Chapter 1 I Don’t Get On My Knees for No—Whoops, I’m On My Knees Cara #2
Anyway, hockey. I Googled most famous hockey player and a picture of this old guy called Wayne Gretzky popped up.
I stopped my search there. Listen, I’m not opposed to older men, but poor Wayne looked like he stopped being able to handle me at least ten years ago.
In his younger days, though? Sign me up, mullet and all.
I guess Olivia didn’t appreciate that—she loves hockey—because she followed a long moment of stunned silence with a quiet, terrifying threat to disown me.
Joke’s on her; she tethered her whole-ass soul to mine six years ago, the day our eyes met across our tiny dorm room and we shared two shots of tequila. She’ll never get rid of me now.
“I like Debbie. If this goes well, she’ll hire me for future events. I can’t be fucking the players.”
Shazia’s sigh is all parts drama as she peers up at me from beneath thick, dark lashes. “A true friend would let me live vicariously through them.”
“Listen.” I set my wine down and peek out the door to gauge how ready they are for the auction. “I don’t get on my knees for no—”
Oh.
Oh, Jesus.
Jesus fucking fuckballs.
“That’s… that’s not…” My mouth runs dry as I gesture haphazardly at the gigantic group of men gathered at the back of the room, shoving food down their throats. “Wayne Gretzky.”
Shazia snorts. “Wayne Gretzky? He retired, like, twenty years ago. How old did you think the players were, Care?”
“I thought… I thought…” My grip loosens, on both my sanity and my candy, the latter spilling from my hands, skittering across the floor. The heads of every single man huddled at the food table snap up, eyes searching, as if they recognize the sound of food hitting the floor.
Sweet mother of fuck, they’re pretty. Pretty and broad and tall. Tall, tall men, which is always nice as a five-foot-ten queen.
“Candy,” one of them mutters, distressed green eyes bouncing between my spilled snacks, my face, and his friends.
He gestures toward my feet with his plate of food, appearing to short-circuit as he claps at his friend’s shoulder.
“She’s not gonna… she’s not gonna waste it, is she? Ten-second rule! Ten-second rule!”
His friend sighs. “It’s a five-second rule, Carter, not ten.
” His gaze tracks the scattered candy, slowing like it’s been dipped in molasses when it stops on my pointy heels.
Blue eyes drag up the length of my legs, and his throat works as those eyes bounce from hip to hip in my skintight red dress.
Up farther, and every inch of me sizzles under his insatiable stare.
God, I can feel it, like a hand skating roughly up my side, gripping my waist, then my throat.
And then those eyes come to mine. Warm and bright, sunshine and summer heating me from the tips of my toes all the way up to where it gathers in my chest and crawls into my cheeks.
Impossibly wide and full of awe, like he’s just discovered there’s an eighth wonder of the world, and she’s standing right in front of him.
Those eyes stop me in my tracks. They steal the words from my throat, my own name from my memory.
I don’t know what it is; truly, I don’t.
Maybe it’s the way every ounce of exhaustion vanishes like clouds after a storm, revealing the bluest, clearest skies.
Maybe it’s the way they demand every inch of my attention, daring me to look away.
I can’t. I can’t look away, and I don’t know why.
For the first time in my life, I stand still and forget everything.
“Cara!” Hands grip my shoulders, pulling me into a warm embrace. Debbie grins at me, I think. “Did you see? They’re eating all that food! I told you! You owe me tequila shots.” She follows my gaze over her shoulder and hums. “Ah. I see you’ve caught the eye of our favorite left-winger.”
I don’t see what politics has to do with this, but her words are enough to shake me from my trance, pulling my eyes from his so I can take in the rest of him, and holy fuckballs, look at the size of those hands.
Those bad boys could wreck a pussy. I run a finger along the dainty gold chain sitting at the base of my throat, and heat sparks between my legs as I imagine one of those hands closing around my throat, squeezing as he holds me in place, pounds into me.
The man at his side gives up on my spilled candy, heaving a dramatic sigh, and… stomping a foot. Hm. This might be that theatrical “Carter Bucket” Debbie was telling me about earlier. “It’s been way longer than ten seconds,” he whines. “Now no one gets the candy.”
My current obsession doesn’t let his stare move from mine when he murmurs, again, “Five-second rule, Carter, not ten.”
Carter Bucket’s frown hooks into a smirk as he looks from his friend to me, an understanding seeming to dawn. With all the swagger of a man who thinks his shit doesn’t stink, he saunters over to me.
It pains me to admit, but he’s gorgeous. The type of man who makes you think there really might be a God. Tall and broad, a jawline carved from marble, knee-wobbling dimples, with a messy mop of chestnut waves and stunning emerald eyes.
“Hey,” he whispers. “I’m—”
“No.”
His jaw drops, and his teammates—and Debbie—snicker. “What? But I—”
“I can tell that word’s hard for you to comprehend, isn’t it? See, I said no, but I worry that what you heard was ‘please keep talking to me.’ ” My smile is every ounce as patronizing as it is soft as I touch two fingers to Carter’s chin, gently closing his mouth. “For clarity, fuck no, fuckboy.”
“Oh my God,” one of the men mutters, hands buried in his golden waves. “It’s happening.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” whispers another, dark curls falling over bright blue eyes as his head whips back and forth, watching us. “I’m… mystified.”
“Speechless.” An absent-minded murmur from the one responsible for the current frantic state of my heartbeat—both the one in my chest and the one at the cleft of my thighs.
The way he lets his gaze roam every inch of my body like it’s his right, it lights me on fire from the inside out.
And that smirk? That smirk tells me I should get used to it.
But I never fall to my knees that easily.
“Take a picture,” I drawl, tossing my blond hair over my shoulder. As I bend to pick up my scattered candy, I glance back, fluttering my eyelashes, watching as his grin grows and his eyes drop to my ass. “It’ll last longer.”
“Wait,” he calls as I head toward the back. “You forgot something.”
I check my glossy red nails. “Can’t be all that important if I’ve managed to forget it.”
He chuckles softly, the shake of his head so subtle I nearly miss it. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong.”
I open my mouth to tell him I’m never, ever wrong, and that he should jot that down, but he holds up his hand, stopping me.
“I know, I know. You’re never wrong, and it’s absurd of me to even suggest it. But humor me, just this once?”
I roll my tongue in my mouth to stop myself from grinning. “Proceed.”
“You see, you forgot to get my name.” There go his eyes, roaming the length of me again, like he’s committing it to memory. He lays a hand over his heart like the saint he is. “And it would be heartless of me to let you walk away without it.”
“Mmm. A considerate man, are we?”
“Yup.” He slips large hands in his pockets, and Jesus, I don’t think the man has stopped smiling. He tips his head. “Emmett Brodie, at your service, my queen.”
Oh my God, fucking finally, a well-deserved nickname. I want to bask in it like sunshine, roll around in all that glory, but Emmett Brodie doesn’t appear to be done.
“Now, since you never, ever forget important things…” He roots around in his back pocket, producing a phone. “You were about to give me your number.”
I cross my arms over my chest to hide that my nipples have risen to attention. “My, you’re eager. Aren’t you going to ask my name first?”
“Nah. Already know it.”
With a perfect, wide grin, Emmett Brodie deposits his phone into my hand. It’s opened to the New Contact page, except the name field has already been filled out.
Mrs. Brodie.
For the first time in my life, my heartbeat trips.
A shadow falls over me, and the air is sucked from my lungs as perfect, lush lips dip to my ear, warm breath dancing down my neck.
“C’mon, Mrs. Brodie. The quicker we get through the formalities, the quicker we get to the fun stuff, like my ring on your finger and you in my bed for the rest of our lives.”
I, CARA NICOLE HUNTER, have failed.
I’m no longer a confident queen.
I’m an erratic queen, hiding out in the back room, where I’ve been since I sashayed away from Emmett Brodie without a word after leaving him with my phone number.
I managed to do that with all the confidence in the world, fluttering my lashes, swinging my hips. Then, as soon as I was behind the door, I broke into a panic sweat, drank another glass of wine, then another, and texted Olivia seventeen times in rapid succession.
Look, I love men. They’re hot, eager, and some of them know how to use their fingers, tongue, and their cocks—I call that the holy trinity. But Jesus Christ—and I say this with the utmost respect—at least 75 percent of the men I talk to have me thinking: Really? You were the fastest sperm?
I’ve learned that you can’t have it all when it comes to most men: the looks, the bedroom skill, and the personality.
I’m always sacrificing one for another, and since I haven’t been looking for anything more serious than a dicking with the potential to land me on bedrest, it’s normally the personality I wind up forgoing.