Tricky Puck: a Fake Fiancee Hockey Rom-Com (Portsmouth Whalers Hockey Romance)

Chapter 4

He called me a poet. A frisson of excitement strikes deep—deeper than the mind-blowing strike when I first saw him, the strike that landed me in the fight or flight mode—and I mean flight straight into his arms, attached to him like a cat in heat, like a girl verging on dying of thirst seeing a blue lake of possibilities and not worrying that it could be a mirage.

Needless to say, I chose the fight impulse.

Apparently, to no avail, because here I am at the same spot, wanting to leap at him as the sole source of thirst-quenching relief for the seriously underestimated parched state of my pussy.

Licking my lips as I stare into his eyes like he’s a snake charmer—or a charmer of women committed to bachelorette-hood—same thing—I gather up all the self-preserving snake poison I have in me to repel him.

“Suppose I am a poet, what of it?”

“Touché.” He leans in, his hands moving across the table past his empty glass toward my hands, but not touching. I fight the impulse to pull my hands back—or to grab his and pull myself over the table. He adds, “It means we have nothing in common.”

He pretends not to care while I alternately cheer in agreement and despair at the lost chance to mate with my one true lust partner. Either way, I recognize out-of-control hormones taking control when I feel them and attempt to impose my drowning power of reason, throwing it a lifeline made of the scraps of memories from recent experiences.

“If you believe that, I sense you’re the kind of guy who’d have up and left by now—on some pretense that would’ve saved you from seeming like a total asshole, of course.”

“So you think I’m a total asshole?” He pauses for a blink, presumably for me to clear up his misunderstanding, which I don’t. “Then why are you still here?”

Touché. Fuck. I open my mouth out of respect for the rules of the game of sparring that we’re engaged in, hoping with the damaged vestiges of my optimistic origins that something brilliant will pop to mind—no, make that pop past my compromised mind and straight to my mouth—in response.

Blinking in hopes that his triumphant smirk, with its dangerously deep dimple, is about to disappear on the heels of my yet-to-materialize brilliant repartee, my pulse ratchets up. I can only hope some of that racing blood is going to my empty head.

Instead of speaking, I jump to a stand, my flight response finally kicking in for real, self-preservation winning out over my sexual arousal.

His eyes widen slightly and very temporarily, and for one single quick beat of my heart, I see his surprise, his disappointment, and his admiration before his unprecedented confidence banishes it all with skepticism.

“Going somewhere?”

“At your invitation, I’m taking my leave.”

He drags in a deep breath and lets out a sigh as I clumsily attempt to extricate myself from the tight, padded booth. He must have pushed the table in my direction with his big, over-muscled body, and I stare at him accusingly. He doesn’t do the gentlemanly thing and pull the table back so I can leave gracefully. Of course not.

“Don’t do that.” His words are unnervingly quiet, and my brain is still unfamiliarly short-circuited by a riot of hormonal interference, my emotions all astray, scattered so I can’t gather them or figure out what I’m feeling—at least not past the control of my lizard brain and the war between pure baby-making lust and emotional self-preservation.

“Why not?” An automatic knee-jerk response spills from me like I’m reading from a script buried deep in my psyche labeled social etiquette training. Because, why do I care why not? I shouldn’t care.

And yet, I wait for him to answer while I hover awkwardly, half standing, caught between the end of the booth and the heavy wooden table that I know he could easily move even while it’s impossible for me to budge.

“We’re both here for the same reason—we love our grandmothers. Neither of us wants to disappoint them.”

Oooh. All the air and the energy and the adrenaline fueling my fight-flight lizard brain craziness implodes, leaving the dazed, resigned, raw bones of me behind, stripped of the sexual pull and all the baggage, and the protective ice chip that used to reside solidly on my shoulder nowhere in sight, completely melted away.

All I’m left with is a clear head and open mind, heaven help me.

“You’re right.” I collapse back down into the cushy booth and give him another once over, allowing my unbridled appreciation for his hidden facets—the ones not all about his overpowering physical magnificence and sensual draw. “You love your grandma. How bad could you be?”

“Ditto. I’m man enough to admit I was wrong. You were right. We have that one very important thing in common.”

I nod. “There must be something else. Bet we can come up with a list if we try hard.” Glancing at my empty glass of whiskey, wishing it had come with ice, I shrug with charity as I pick up the bottle and pour. “We both like whiskey. Cheers.” I down half the glass and find a new level of appreciation for Link Milano because this Pappy Van Winkel is smooth like no other whiskey I’ve ever had—consigned to the lower end of the price/quality hierarchy of the whiskey kingdom as I’ve been.

He watches me as he reaches for the bottle and refills his glass as if he’s fascinated or waiting for me to cough the liquid up and snort it through my nose with watery eyes and a red face like a whiskey virgin might do after such a slug. I plunk my half-empty glass down on the table and stare back as Pappy’s concoction settles in, warming my belly.

The rest of me doesn’t need any more warming. I feel hot.

He smiles, but this time, it’s genuine, showing the shadowy dips and softening his otherwise unforgiving masculine face. He picks up his glass and sips, licks his lips, and then, grinning, shoots the rest of the glass down his throat, throwing it back like a pirate.

Maybe that’s what he reminds me of—a pirate, a man of mixed principles and exciting recklessness.

“This is a good batch,” he says, holding up his empty glass. Without wasting any time with further deliberation, he refills his glass and then tilts the bottle toward mine with a question on his face.

“Is this where I’m supposed to accept the challenge to see who can drink who under the table? Or are you just trying to get me drunk?”

“A simple yes or no will do.” He quirks a brow, and dammit, he makes me laugh.

“Fine. Yes.” I mean it. “Only because this is the beginning of a new chapter for me, and I’m celebrating.”

“With me? A stranger?”

“Why not?” I shrug, the Pappy van Winkel already blurring my reason—or maybe finetuning it. “This whiskey is good stuff, and I deserve a good drunk. Let’s get drunk together, Mr. Lincoln?—”

“Link. Lincoln Milano, officially.” His expression softens. “I’m supposed to get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to fly out of here.”

“To parts unknown?”

“To Portsmouth, New Hampshire.”

“Oh, right. To play some sport for some team.”

“Hockey for the Portsmouth Whalers.”

I wave a hand. “Doesn’t matter. I have no idea who the Whalers are. I barely know what hockey is. There’s a puck, right?”

He grins, his expression crinkling around his eyes in all kinds of heart-warming softness, with his genuine pleasure showing.

“You win, Delaney. Here’s to the song-writer who secretly longs to be a singer?—”

A snort escapes as I try harnessing the jolt to my nerves to prevent another bout of fight or flight. Taking another sip as my hand shakes slightly, I lose a precious few drops of the whiskey. “Sorry—didn’t mean to waste the Pappy.” I hope to hell he didn’t notice the shake. Can’t have a stranger noticing the effect he has on me. Especially not this one—a pirate.

“Can’t have that,” he says as he chokes down his sip and then wipes a missed drop with the back of his hand in true pirate fashion.

“You’d make a great pirate.”

“I’ve been accused of worse. So, you’re not going to deny your deep, dark longing to be a singer?”

“Why should I? It’s true—but don’t tell anyone.” If I make light of it, he’ll leave me alone.

He chuckles. “Nice try. Let’s be serious.”

“No—I mean it. No one knows. Seriously.” I try to keep the panic from my voice, but I’m in that buzzed stage of intoxication where I recognize that I’m buzzed and can hear the ever-so-slight slur of my voice. Shit. Why did I cop to secretly wanting to be a singer? It’s not even true—or hasn’t been for a long time.

“Seriously? If your people don’t know you well enough to see your deepest secret, then that’s…”

“What? Sad? Pathetic?” I detect the edge of anger or resentment in my voice, and he shakes his head. Not bothering to hide my irritation—which I blame on Pappy Van Winkel—I say, “Maybe they do know, and they’re protective of me and don’t want to hurt my feelings or something, so they leave it alone.”

“So they underestimate your strength, then?”

Pow. I lean back against the cushion and clutch my chest in mock-despair because I remember he’s playing games. “Now you’ve damaged me.”

“Are you sure I haven’t complimented you?”

“Oh. Yeah. You think I have the strength to withstand disappointment where my people think I can’t. Is that it?” Shit. He is so wrong. But I’m not copping to any more weaknesses for this pirate to draw blood.

He nods and takes another swig from his glass of deadly gold pirate juice.

I sigh, an exaggerated sound, to hide any vulnerability he thinks he sees. “Your problem is that you don’t understand the Irish psyche. We’re not an optimistic lot. We believe in spelling the doom of dreams. We’re the ultimate of all cynics, especially when it comes close to home. Superstition dictates that we not dare to say our dreams out loud, or we risk cursing ourselves with failure.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“As serious as a half-drunk Irish girl talking about dreams to a stranger can get.”

“That’s what I thought.” He keeps his smile suppressed in true comedic straight-man style.

I burst out laughing as his perfect audience.

Before I can gather myself and reign in my crazy mouth—because he’s right about me having dreams and poetic inclinations, though I prefer to keep them to my songs—the server returns to our table with our food and a judgmental look on her face when she glances at the bottle missing half its whiskey, and then at me. I raise my glass to her in a mock toast before I take another sip—my last until I fortify myself with some food.

“Is she alright?” The server bends close to Link’s ear—a flimsy excuse to get close to him—and whispers loudly as if a little whiskey might have affected my hearing.

“She’s fine—perfect, in fact. Look at her.” He looks at me like he means it, all the previously subdued admiration showing through like the whiskey’s had its effect on him, too, like he’s revealing his true feelings.

I know that would be a special thing, even with Pappy’s influence slowing down my brain. But that’s a dreamer’s speculation, I remind myself.

Maybe. It’s worth a test.

I lean forward. The server darts her eyes at my cleavage with disapproval. I return her glance with an evil triumphant glint and dip lower to give Link—and any passers-by—an eyeful of creamy boobage. It’s the least I can do for him after his honesty, sharing his possibly true feelings. Showing my cleavage is me being honest with him. Honestly flirting.

“Look at you,” I say. “A genuine compliment.”

The server clatters a plate of food in front of me, barely missing dumping it down my blouse, but I pull back in time and stare at her. Is she for real?

“Excuse me,” she says, then whispers for real, “You realize he’s just toying with you, right?”

“Toying—”

“That’s enough.” Link’s voice is hard and deep as he aims a dark look at the server. Nothing wrong with his hearing. I’m instantly grateful not to be in the server’s shoes—and I instantly feel bad for her.

“It’s okay,” I say, reaching out to touch the girl’s arm. “She was finished,” I say to him and pat her arm by way of pushing her away, not meeting her eyes. I can see she’s incredulous, and I’m not sure if it’s him or me that she’s more incredulous about.

Either way, she scurries off, leaving me to stare at Link and hold myself back from fanning my face because I feel all kinds of hot. It’s his stare—a sultry one, the kind whose intentions are unmistakable.

The food we were both dying for sits between us on steaming plates, but neither of us makes a move to eat. He clears his throat, and I watch his manly Adam’s apple move up and down like it’s the most sexy thing I’ve ever seen. Heaving a breath, I squirm in my seat and hope to hell he can’t read my mind even though I feel like I’m transparent as glass to him—or anyone with eyes—right now.

“The food,” he says, licking his lips, “smells good but…” He looks around like he’s looking for the nearest exit, and I hope he’s planning to make his escape with me—not that I’d let him get away without a chase at this point.

I remain mute, and he clears his throat again and swipes a hand through his lush hair. God, I’d love to run my hands through that hair while he’s busy?—

“Are you still hungry?” his voice is a low rumble that sends vibrations zinging through me straight to my core.

“No.” My voice is a croak, and I lean forward again without even realizing it until I see his gaze drift down.

He leans close, returning his gaze to my eyes, and speaks in a low, penetrating voice. “You should button that blouse.”