oldest player in the league, and he’s had a solid career and no serious injuries with one year left on his contract.

I, however, busted my ass after my knee injury last year so I could be back on the ice this season. Unlike Roman, who’s pushing forty, I’m only thirty-three, and I’m having a great comeback season. If I can keep my stats where they are, Toronto could extend my contract for a couple more years.

We reach the lobby and step outside into the cold winter afternoon. It’s mid-January, and snow dusts the sidewalk. Our breath puffs out in foggy bursts that disappear like ghosts. We cross the street to the diner. The familiar, comforting scent of fresh bacon and buttery pancakes makes my mouth water as we enter.

My stomach lurches as I scan the tables and spot Peggy, sitting at a four top. She’s furiously typing on her phone, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. She seems stressed. And I’m positive the contents of the bag I’m holding are the reason. I can relate. I squash the images that keep popping into my head. I know better than to want her.

I wish I’d left the bag at home, but I can’t undo my stupidity. Roman would probably rip my head off if he knew what was inside and where it had been used. And rightly so, as I’m more than a decade Peggy’s senior and she’s my best friend’s daughter.

Roman takes the seat across from Peggy, and I drop into the spot beside him.

Peggy’s eyes bounce between me and Roman. Her cheeks flush, and a constipated grin forms—like she’s trying to be friendly, but someone just dropped a green-fog fart. “Hey. Hi. How was the trip home?”

“Good. We got ahead of the storm. Looks like it’ll mostly miss us here.” Roman shrugs out of his jacket.

“I’m glad you didn’t get stuck. I would have worried.” Her gaze darts my way for a split second. Her cheeks burst with color again, and she tugs at the neck of her hoodie. It boasts the name of her university.

“Me, too,” Roman says.

Rainbow, who started working here a few weeks ago, stops to greet us. Her hair matches her name. She presses her hand to her chest. “Oh, isn’t this so sweet! I love that your dads take you out,” she says to Peggy.

“We’re just friends,” I mutter.

“Of course.” She winks. “What can I get you boys to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

We order drinks and food, and Rainbow flounces off.

“How was the first week of classes?” Roman asks.

“Oh, it was good.” Peggy’s voice is pitchy, and she keeps wringing her hands. “I like my courses.”

“Are you sure? They’re not too stressful? I know how much you loved working with Hemi on the internship last semester. I’m sure it’s a shift being back in the classroom full time.”

Peggy hides her hands under the table. “Oh yeah, it is. But I have a few friends in my classes. Plus, I’m the lead on the gala for my Event Management project. Hemi’s been great about letting me take it over. Just one more semester and I’m done.”

“I can’t believe my baby girl will be a university graduate in a matter of months.” Roman beams with pride.

“I’ll also be twenty-one in a few months, Dad.” Her eyes slide to me, and she bites her fingernail, then checks her phone again. She’s jumpy as shit.

I cough into my elbow.

Roman holds up his hands. “I’m proud of you, honey. You’re all grown up, you’ve almost finished school, you’re living on your own with a roommate. Big steps. How is Rix? Tristan couldn’t get out of the airport fast enough.”

Rainbow drops off our coffees and tells us our food will be out shortly.

Peggy’s roommate and our teammate, Tristan Stiles, have been dating for several months. He lives in the condo units above the Pancake House. “Uh…she’s good.” She checks her phone again. “And yeah, Tristan has no chill after away games. Hopefully Rix makes it to his place before his patience wears out.” She grimaces. “I just need to…” She fires off a message.

Roman’s expression shifts, eyebrows pulling together. “You haven’t caught them going at it in the kitchen again, have you?” He crosses his arms. “He has his own damn place. It’s not fair to put you in that kind of awkward situation. Is that why you’re so antsy?”

She sets her phone down, eyes darting between us. “Oh, uh…yes. That’s uh… They’re really into each other. Like seriously into each other. He kind of forgets himself when he hasn’t seen her in a while.”

Peggy just threw Tristan under the bus. Ice cold, Princess.

“Well, he needs to learn how to control himself in front of other people.” Roman turns to me. “Why don’t you give Peggy her gift? I’m sure it’ll make her feel better.”

Fuck. I’d hoped he would forget I brought it along.

“Dad, seriously, can you not call me that? I’m not channeling my inner eighty-five-year-old. Call me Hammer or Aurora.”

I’m pretty sure Aurora is her middle name …

“Peggy is a nice name,” Roman protests.

“Not when people expect me to have blue hair or use it to come up with horrible nicknames. Like when I broke my leg in grade seven and they called me Peg Leg Peggy, or when some asshole in grade nine called me Peg-Me Peggy for an entire semester.” She rolls her eyes.

Roman holds up a hand and coughs. “Point made. Give Aurora her gift, Hollis.” He elbows my arm.

It’s my turn to sweat. I set the bag on the table. “You can open it later.”

She stares at it like it’s a bomb, not a glittery blue gift bag stuffed with white tissue paper. “What is this for?”

“It’s a thank you for taking care of my cats. And making sure my towels made it to the dryer,” I say pointedly.

Her gaze lifts, and her cheeks flush a deeper pink.

I attempt to backtrack, but it comes out as a grumble, “It’s not a big deal.”

“Go ahead, Pegs. Open it,” Roman insists.

Peggy bites her lip and doesn’t correct her dad again.

I suddenly feel like I’m going to vomit. There is literally no way to explain the contents of that bag to Roman. No good one, anyway. Which leaves a lot of room for jumping to conclusions. And until twenty minutes ago, I had footage of whatever happened in my bed. Thank fuck it’s been deleted. I mentally prepare for the worst, which would be Roman killing me in a public restaurant for giving his daughter a superhero vibrator.

Peggy sets the bag on the seat beside her. “You didn’t need to get me anything. You already pay me enough, and I love spending time with Postie and Malone.”

A bead of sweat trickles down my spine. My worries about what happens after my contract finishes seem insignificant if my best friend beats me to death with a vibrator. Or his fists.

Peggy pulls the towel free from the bag. It’s navy and gray striped. I hope it makes up for giving her what’s hidden inside in front of Roman.

Her expression is a mixture of relief, surprise, and confusion. “I love it so much.” She hugs it to her chest.

For a second I think I’m in the clear until she holds it up in front of her and it unrolls.

Her eyes drop to her lap and widen. “Thank you so, so much, Hollis,” she chokes out. “Honestly, it’s amazing. Just the best. So thoughtful.”

She’s mentioned in passing how nice the towels are, and how if she doesn’t fold them right away, Postie and Malone will hop into the laundry basket and nap on them.

Roman frowns. “Is that a bath towel?”

“It’s a bath sheet,” Peggy and I say at the same time.

“What’s the difference?” Roman asks. “Why is that one so great?”

“They’re bigger than towels. I use the towels for my hair and the sheets for my body,” Peggy explains. Her voice grows increasingly pitchy, and she hugs the terry to her chest.

I try not to let the image of her wrapped in only that bath sheet form in my head. My self-loathing is at an all-time high when I’m unsuccessful. Until today, I’ve done a decent job of keeping her in the don’t-ever-go-there box. Mostly.

“Did we not have those when you were growing up? Was our towel situation lacking? Do I have bath sheets or towels?” Roman starts on a bad-dad spiral.

“We had great towels, Dad,” Peggy—Aurora—reassures him. “These are huge and soft and really nice, but there’s nothing wrong with your towels now, or the ones we had growing up.”

If that was true, she probably would have showered at his place, not mine.

Rainbow arrives with our meals, and Peggy rushes to jam the towel back into the bag. Her eyes go wide at the low thunk.

Roman is too busy spiraling over his lack of towel game, and Rainbow is all sparkle and sunshine, as Peggy and I duck under the table. We both grab the superdick at the same time, our fingers overlapping each other. We are talking about this later, I mouth. She yanks the vibrator free and practically snarls like she’s channeling her inner Gollum.

She jams the device in her banana-duck purse and pops back up, her grin halfway to maniacal. “I kicked my purse over by accident.” She grabs her rolled-up napkin of silverware, which clatters noisily on the table. “This looks delicious.”

Roman passes her the maple syrup, which she pours all over her banana-nut pancakes and sausage links. She stabs one with her fork and bites the end off, groaning her appreciation. “These sausages are the best.”

I give her a look.

She gives me one back.

Roman wants to know what brand my towels are.

Her phone goes off every few seconds, so she’s highly distracted all through our meal.

And so am I. Because that superhero vibrator is inches away from my foot, and I can’t stop thinking about the handoff that just occurred. Nor can I acknowledge that this feels a lot like Pandora’s box has been jimmied open, and I don’t know how to close it.