Chapter 2
MILLION BUTTERFLIES
ANASTASIA JOVOVIC
The last place I expect I’d end up tonight is here at Saint’s home in Hollywood Hills.
I wouldn’t be if not for this guy I’ve been seeing lately, Bryce Withers, a backup goalie for the Los Angeles Vipers.
He called last minute saying a friend of his from Vancouver was in town playing against the Puckers and asked me to join him at the game.
This girl can’t resist an invite to a hockey game. Had I known it would include an after party at Saint’s, I might have declined the invitation. Considering Bryce has spent the past hour ignoring me while he catches up with his old buddy, I might as well not be here.
Dating in Los Angeles is the worst. I don’t think he’s that into me anyway, and I’d been planning to stop seeing him. A handful of dates with Bryce has only produced a few kisses, and definitely no butterflies in my tummy. He’s nice, I guess. Cute but not handsome. Definitely not…
Not Saint.
Bad boy Miles St. James has been catching my eye across the pool the entire time I’ve been here at the party, even though his arm is around some tall skinny bitch in a silver dress that barely covers her hoo-ha, revealing an enviable thigh gap.
All suave in black pants and a black button down, Saint’s sleeves are rolled up on his fabulous forearms, the exact ones that inflicted pain on Sanderson at the end of the game. The fight that had me cheering inside for him, and flooding my panties.
Sick, I know. The sight of violence on the ice shouldn’t turn me on. But it wasn’t only that. It was the way Saint’s frosty blue eyes met mine before Sanderson threw the first punch.
There were definitely butterflies, millions of them, and I held my breath the entire time until the fight ended, only letting it out when Saint skated away unscathed. Yet it hitched again when he turned back to glance directly at me.
Something lies between us. Every single time we’re in the same room together, I feel it.
But I know his type. Misty and Storm both confirmed it, telling me all about him, but I deduced it myself every time our group of friends got together, the players and their wives or girlfriends, before everyone moved away.
Saint’s a lot of fun to party with, easy to talk to, but a man-whore, way too popular with the puck bunnies for my tastes.
A sadness underlies his outgoing persona, though, I detect it, like a layer of anger and hurt brewing there for a decade. Storm believes there’s something in Saint’s past that keeps him from getting too serious about a woman now.
I have enough challenges getting a man to fall for me, given my plump curves. To overcome Saint’s issues as well would be too much.
But…what if he was mine?
That’s the question plaguing me ever since he twice propositioned me. Because twice I turned him down.
What woman in their right mind would do that?
I live with regrets every single time I run into the blue-eyed, gorgeous man. But it’s a fantasy to think we’d be good together, and that’s where he must stay. Fantasyland.
If I let him in, or if he even wanted in, I know he’d break my heart.
Only that doesn’t stop me from dreaming about what if every single time I see him.
“Babe, get us some more beers?” Bryce pecks my cheek.
I smile sweetly and nod, grateful for the excuse to get away. No sense stopping at the kitchen for bottles. I’ll march right out the door and arrange an Uber home. I’ll send Bryce a text later to break up. Normally, I don’t like breaking up by text, but these days it’s become the norm.
Of course, my eyes scan back to the spot I last saw Saint. One more chance to take him all in, only I don’t see him anywhere.
The house is as crowded with party-goers as the pool patio was, and it takes me a few minutes to part the ways through the couples dancing and talking or making out.
It’s a shame a wild party of this magnitude mars his beautiful home.
When I reach the door, my phone buzzes, and I cringe in case it’s Bryce, but it isn’t.
Saint: Don’t go. Come find me. Last door on the left down the hall. Take the stairs to the roof.
I peer all around me, not seeing Saint anywhere in sight. My throat works at the offer of his words on the screen. A third proposition from him.
I recall the first time, under the moonlight with too much champagne and the salty sea air, on board a yacht at the wedding of our friends Tucker and Whitney.
On the overnight adventure, I couldn’t sleep and had found Saint on the deck.
I had joked we should take advantage of the situation and pair off, have a little fun as the only two singles on board.
He took me seriously. Even now, recalling the words he whispered into my ear sends a thrill down my spine.
“Yes, I want to fuck you, Anastasia. But I’ll make you come three times first, earning my hat trick in bed, before I slide my cock so deep into you. I guarantee for one night I’ll take you places no man has.”
He leaves me, my chest heaving from his proposition and my cheeks blush red. Then he calls out behind him. “I’m in cabin four. Knock three times when you’re ready, angel.”
Why didn’t I take a chance and go to Saint’s cabin that night? Talk about regrets. To caress his muscles alone would have been worth it.
What might have happened between us if I’d have knocked like he suggested? I’ll never know, because I chickened out, and I could kick myself now for missing out on a good time with him. Even though it would never have led to anything more.
Despite his offer for sex on the yacht, I doubt he would ever care to be seen with me in public afterwards. I’m not his stick-skinny model type. Yes, I stalk his social media, constantly amazed at the string of women he’s photographed with.
Forget Saint. He’s anything but. He’s a blue-eyed devil, and while one night in his arms would be wild, I know better than to get involved with the likes of him.
My hand reaches out to the front door handle, an ornate piece of ironwork attached to an arched solid wood door, when another text comes in.
Saint: I could really use someone to talk to tonight.
My heartstrings constrict.
Anastasia: There are plenty of bunnies here who would probably listen.
No doubt while they suck his—
Saint: I don’t want them. I want to talk with you.
I swallow hard again. What if he really does need someone to talk to? A roofline with someone drinking can’t be good. If I wake up tomorrow and see a news report that he’d jumped, I’d feel awful, guilty as sin.
I walk down the hall, unable to stop myself, and I give in to the tempting ways of Saint. But we’re only talking. That’s it.