Powerless (Chestnut Springs Book 3)

Sloane Winthrop’s fiancé is a royal douchebag.

I’m familiar with the type. You don’t work your way into the NHL without encountering your fair share.

And this guy has the act down pat.

As if the name Sterling Woodcock wasn’t enough of a giveaway, he’s now bragging about the hunting trip he and his dad spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on to kill lions born and bred in captivity, like that will somehow make their dicks bigger.

From the Rolex on his wrist to his manicured nails, he’s dripping wealth, and I guess it only makes sense that Sloane might end up with a man like him. After all, the Winthrops are one of the most powerful families in the country with what is damn near a monopoly on the telecommunications industry.

As he rambles, I glance at Sloane across the table. Her sky-blue eyes are downcast, and she’s clearly fiddling with the napkin in her lap. She looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here in this dimly lit, ornate steak house.

And I feel about the same.

Listening to her small-dicked future husband boast to a table full of family and friends I’ve never met about something that is honestly embarrassing—and sad—isn’t how I’d choose to spend a night off.

But I’m here for Sloane, and that’s what I keep telling myself.

Because seeing her right now, all downtrodden mere nights before her wedding . . . it feels like she needs someone here who actually knows her. The rest of the Eaton crew couldn’t make it into the city tonight, but I promised her I’d come.

And for Sloane I keep every promise, no matter how badly they hurt.

I expected her to be smiling. Glowing. I expected to be happy for her—but I’m not.

“You hunt, Jasper?” Sterling asks, all poised and pretentious.

The collar of my checkered dress shirt feels like it’s strangling me, even though I left the top buttons undone. I clear my throat and roll my shoulders back. “I do.”

Sterling picks up the crystal tumbler before him and leans back to assess me with a smug smirk on his perfectly shaved face. “Any big game? You’d enjoy a trip like this.” People who don’t know me nod and murmur their assent.

“I don’t know if—” Sloane starts, but her fiancé steamrolls her attempt at adding to the conversation.

“We all saw what your last contract came in at. Not bad for a goalie. So provided you’ve been responsible with your money, it’s something you should be able to afford.”

Like I said: douchebag.

I bite the inside of my cheek, tempted to say I’ve been horribly irresponsible with my money and don’t have a dollar to my name. But as lowbrow as my upbringing might have been, I have enough class to know that finances aren’t polite dinner conversation.

“Nah, man. I only hunt what I can eat, and I’m unfamiliar with how to cook a lion.”

A few chuckles break out around the table, including from Sloane. I don’t miss the quick moment where Sterling’s eyes narrow, where his teeth clamp and his jaw pops.

Sloane jumps in quickly, patting his arm like he’s a dog who needs soothing. I can almost feel her slender fingers on my own arm and absently find myself wishing it were me she was touching instead. “I used to hunt with my cousins out in Chestnut Springs too, you know?”

I’m tossed back in time, remembering a young Sloane keeping up with the boys all summer. Sloane with dirt under her nails, scrapes on her knees, sun-bleached hair all tangled and free down her back.

“It’s more about the thrill, you know? The power.” Sterling ignores Sloane’s comment entirely.

He looks at me like an opponent, except we aren’t playing hockey right now. If we were, I’d give him a quick blocker shot to the face.

“Did you not hear what Sloane just said?” I’m trying to be cool, but I hate the way he’s treated her through this entire dinner. I don’t know how she ended up here. She’s my best friend. She’s eloquent, and smart, and funny—does he not see that at all? Does he not see her?

Sterling waves a hand and chuckles. “Ah, yes. I’m always hearing about Wishing Well Ranch.” He turns to her with a condescending tone and a mocking smirk. “Well, thank goodness you outgrew whatever tomboy phase you went through, babe. You’d have missed your calling as a ballerina.”

His shitty response is worsened by my realization that he heard what she said and chose to ignore her.

“I can’t even imagine you handling a gun, Sloane!” one guy further down the long table exclaims, his nose a deep red from far too much scotch.

“I was good, actually. I think I only hit something alive once.” She laughs lightly and shakes her head, bright blonde strands of hair slipping down in front of her face before she pushes them back behind her ears and drops her eyes with a faint blush. “And then I cried inconsolably.”

Her lips roll together and I’m entranced. Instantly imagining things I shouldn’t be.

“I remember that day.” I glance across the table at her. “You couldn’t even eat the venison for dinner that night. We all tried to console you—it didn’t work.” My head tips at the vivid walk down memory lane.

“And that right there”—Sterling points at Sloane without even sparing her a glance—“is why women don’t belong out hunting. Too upsetting.”

Sterling’s overgrown frat buddies guffaw at his lame comment, which urges him to go all in on his assholery. He holds his glass up high and looks down at the table. “To keeping women in the kitchen!”

There’s laughter and a smattering of people offering “cheers” and “here, here.”

Sloane dabs the white cloth napkin over her full lips with a prim smile but keeps her eyes fixed on the empty place setting before her. Sterling goes back to gloating with the other guests—ignoring the woman sitting beside him.

Ignoring the piece of herself she tried to share with him. Ignoring the way he embarrassed her.

My patience for this night is quickly dwindling. The urge to slink into the background is overwhelming.

Sloane catches my eye across the table and gives me one of her practiced smiles. I know it’s fake because I’ve seen her real smile.

And this isn’t it.

It’s the same smile she gave me when I told her I couldn’t go to prom with her as her date. Taking a twenty-four-year-old NHL player wasn’t appropriate for either of us, and I was the asshole who had to tell her that.

I smile back, feeling frustration build inside me over the fact she’s about to tie herself to someone who treats her like an accessory, who doesn’t listen to her. Or appreciate that she’s layered and complex, and not just the polished princess she’s been molded into by her family.

Our eyes stay locked, and her cheeks start to flush pink. She shimmies her shoulders back, and my gaze drops to her collarbones. Suddenly I see myself trailing my tongue there. Making her squirm.

My eyes snap back up to her face. Like maybe I’ve been caught. As though she could somehow hear what’s in my head. Because we both know I can’t be looking at her like that. She’s might as well be family. And worse, she officially belongs to another man.

Sterling catches the exchange and turns his attention to me once again. It makes my skin crawl. “Sloane tells me you’ve been friends for a long time. Pardon my confusion, but a rough around the edges hockey player doesn’t seem like he’d be friends with a prima ballerina. Of course, I haven’t seen you around much since she and I got together. Something keeping you away?” He drapes an arm over her shoulder in a show of possession, and I try not to fixate on the gesture.

“To be fair, I haven’t heard much about you either.” I say it with enough humor in my tone that anyone missing the way we’re glaring might not even pick up on the jab. I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. “But yeah. I guess I’m not too rough around the edges to be the one that brings over Polysporin and painkillers when my friend’s feet are too raw from dancing in pointe shoes to even walk.”

“I’ve told you this.” Sloane’s voice is placating. “He helped me move into my new condo. Sometimes we grab coffee. Simple things like that.”

“Basically, she knows if she needs something, I’ll be there,” I add without thinking.

Sloane shoots me a look, probably wondering why I’m acting like a territorial asshole. I’m wondering the same thing, to be honest.

“Good thing you’ve got me for all that now.” Sterling is responding to Sloane, but he’s staring at me. Then he abruptly places a palm over Sloane’s hands that are now propped on the table. The ones still pulling at her napkin anxiously. But the way he touches her isn’t soothing or supportive. It’s a swat, a reproach for fidgeting.

It sends fury racing through my veins. I need to get away before I do something I’ll really regret.

“Well, I’m going to head out for the night,” I announce suddenly, pushing my chair back, desperate for fresh air and a break from the dark walls and velvet drapery pressing in around me.

“Better get a good sleep in, Gervais. You’ll need it to get thinss rollins for the Grizzlies this season. After last season, you’re probably on thin ice.”

I pull at the cuffs of my shirt and force myself to ignore the jab. “Thank you for inviting me, Woodcock. Dinner was delicious.”

“Sloane invited you,” is his petulant reply, clarifying that he does not like me—or my presence.

I stare down at him blankly and hitch one side of my mouth up. Like I can’t quite believe what a raging prick he is. I can feel eyes on us now, other people picking up on whatever unspoken tension is between us. “Well, that’s what friends are for.”

“Wait, but you’re her cousin, right?” The drunk guy’s scotch spills over the rim of his tumbler and onto his hand as he points at me.

I don’t know why Sloane and I have always been so adamant that we’re friends and not cousins. If someone tried to tell me that Beau, or Rhett, or Cade wasn’t my brother, I’d write them off immediately. Those men are my brothers.

But Sloane? She’s my friend.

“Actually, he’s my friend, not my cousin.” Sloane tosses her napkin on top of the white linen-covered table with more force than necessary.

The people gathered for her wedding stare.

Her wedding this weekend.

My stomach twists.

“Will you be at the stag party tomorrow, Gervais?” the drunk guy continues. He hiccups and grins stupidly, reminding me of the drunk mouse at the Mad Hatter’s unbirthday party. “Would love to say I partied with hockey-superstar Jasper Gervais.”

Color me surprised that the only reason a guy like this wants me around is to boost his reputation.

“Can’t. I’ve got a game.” My smile is tight, but my relief is immense as I rise from my chair.

“I’ll walk you out,” Sloane pipes up, clearly missing the sharp look Sterling slices her way. Or she’s just pretending she doesn’t notice.

Either way, I hold one hand open and gesture Sloane ahead of me as we weave our way silently across the restaurant.

I go to press my palm against the small of her back to guide her through, but she tenses, and I jerk my hand away at the feel of smooth, bare skin burning my fingertips. My eyes find the floor as I shove the tingling hand into my pocket where it belongs.

Because it sure as shit doesn’t belong on the bare back of an engaged woman.

Even if she is just my friend.

It’s only as we near the front of the restaurant that I glance up again. Sloane’s slender frame sways as she strides across the room. Every movement steeped in an inherent grace—one that comes with years of training. Years of practice.

She smiles politely at the maître d’ and then walks faster, like she can see freedom through that heavy front door and is desperate for it. Her shoulders drop and her entire body sags, almost in relief, when she rests both hands flat against the dark slab of wood.

I watch her for a moment before I step up behind her, the heat of her body seeping out toward mine. Then I reach one arm above her petite frame and push the door open, ushering us both out into the cool November night.

I jam both hands into the pockets of my slacks now so I don’t grab her shoulders and shake her, demanding to know what the hell she’s doing marrying a guy who treats her like Sterling Woodcock does. Because it’s really none of my business.

Her toned, bare back is to me as she faces the busy city street, car lights a blur of white and red just beyond her, misty air puffing over her shoulder like she’s trying to catch her breath.

“You okay?”

Her head nods furiously before she turns back around with that weird Stepford-wife smile plastered back on her dainty face.

“You don’t look fine.” My fingers wrap around the keys in my pocket and jangle them anxiously.

“Shit, thanks, Jas.”

“I mean, you look beautiful,” I rush out, grimacing when I note her eyes widening. “You always do. You just don’t look . . . happy?”

She blinks slowly, the edges of her mouth turning down into a slight frown. “Is that supposed to be better? Beautiful and unhappy?’’

God. I’m really blowing it. I rake a hand through my hair. “Are you happy? Does he make you happy?”

Her mouth pops open in shock, and I know I’m out of line, or stepping in it, or whatever. But someone needs to ask her, and I doubt anyone has.

I need to hear her say it.

Her pale cheeks flush and her eyes narrow as she steps up to me, jaw tight. “You’re asking me this now?”

I huff out a breath and run my top teeth over my bottom lip, eyes totally fixed on her baby blues, so wide and pale and sparking with indignation. “Yeah. Has anyone else asked you?”

She drops my gaze, her hands planting against her cheeks before pushing back through her collarbone-length blonde hair. “No one has asked me.”

The teeth of my house key dig into the palm of my hand. “How did you meet Sterling?”

“My dad introduced us.” Her eyes fixate on the black sky. It’s starless, not like at the ranch where you can see every little fleck of light. Everything in the city feels polluted compared to Chestnut Springs. I decide on the spot to drive out to my place in the country tonight rather than spend another night breathing the same air as Sterling Woodcock.

“How does he know him?”

Her eyes meet mine. “Sterling’s dad is a new business partner of his. He’s focused on making new connections now that he’s back in the city.”

“And you’ve known this guy for how long again?”

Her tongue darts out from between her lips. “We met in June.”

“Five months?” My brow arches and I rear back. If they seemed madly in love I could buy it, but . . .

“Don’t judge me, Jasper!” Her eyes flash and she steps closer again. I may dwarf her in height but she’s not the least bit intimidated. She’s spitting mad right now. Mad at me. But I think that’s just because she trusts me enough to let her anger out, and I’m okay with letting her. I’m happy to be that person for her.

Her voice shakes when she adds, “You have no idea the pressures I live with.”

Without thinking twice, I pull her into my chest and wrap my arms around her narrow shoulders. She’s all tense and riled. I swear I can almost feel her vibrating with it. “I’m not judging you, Sunny.”

Apparently, this isn’t the time for childhood nicknames.

“Don’t call me that.” Her voice cracks as she presses her forehead to my chest, like she always has, and I slide my palm down the back of her hair, cupping the base of her skull.

Like I always have.

I absently wonder what Sterling would say if he walked out here right now. There’s a petty part of me that wants him to.

“I’m simply curious how things happened so fast. I’m curious why I’ve never met him until now.” My voice is quiet, all gravel, almost drowned out by the hush of cars rushing past us.

“Well, it’s not like I have a lot of free time with the ballet. And it’s not like you’ve been in touch lately either.”

Guilt nips at me, making my chest twist. Our team came off a bad season, and I promised myself I’d train harder than I ever have during the off-season. “I was training and living out in Chestnut Springs.” That’s not a lie. My brother’s fiancée opened a hell of a gym there, and I saw no reason to spend my summer in the city. “And then it was training camp, and I got swept up.”

Also true.

The lie is that I was too busy to make time for her. I could have made time for her. But I didn’t. Because I knew her dad was back in the city, and I avoid him at all costs. And the announcement of her engagement gutted me in a way I never saw coming.

“I should have told you, not sprung it on you the way that I did,” she murmurs, and I brush away the memory of Violet blurting out the news of Sloane’s engagement at the ranch mere months ago. The way I instantly froze up inside. The way my heart dropped into my stomach with a heavy thud.

I swoop a hand over her head and give her shoulders a squeeze, still trying to avoid that warm, bare patch of skin on her back, and reply with, “I should have asked. I’ve just been . . . busy. I didn’t think your life would just . . . happen this fast.” And that part is true.

Her body relaxes in my arms, soft breasts pressing against my ribs as her fingers dig into my back. But only for a moment before she pulls away. The hug went on long enough that it was more of an embrace. It was toeing the line.

But I still want to pull her back in.

“Well, it is.” She stares down and brushes at the sleeve of her pale green dress, silky and shimmering in the shadowy light. “My dad and I agreed it was best to move forward with the wedding in the fall rather than drawing it out.”

That comment has my teeth clamping down because the mere mention of Robert Winthrop sets me on edge. And him taking part in her decision to get married has all sorts of alarm bells going off.

“Why?” My brow knits. I should know better. I should walk away. I should let her be happy.

I shouldn’t be this bothered. If she actually seemed happy, I wouldn’t be.

Or maybe I would.

She waves a hand and glances over her shoulder into the restaurant, exposing her elegant neck as she does. “Multiple factors,” she replies with a defeated shrug. It’s like she knows her time with me is dwindling. I don’t get the sense that Sterling is going to be the type of husband that’s okay with her and me being friends.

“Factors? Like you just can’t wait to be Mrs. Woodcock? Because no one wants that as a last name. Or is this your dad pressuring you?”

Her blue eyes flare at the mention of her dad because Sloane doesn’t see him as a snake. Never has. She’s too busy being the perfect daughter—and now a fiancée. One who’s good on paper and doesn’t go hunting. “And what if he is? I’m twenty-eight. My best dancing years are drawing to a close. I need to settle down, come up with a life plan. He’s looking out for me.”

I huff out an agitated laugh and shake my head at her. “Where’s the wild girl I remember? The girl who danced in the rain and would crawl onto the roof so I didn’t have to be alone on the bad nights?”

They’ve molded that girl into a pawn. And I hate that for her. We’ve never fought, but suddenly my urge to fight for her consumes my better judgment.

“Your dad is an asshole. He cares about himself. His business. Optics. Not your happiness. You deserve better.”

I could do better. That’s what I really want to say. That’s what I’ve realized sitting here tonight.

That I’m thinking things I shouldn’t be.

Wanting things I can’t have.

Because I’m too late.

She lurches back like I’ve struck her, lips thinning in anger as she flushes all the way down her chest. “No, Jasper. Your dad is as an asshole. Mine loves me. You just don’t know what that looks like.”

She spins on her heel, yanking the restaurant door open with a level of violence that is unfamiliar coming from her.

But I’d rather she show violence than apathy. That means the wild girl is still in there somewhere.

She hurled words at me that should hurt. But I just hurt for her. Because my biological dad is an asshole. But the man who really raised me? Harvey Eaton? He’s the best of the best. He showed me love, and I can identify it just fine.

Plus, I remember how Sloane looks at a man when she really wants him. And she isn’t looking at her fiancé the way she used to look at me.

I’m more pleased about that than I should be.