Powerless (Chestnut Springs, #3)(3)

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 ma?tre 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.