1. Tyler #2
“Or,” she adds before I can formulate a single word, “public sex ?” She says the last word like the thought has just occurred to her. Like she’s spewing thoughts as they flit through her mind. This time she’s the one lifting a brow as she whispers, “Is that what you’re after?”
There’s no stopping the laugh that rips from deep inside my chest. Fuck, it feels good. When I stepped into the gym, I was angry, ready to beat the shit out of the bag. But that one laugh has tension easing in my shoulders, and I feel lighter than I have in far too long.
Dipping lower, I murmur, “Have dinner with me.”
Her cranberry-colored lips tip up into a smile. “What?”
“Have dinner with me. You don’t do one-night stands, and I want to get to know you.”
“I’m not going to sleep with you after dinner.” Eyes narrowed, she studies me like she expects this to be a deal-breaker.
Normally it would be. I don’t date. Hockey is my life.
I have no room for women. They normally need more attention than I’m capable of giving.
But, strangely, I want to give this woman my attention.
She may look like a beautiful, innocent angel, but she’s a vicious little thing.
I can sense it hovering just below the surface.
She’ll put me in my place, keep me on my toes, and make me work for every little piece of her.
Yes, I want this woman.
Nothing in my life has ever come easy. More than once, I’ve been told that all I’m good for is letting people down. But maybe I can prove those people wrong. Maybe I’ll look back one day and realize that this was the moment everything changed. The moment I finally got it right.
“Have dinner with me anyway.”
My little ballerina’s eyes fall to the floor and she flexes her toes as she considers my request. Ten seconds later, she looks up and surprises the hell out of me when she says, “Ava is my name. And okay, I’ll have dinner with you, Tyler.”
Seven hours later, I set my cologne on the bathroom counter and head for the door, only to stop when my phone rings.
I can’t help but smile at the name that flashes on the screen. “Hey, Bray,” I say as I grab my keys off the counter.
“She’s still not home.”
My stomach plummets. Fucking Trish. She has one fucking job. Come home. Take care of her kid. Show up.
Okay, it’s three jobs, really, but that’s literally all the responsibility she has. I pay all her damn bills so that she can focus on Brayden. Yet she can’t even bother to do that.
Paying her bills means I know Bray is taken care of, but it also means it’s harder to keep track of Trish. At least when she needed money, she was working.
She didn’t have the kind of job that kept her sober, but it was better than this.
“I’ll be right there.” Teeth gritted, I glance at the clock on the wall. Six forty-five. Dammit. I’m going to be fucking late.
I shake the thought from my head. Right now, Brayden has to be my priority.
He probably hasn’t eaten dinner. He’s twelve, the same age I was when I lost my mom.
He could make himself a sandwich, maybe even cook if he wanted, but he won’t.
The kid is stubborn. He’ll starve himself just so he can tell her he hasn’t eaten.
Trish may deserve the guilt trip, but more than that, Brayden deserves to eat. Every kid does.
As I step out into the hall and lock my door, an image of the woman I met only this morning flashes in my mind. She was mesmerizing. Looked like a fucking mystical fairy, swaying beautifully. Innocent. Pure.
I should have known I couldn’t have her.
Outside of hockey, nothing has ever come easy, and I don’t know why I thought it ever could.
With an aggravated growl, I stalk for the elevator. There’s no way I’ll make it to dinner, and I don’t have Ava’s damn number, so I can’t warn her. Fuck. After the difficulty I had prying her name out of her, I didn’t even try to get her contact info.
Feisty little thing. She probably would have made me work all night for that.
I’ve never met a woman who wasn’t happy to give me her number when I asked. It’s my blue eyes and the tattoos. The muscles don’t hurt either. Neither do my dark hair and fair skin.
Normally it works to my advantage.
Today is the lone exception.
Then again, as coach always says, “Nothing worth it ever comes easy.”
I have a feeling Ava is worth it.
Somehow I’ll make it up to her.
Ava
“Would you like to order a drink, or do you want to wait for the rest of your party to get here?”
With a deep breath in, I make eye contact with the bartender. “I’ll have a dirty martini, please.”
My sister would be so proud. We talked about doing this for years. Move to a city, flirt with boys, drink dirty martinis.
Sex and the City , Emily in Paris , and my personal favorite, Center Stage . We watched every episode of Sex and the City and Emily and Paris, planning our next great adventure. And I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve seen Center Stage.
“Vodka or gin?”
Mind blanking, I blink up at the woman.
Her eyes soften. “Most women prefer vodka.”
“Yeah, okay, thank you.” God, I feel like an idiot. No matter how many movies and books I’ve devoured, nothing prepared me for leaving my hometown in the middle of Nebraska.
When I moved to Boston, my parents were distraught. They couldn’t believe I’d gone behind their backs and applied for jobs so far away.
Honestly, I hadn’t.
It was all my sister’s doing. When I got the email asking if I could come in for an interview the following week, I blinked at the screen. Then I fell into a fit of laughter. My sister, on the other hand, squealed.
She made me promise that I’d go. And I have never in my life said no to her. From the moment I was born, my purpose was linked to her. Her needs dictated my life.
I don’t mean to sound bitter, but it’s the truth. My parents created me in a lab for the purpose of saving her.
I did it time and again and would do it a hundred more times if I had to.
As the bartender gets to work on my drink, I pull out my phone to text her.
Me: Did you know martinis can be made with either vodka or gin? The waitress asked which one I wanted, and I swear a neon sign appeared above my head and flashed I’ve never had alcohol! LOL.
Me: Also, my date is late. He’s lucky he was so hot. Otherwise I’d pull a Samantha and throw my dirty martini at him.
I laugh to myself. My sister does the best Samantha impressions. I, of course, am more of a Charlotte.
Quiet, demure Ava. The sister who always does what’s asked of her. Who never says no.
When the bartender pushes my drink toward me, I snap a picture of it and send it to my sister.
Me: To becoming more like Samantha!
A heartbeat after I hit Send, the rush of excitement whooshes out of me, and I settle into the silence. Alone.
That’s been the hardest part of this move. I don’t know a soul. Though my new job came with a furnished apartment, I haven’t met any of my neighbors yet. I’d need to step outside my little haven to do that.
It’s been three days since I arrived, but the entire process has been overwhelming. Until today, I’ve lain in bed, ordering decorations and supplies for my new place. This morning, I finally worked up the courage to venture out.
That’s how I met Tyler.
Possibly the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.
And he asked me out.
Me . Ava Erickson. The woman who’s never been on a date.
Nervous energy has me tapping my toes inside my heels.
Also, I never wear heels. But if there’s ever an appropriate time to wear them, it’s while on a date.
I stare at the cloudy liquid in my martini glass and the two olives speared with a pick. I lift the pick and give them the tiniest taste.
Instantly, salty bitterness hits my tongue, the flavor similar to what I’d imagine the ocean would taste like. I can’t hide the scowl that forms on my lips.
“Gross, right?”
The question, spoken close to me, makes me snap my head to the side. The woman seated on the stool beside me has blue eyes and long blond hair.
Unlike her, I have red hair. It’s my most notable feature. Maybe my only personality trait.
Long red hair. Quiet Ava.
“It’s, um, interesting.”
The girl’s blue eyes dance. “Okay. Cheers, then.” She holds up her drink, which has an adorable yellow and pink umbrella in it.
As if on autopilot, I lift my glass, causing the liquid to slosh over the side a little, wetting my hand, and tap it against hers. Then, with a deep breath in, I take a sip.
Instantly and without my permission, my body shudders. Oh no. No. No. No. The bitterness is too much. Rubbing my tongue over the roof of my mouth, hoping to get rid of the taste, I set my glass down and push it away. What kind of person would willingly order this? It’s awful.
The girl beside me covers her mouth to keep from spitting out her own drink because she’s laughing so hard. “Billy, can you make my new friend here something fruity?”
I wave a hand. “Oh, that’s—” My refusal dies off when my brain snags on one little word she used.
Friend.
Warmth blooms in my chest and in my cheeks.
I don’t know if I’ve ever had a friend.
“No, it’s not okay. I’m celebrating tonight, and if you don’t have a drink, you can’t properly get in on the toast.”
I laugh at her honesty. “Okay. Billy, please make me something fruity.”
With a chuckle, the bartender slides the disgusting concoction away from me, but my new friend stops her. “Wait, Hannah is on her way. She’ll drink that.”
Shrugging, the woman steps away and gets to work making a drink partway down the bar.
“What’s your name?”
“Ava. And you’re…?”
“Besides your new best friend?” She teases with a big smile. “I’m Sara.”
Best friend? Giddiness bubbles up inside me. Maybe I’m too old to get this excited, but I’m relishing it, nonetheless. “And what are you celebrating?”
Billy returns, this time bringing a drink adorned with a pretty little umbrella just like Sara’s. She doesn’t walk away. Instead, she studies me, as if waiting for me to take a sip. So I bring the glass to my lips and savor the fruity flavor.