7. Easily Goaded
OLIVIA
I wish it didn’t feel so good, my hand in his.
Long, broad fingers thread through mine, swallowing me up and tugging me out of my seat, through the crowd covering the dance floor.
The size difference in our hands alone is staggering, and I find myself thinking of all the ways he could put that hand to good use.
The thought itself sends a shiver of pleasure rocketing down my spine, which is why I didn’t want to do this in the first place.
I don’t know why it feels nice when he touches me, or why I’m constantly drawn to his wide, goofy grin, the way he carries himself in such a carefree manner, so relaxed, confident, and in control.
For some reason I’m afraid if he gets me alone for too long, I’ll let him come knocking on the walls that are definitely not sturdy enough to keep him out.
He belongs here, on the other side, no emotional attachments. Because that’s the last thing anyone wants to do with a man who has no inclination to settle down: get emotionally attached.
Carter clears his throat, drawing my gaze up his back, over the broad expanse of his shoulders before he turns.
“Madam.” With a charming, crooked smile he takes a small bow before he hauls me into him.
My fingers clutch at his, and I carefully lay my free hand over his shoulder.
There’s a gleam in his eyes, a tiny crease hidden between his brows as he stares down at me, and for a moment I wonder if he’s as confused as I am.
“Is this okay?” His quiet words roll down my neck as his warm palm presses into my lower back.
My throat tightens as his touch sears the exposed flesh above the waist of my jeans, and I tip my head in a nod. “Mhmm.”
“What did you think of my goal tonight?”
“It was a beautiful goal,” I admit on a sigh. He was a first-round draft pick at the age of eighteen, and he cinched the title of captain at only twenty-two. Today, he’s one of the highest paid players ever. Carter is truly a phenomenon in the hockey world.
His face beams with pride. “And the celebration?”
“What about it?”
His face dips, fingertips pressing firmly into my skin. “I dedicated it to you.”
Apprehension knots in my belly, the same way it did when I saw my face all over the big screen.
“You mean when you landed my face on the jumbotron? When everybody around me started wondering who I was and if you’d finally decided to settle down?
Or when Sportsnet said I was pretty enough but not the typical swimsuit models you fuck? ”
His eyelids hood, his voice a husky timbre. “You could be a swimsuit model if you wanted to.”
He’s just not getting it.
“I know that’s meant to be a compliment, but it irritates me further.
This is clearly just a fun game to you because I turned you down last weekend.
I’m a human being with feelings who has zero desire to be objectified on national television.
” Heat rushes up my neck, right to the tips of my ears as I pull my hands back and step out of his stunned grasp.
“Not all of us thrive on attention, Carter. Some of us actively avoid it.”
Another step back, and I’m about to thank him for the dance and excuse myself when his hand catches mine.
“Hey,” he urges softly. “I’m sorry, Olivia.
I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Guess I was excited to see you again and wanted to let you know.
Extreme gestures are kinda my thing, and, uh…
” He slips his fingers below his toque, scratching at his head.
“I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing here. ”
I don’t either. I don’t have to wonder if this is his usual MO; if it were, he’d probably be better at it.
Carter’s throat works with his swallow as he flicks a gaze down at our joined hands, then back up, a silent question: Will I keep dancing with him?
At my cautious step forward, a grin detonates his face, and he yanks me into him, holding me close, and when the music shifts, the familiar mellow strum of a guitar drifting around us, my body stills.
A laugh puffs past my lips as John Mayer starts singing about a woman named Olivia.
“Did you request this song?”
His tongue pokes the corner of his mouth with his guilty but proud grin, and instead of answering, he tows me closer until our bodies meld together.
My eyes flutter closed when his mouth dips to my ear, and a tingle of desire lights every one of my nerve endings on fire when he takes my hands, draping my arms around his shoulder, and buries the lyrics in my shoulder, singing softly and so, so deep.
“Fuck, I’ve had this song stuck on repeat for the last week. Do you like John Mayer?”
My hands skim his broad shoulders, grazing the knotted muscles that ripple beneath the surface, and I run a palm up the nape of his neck, a strong desire to twine my fingers in the chestnut waves peeking out from his toque. “I love him.”
“What’s your favorite song?”
My mouth quirks to the side. “I’ve got two.”
“Gimme your most favorite first.”
My face warms as I avoid his gaze. “‘Slow Dancing in a Burning Room.’” A slow, sad song, two people who are destined to fail together, kind of like whatever the hell it is we’re doing right now. There’s no way this ends well. It’s bound to go up in flames; we’re just denying the inevitable.
I’m not sure Carter sees it the way I do, because he simply makes a pleased sound and murmurs, “Good song. Second favorite?”
“‘Bigger Than My Body.’”
My jaw slams shut at his immediate reaction, the piss-poor job he does of smothering that damn snicker-snort of his as his exceptionally large body shakes beneath my hands.
My eyes narrow. “Shut up.”
“I can’t—” snicker, “—I can’t help it!” He folds forward with a burst of laughter, forehead falling to my shoulder as his arms circle me entirely, clinging to me while he vibrates.
“Those are not tears in your eyes right now,” I muse when he pulls back, jade eyes watering.
He wipes his face on his shoulder, inhaling sharply. “You walked yourself right into that one. You know you’re tiny, Ollie, right?”
“I’m not—” I stick my nose in the air. “What I lack in height I make up for in attitude.” That’s what my dad says, anyway, and I tend to agree with him.
“You don’t fucking say.” Carter hums, amused gaze set on me. “How tall are you?”
“Five-three,” I lie without hesitation.
“Bull-fucking-shit.” He chuckles, the bronzed skin around his eyes crinkling. He pulls back, letting his gaze coast down the length of my body. “I’m giving you five-one.”
A growl rumbles in my throat. “Damnit.”
There’s that laugh again, and I’m not sure why I like it so much, or the sparkle in his eyes as he spins me out before tugging me back against his hard chest.
“So…” The hesitation in his voice reminds me he’s not used to making small talk. “You’re a high school teacher.”
“I am.”
“How old are you? You barely look like you’re out of college.”
“I turned twenty-five in October.” Cara whisked me away to Palm Springs for four days, courtesy of Emmett’s credit card. It was difficult to explain the tan when I returned to work on Monday after a long weekend that started on Thursday with a sick day.
“Twenty-five? You’re a baby!”
“I am not. Your birthday’s in February, so you’re not even three—” I fold my lips into my mouth as my own words sink in, and Carter grins triumphantly. “Oh shit.”
“You Googled the fuck out of me, Miss Parker.”
“No.” Obviously . Call it morbid curiosity.
“What else did you find?”
Other than confirmation that his smile is permanently dazzling and dimple-popping? “That you really like women.”
Carter laughs softly, peering over my head for a moment. “What do you teach?”
That he’s content in not responding to my findings reminds me of why I’ve told myself to stay away, to keep parts of myself hidden.
When you start giving them away to people who only want to hold on to them until the next person comes along is when treading the water becomes dangerous.
A strange chill prickles the back of my neck, and when I try to shift backward, put a tiny bit of space between us, Carter pulls me back, bends his neck, and…
presses a fleeting kiss to the crown of my head.
“Olivia?” He touches two fingers to my chin, closing my gaping mouth. “What subject do you teach?”
I shake my head, my throat tight. I don’t know how the simple touch of his lips makes everything feel so hazy, but it does. “Don’t make fun of me,” I warn. “I teach health and fitness.”
A frown tugs down the edges of his perfect mouth. “Why would I make fun of that? That’s so cool.”
“Yeah? My brother always says it’s not a real subject.”
“Your brother sounds like an asshole.”
“Sometimes.” I laugh. Jeremy’s four years older than me, and the thing we do best is bicker.
He’d lose his mind if he could see me right now, but I’m not going to tell him, and that he hasn’t yet texted me about Carter’s goal dedication means, somehow, he’s missed it.
I’m calling it a blessing. Jeremy’s a huge fan, but he would absolutely not be a fan of me being one of the girls pictured going home with Carter.
Ironically, Jeremy got a stranger pregnant after a one-night stand at twenty-two.
It turned out to be one of those fate scenarios.
You know the type, real fairy-tale, romance novel style.
They fell in love, got married, and had their second baby earlier this year.
Real life doesn’t work like that 99 percent of the time.
I smile up at Carter. “He’s not all that bad. Jeremy just likes to tease me.”
There’s something in his stare, a tenderness I don’t recognize, one that has butterflies erupting in my stomach at the vulnerability that comes with the way he watches me.
My palm flattens against the nape of his neck and I twirl a lock of hair around the tip of my finger. “What?” I whisper.