Chapter 20
Cassie
Okay, Cassie. No big deal.
Just walking into a party with a man. Which is something I haven’t done in…
Let’s not try to calculate it.
I haven’t even been on a date in forever. Ever since I was out with Britt at a bar and a guy asked for my number, and I impulsively accepted (perhaps influenced by the Mai Tais we drank that night.)
The date went like this: I told him I’m a junior sports agent; he challenged me to name five NHL MVPs (easy). I challenged him to name five NHL teams (he failed). He tried to stick his tongue in my mouth (gross).
I barely have anything left to give outside of work. I’m chasing my dream, and no man I know is interesting enough to distract me from that.
At least, that’s what I thought until recently.
We step inside Landon’s house, and it’s stunning.
“Wow,” I breathe, surveying the sleek furniture and expensive art on the walls. “Someone call Architectural Digest and say it’s an emergency. They need to do one of those tour videos of Landon’s house.”
Cole laughs at my expression. “A hockey player with taste. Shocking, I know.”
“Let me guess. Your house is completely minimalist. No colors. Barely any furniture. Maybe one picture on the wall, but it’s definitely in black and white, and it’s probably of like… a wolf. Or something else really stupidly manly.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny.”
“That totally means I’m right,” I grin.
He holds my gaze. “Maybe one day you’ll find out.”
A flush seeps beneath my skin. He just means for the assignment, right? I have his address—I have all his contact details from the office—but I assumed his house was fully off-limits. Cole is so intensely private.
“But glad to hear you think I’m really stupidly manly,” he says, lips curving up.
I blink. “Wait, I didn’t say that—”
He sets off down the hallway, leaving me with my mouth open on the spot.
I pull myself together and hurry after him into the huge kitchen, and oh my god, is it packed in here with people laughing and drinking in their sparkliest outfits.
Some twangy country song with a thumping hip-hop bass is blasting over the speakers.
I briefly wonder who’s controlling the playlist, because Landon strikes me as more of a classic Tim McGraw kind of guy.
Cole places the cupcakes on the kitchen counter, one hand lingering on the top of the box for a moment. “I’ll leave these here. In case the team wants them.”
“Sure.” I try not to sound disappointed. It might be silly, but I wanted him to try one.
I told myself they were my usual get-over-hate cupcakes. But in all honesty, they were really get-over-lust cupcakes.
Except the cathartic exercise of baking didn’t seem to work this time.
Cole looks hot tonight. So hot it feels sinful.
His midnight blue button shirt shows off his muscles, the broad shape of his shoulders.
My eyes trail over the touch of dark stubble on his sharp jaw, and it is really stupidly manly.
I’m fighting off thoughts about how it would feel grazing against my face… or my thighs.
Ugh, it’s like my cupcake baking was for nothing.
“Cole! Cassie!”
I turn, hearing our names yelled across the crowd. Landon is squeezing between partygoers (which is a hilarious sight at his towering height).
“Y’all made it.”
I smile, hearing his Southern accent, so out of place in New England.
“Thank you for having us,” I reply. “Your house is so beautiful, and this party is… well, it seems like people are having a lot of fun.”
I giggle at Landon’s frazzled expression as he runs a hand through his hair.
“I was going for more of a charcuterie and good conversation vibe, but Miller invited every twenty-something in Boston, and now they’re blasting songs that make me feel ancient and leaving cans on the mahogany tables.”
“Tell everyone to fuck off, then. Or better yet, let me do it.” Cole’s eyes light up like the idea of getting to yell ‘fuck off’ to a party full of people is his idea of a good time.
Landon sighs. “People are having fun. I’m trying to be a good host here.”
“You, Cap, are too much of a gentleman for your own good.” Cole taps the bare skin of my arm, and I try not to jolt. “I’ll get us some drinks. Be right back.”
“I’m glad Cole came tonight," Landon tells me. "Glad both of you did. Even if he’s only here because of that stupid thing with Miller.”
“What do you mean?”
Landon raises an eyebrow, a sly smile on his lips. “Cole didn’t tell you? Huh, interesting. Miller said he was going to ask you out if Cole didn’t come tonight. Cole was trying to keep up your professional boundaries with the team. Didn’t want you feeling uncomfortable.”
“That’s… I didn’t know that.”
I try to push this out of my mind as I chat with Landon about the season for a few minutes, before he gets distracted by a girl pulling out a vape and darts off to confront her. “Hey! No vapes inside. This is a nineteenth-century townhouse, people!”
But my mind is still stuck on what I just learned. Cole agreed to come here to stop Miller asking me on a date. Which I obviously would have said no to, anyway.
Cole reappears at my side, holding a non-alcoholic beer for himself, and a… pink cocktail topped with a maraschino cherry.
“Here.” He thrusts the glass into my hands.
“You… made me a cocktail?” I’m caught off guard, blinking down at the pretty pink liquid. I was expecting a glass of wine or a beer from the fridge. “Wait, is this a… Cape Cod Colada?”
“You had one at Murphy’s Bar that first night. Figured it was your drink of choice.”
Cole remembers what cocktails I like. Cole stargazes with me. Cole tells Noah all about how I’m a great agent.
Cole agrees to go to the kind of big team parties he hates just to stop his teammates asking me out.
Cole does nicer little things for me than any man ever has, and he does it all with an icy look on his face. He’s so confusing it makes my head spin, more than any agency contract file has.
Especially because back at the apartment, Cole had actually seemed… in a kind of good mood. Which quickly evaporated by the time we walked out the door.
I take a sip of the cocktail. It’s sweet and perfect. “Thank you, Cole.”
I always limit myself to two drinks during work parties, and this is work. I need to remind myself, because this assignment is nothing like the Mandatory Fun of networking events I usually go to at the agency.
Cole nods, and his eyes very notably drop to where my lips are kissing the cool edge of the glass. “Any time, sunshine,” he says, his voice like gravel.
“SHOTS!”
I nearly spill my drink at the sound of Miller’s yell. He dives toward us, throwing an arm around Cole’s neck (who doesn’t look thrilled at this development), and waving a bottle with his free hand.
“Who wants some? This shit will knock you on your ass. It’s from Roman’s secret stash of Russian liquor.”
Roman joins us, giving a crooked grin. He’s dressed in all black, as usual.
Tall, imposing, cool. He has a reputation for being a hothead on the ice, but the New England fans love him.
He always walks into the arena with some classic literary book.
He’s beating the dumb athlete stereotype one paparazzi shot at a time.
“I’m good, thanks,” I laugh. “I’m such a lightweight. I feel hungover just looking at that bottle.”
Roman shrugs and turns to Cole. “Freeze at a team party,” he says, accent lilting. “Has hell frozen over?”
“Right? It’s a New Year’s Eve miracle!” Miller exclaims.
“That’s not a thing,” Cole says firmly. “New Year’s Eve miracle is not a thing.”
Miller snorts. “Uh, yeah. It’s totally a thing.”
I sense we should probably change topics before an argument over the concept of ‘New Year’s Eve miracles’ breaks out.
“Do you guys have any resolutions?” I pipe up.
“Why would I? I’m already perfect,” Miller grins, prompting a lengthy eye roll from Cole.
“And so humble,” Cole deadpans, which seems to sail right over Miller’s head like a puck flying off into the stands.
“My resolution is to read more books,” Roman says. He takes a swig from the vodka bottle without even flinching.
“You already read all the time,” Miller points out. “That’s so boring, dude.”
“You can always read more, my friend. We are athletes. We have to work to make our brains just as strong as our bodies.” Roman taps his temple.
I leave the team bickering with a laugh and excuse myself to go to the restroom. I stare into the ornate mirror above the marble sink, touching up my lipstick and smoothing down my pretty blue dress.
I try not to think about why I care about how my lipstick looks tonight.
“You are a professional,” I tell myself in the mirror. “Professionals do not think about how their boss’s client’s stubble would feel between their legs.”
I immediately feel crazy for talking to myself and quickly pop the cap back on my lipstick, sticking it back in my purse.
I make my way back through the party, scanning the crowd until I catch sight of Cole leaning against the wall.
With—oh—a woman.
She’s taller than me. Blonde and athletic-looking, wearing a gorgeous gold dress. They look good together—that’s what hits me hard.
Her hand briefly lands on his arm, and a sinking feeling fills me. I know that feeling. Every girl has felt it at some point in her life. Jealousy.
The green-eyed monster. Rising in my chest as I look at the green-eyed man I’m not supposed to be attached to at all.
I’m just his temporary babysitter. As much as he seems to enjoy pushing the limits between us, the limits are still there. And they’re not going anywhere.
I’m sure I’m not his type, anyway. I’m not blunt and cynical like Cole. I’m opinionated and optimistic and passionate, with all the messiness that comes with that.
What exactly is the assignment protocol here, anyway? Do I awkwardly hover from a distance like a five foot four bodyguard in a dress while Cole flirts with a beautiful woman?