The Pucking Player

11. How to Fake an Engagement in Three Easy Steps

11

HOW TO FAKE AN ENGAGEMENT IN THREE EASY STEPS

SOPHIE

T he world outside Liam’s car is a whirling chaos of white. Snowflakes pummel the windshield faster than the wipers can clear them, creating a hypnotic dance that’s both beautiful and terrifying. The headlights barely penetrate the swirling vortex of snow, turning the familiar route into an alien landscape.

I grip the edge of my seat, my knuckles white, as Liam navigates the treacherous roads. The tires slip and slide, searching for purchase on the increasingly icy surface. It feels like we’re skating rather than driving.

“You okay there, angel?” Liam’s voice breaks through my worried thoughts.

I turn to look at him, struck again by how unfairly handsome he is. His jaw is set in concentration, his eyes focused intently on the road ahead. A lock of hair has fallen across his forehead, and I have to resist the urge to reach out and brush it back.

“I’m fine,” I manage, my voice sounding breathier than I’d like. Whether it’s from fear of the storm or our proximity, I’m not entirely sure .

The memory of our dance floods back, sending a wave of heat through me despite the chill outside. I can still feel the phantom pressure of his hand on my waist and the solid warmth of his chest against mine. It takes all my willpower not to squirm in my seat.

A gust of wind batters the car, making it shudder. Liam tightens his grip on the steering wheel, his biceps flexing beneath his dress shirt.

Oh boy. Not helping.

“This storm really came out of nowhere,” I say, desperate for a distraction from my wayward thoughts.

Liam nods, his eyes still on the road. “Yeah, Mother Nature’s got one hell of a curveball. Or should I say, slapshot?”

I roll my eyes at the hockey reference, but I’m grateful for his attempt at levity. “How far are we from campus?”

“About fifteen minutes in normal conditions,” he says. “But in this? Could be a bit longer.”

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” I murmur, watching as the wind whips snow across the road in white sheets.

Liam reaches over and gives my hand a quick squeeze. The brief contact is both reassuring and electrifying. “We’ll be fine, angel. I’ve got you.”

His confidence is comforting, but as I look out at the raging storm, I can’t shake the feeling that this night is far from over.

What’s wrong with me? Here we are, in the middle of a potentially life-threatening blizzard, and all I can think about is how good Liam’s hand felt on mine.

I shake my head, trying to clear it.

Focus on getting home safely. You can dissect your feelings for the impossibly charming hockey star later .

As we crawl along the snow-covered road, I silently pray that we make it back to campus in one piece. But with the storm intensifying and Liam’s presence wreaking havoc on my concentration, I have a feeling we’re in for one wild ride.

Suddenly, Liam takes a turn. “Uh, pretty sure my dorm isn’t this way, unless the blizzard magically teleported it.”

“Trust me,” he says with that infuriatingly hot smirk of his.

Great. Because trusting a guy I barely know in the middle of a snowpocalypse is totally on my bucket list.

We pull up to what looks like a picturesque Victorian house, complete with gingerbread trim and warm, glowing windows. A sign, barely visible through the swirling snow, reads “Rosewood Bed & Breakfast.”

Oh boy.

Before I can fully process what’s happening, Liam’s out of the car. “Stay put,” he yells over the howling wind, and then he’s gone, swallowed up by the swirling snow.

And just like that, I’m alone in the car, surrounded by a whiteout that makes everything beyond the windows look like static on an old TV. The wind rocks the car, and every creak and groan has me jumping like a caffeinated squirrel.

I check my phone for the millionth time. No signal. Because of course not. Why would I need to contact the outside world in an emergency?

As the seconds tick by, my imagination goes into overdrive. What if Liam slipped and hit his head? What if he got lost in the three feet between the car and the front door? What if this is actually the setup for a horror movie and I’m about to become the clueless victim who gets axe-murdered by a deranged innkeeper?

Okay, deep breaths, Sophie. You’re a future doctor for crying out loud. Act like it .

But as another gust of wind shakes the car, I wish Liam would hurry back. Not because I miss him or anything.

It’s just really cold in here.

Just as I’m contemplating the pros and cons of turning into a human popsicle, I see a figure emerging from the white void. Liam’s back, looking like a snow-covered Greek god.

He taps on the window, grinning as if he just won the Stanley Cup. “Good news, angel, we’ve got shelter for the night!”

Liam swings open the car door, and before I can even unbuckle my seatbelt, he’s taking over and scooping me up into his arms. I let out a surprised squeak, my heart racing.

“Liam!” I protest, my voice embarrassingly breathy. “What are you doing? Put me down!”

He just grins, holding me tighter against his chest. “No can do, Sophie. It’s like an ice rink out here, and I’ve got way more experience navigating that than you do.”

I want to argue, but the feeling of being in his arms is...well, let’s just say, it’s very distracting. I can feel the solid warmth of his body through our coats, and his face is so close I can see the snowflakes caught in his eyelashes.

It’s not fair for anyone to look this good in a blizzard.

As Liam carries me toward the house, I try to ignore the way my stomach is doing backflips. This is just Liam being practical, I tell myself. It doesn’t mean anything.

But then why does it feel so...right?

We reach the front porch where an older couple waits for us, looking like they just finished filming a Vermont maple syrup commercial, all rosy cheeks and matching sweaters, radiating the kind of warmth that makes you crave hot chocolate and homemade cookies .

“Oh, you poor dears!” the woman exclaims, ushering us inside. “Come in, come in! You must be freezing!”

Liam sets me down gently in the entryway, his hands lingering on my waist for just a moment longer than necessary. Or am I imagining that?

“I’m Martha,” the woman says, already helping me out of my coat. “And this is my husband, George. We’re so glad you found us in this dreadful storm!”

George nods, clapping Liam on the shoulder. “Smart thinking, son. It’s not fit for man nor beast out there tonight.”

As Martha fusses over us, I catch Liam’s eye. He winks at me, and I feel a blush creeping up my neck that has nothing to do with the change in temperature.

The innkeeper beams at us, her hands clasped together. “You two must be famished after that ordeal. I’ve got a pot of stew on the stove if you’d like some dinner.”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you,” I start, “but we’ve actually just come from a party, so we’re?—”

“Stuffed to the gills,” Liam finishes for me, patting his stomach. “Though it smells delicious.”

Martha nods understandingly. “Well, aren’t you lucky then! We’ve got one room left available. It’ll be just perfect for a young couple like yourselves.”

My eyes widen, and I open my mouth to protest, but before I can say anything, Liam’s hand is on the small of my back, and he’s beaming at Martha like she just offered us the keys to a castle.

“That sounds perfect for me and my fiancée,” he says smoothly. “Right, sweetheart?”

Fiancée? Sweetheart? What in the world?

I catch the look in Liam’s eyes, a mix of mischief and pleading, and decide to play along.

“Right,” I manage, trying to sound convincingly in love and not at all like I’m having an internal panic attack. “It’s...exactly what we need.”

Martha claps her hands together, looking delighted. “Oh, how wonderful! Young love is such a beautiful thing. George, show them to the Rose Room, won’t you?”

As George leads us up a creaky staircase, I sneak a glance at Liam. He looks far too pleased with himself. I narrow my eyes at him, mouthing, “Fiancée?”

He just shrugs, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

George stops in front of a door at the end of the hallway. “Here we are, folks. The Rose Room. Our most romantic suite.” He winks at us as he hands Liam the key. “You two have a good night now. Let us know if you need anything.”

As George’s footsteps fade away, I turn to Liam, my arms crossed. “Alright, O’Connor. What was that?”

Liam just grins, unlocking the door. “It’s an older couple, Sophie. We wouldn’t want to impose on them more than necessary. Besides, it’s not like we have many options right now.”

I scoff, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach at his casual use of “we.” “Fine, but you’re sleeping on the floor. Because we are definitely not engaged.”

Liam’s lips curve into that infuriating smirk of his. “Not yet, anyway,” he says, his voice low and teasing.

Before I can process what’s happening, he’s moving toward me. My brain is screaming at me to step back, to protest, to do something. But my body has other ideas.

Liam’s thumb brushes over my lower lip, swiping every coherent thought out of my brain. “What are you scared of, angel?” he asks as his lips meet mine in a gentle caress.

All thoughts of resistance melt away. His kiss is soft at first, almost questioning, but it quickly deepens into a blaze that makes my toes curl in my heels.

This is a bad idea.

I barely know this man. He’s got a reputation. My dad would have a conniption if he found out.

His arms wrap around my waist, pulling me closer, and I find my hands moving of their own accord to tangle in his hair. It’s just as soft as I’d imagined.

Not that I’ve been imagining it.

As the kiss intensifies, my mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Excitement battles with apprehension, desire with caution. I know I should stop this, but I can’t bring myself to pull away. It just feels so right.

When we finally break apart, both breathless, I look up into Liam’s eyes. They’re dark with desire.

“Angel,” he murmurs, his forehead resting against mine. “Let me make you feel good.”