6. Chapter 6
My eyes are up here, sweetheart
They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. If so, I’m headed straight to purgatory.
When I wake up Monday morning, I fully intend to get an immediate flight off Pineapple Island. The only problem? Planes only fly into the small airport on Wednesdays and Sundays. So barring a medical emergency, I’m stuck here for two more days.
Come to think of it, the way I acted last night could possibly be an indication of some kind of brain condition. Perhaps a medical transport off the island wouldn’t be out of the question.
Though for some reason, I still hadn’t changed my flight.
To take my mind off my little back porch indiscretion, I dress in running clothes and leave through the back door of my cottage. I don’t even look at the house next door.
Okay, maybe I peeked over there once or twenty times, but only to make sure the occupant wasn’t glaring at the freak next door who had come all over his porch at the mere sight of her. She’d probably be speaking into the phone.
Yes, officer, I can see the wanker. He’s six-foot-four with dark hair and green eyes. Of course, I’d be happy to identify his penis in a lineup.
The thought of her eyes on me makes said penis perk up a bit behind my black Nike Pros. What color would her eyes be? She’s blonde, so they’re probably blue.
I banish the weird, obsessive images from my mind when I reach the beach, pop my earbuds in, and begin to run. As my feet pound the sand, I contemplate what I want to do about my career .
I could retire from hockey and go into broadcasting. That would completely fuck over Roland Priestner, because without me to trade, he’d lose the high draft pick he’d negotiated. That option appealed to me on a very petty level.
But am I done playing? Am I ready to give up the sport I love so much?
The idea makes my stomach clench, and I know the answer. No.
I’m going to have to suck it up and go to Dallas. It’s my only choice. Trades happen all the time, Swain. Stop being a fucking drama queen.
Though I never thought it would happen to me. At the beginning of my career, I convinced myself that if I worked hard and became the best, I could stay with the Denver Raptors until I decided to retire. That was the game plan. That was the dream.
And now that dream is over.
The heavy metal music in my ears is only background noise to my thoughts, the beat thumping to the same rhythm as my heart. I lift a hand in greeting to a couple taking a leisurely stroll down the beach. They smile and wave back.
When I reach a bluff, I stop, jogging in place while I check my black smartwatch. I’ve run almost two miles, and my heart is pumping at a slightly lower rate than my trainer suggests for high-intensity cardio.
Turning around, I head back up the beach, pushing myself harder to get my heart rate up a smidge.
My form is as perfect as it can be running on sand, arms churning and long legs eating up the distance to my cottage.
By the time I arrive, I’m a sweaty mess.
As soon as I get inside, I remove my shirt and drop down to knock out my daily allotment of pushups and situps.
Then I text my numbers to Otto, which reminds me of someone else I’ll be leaving behind in Denver. Otto has been my trainer since I started in the NHL. I’ll miss that big, hairy bastard.
I’d neglected to unpack last night, so after showering, I take out a few things from my suitcase and place them in the dresser drawers. Checking my watch, I decide it’s time to try out one of the restaurants for lunch .
Swing On In is a buffet-style restaurant that offers a wide variety of dishes, and after getting my food, I sit at a table by myself.
I’ve just cut into my Moroccan apricot chicken when the air around me changes.
With a thousand tiny bolts of electricity sparking against my skin, I jerk my gaze up from my plate.
And there she is. My moon nymph walks through the wide arched opening to the restaurant in a cute little yellow sundress.
I recognize her immediately even though her blonde hair is fashioned into a loose braid that hangs over one tanned shoulder.
A pretty smile kisses her lips, and her eyes sparkle in the light from the elegant chrome and glass fixtures hanging overhead.
I realize I was wrong last night. This woman doesn’t need to be taken in the moonlight.
She should be fucked in broad daylight, maybe even with additional lamps and spotlights so I wouldn’t miss a single perfect inch of her.
She’s the picture of brightness and sunshine all balled up into a tall, lean frame.
She. Is. Magnificent.
My eyes are riveted to her as she crosses the room to the long stretch of food laid out along one wall. And I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one staring. It would be impossible not to. The woman walks with confidence and grace.
And then she trips.
I’m halfway out of my seat on reflex, but she rights herself with a laugh. And not a tittering, girly laugh. No, this gorgeous creature lets out a belly laugh that flies across the room and strikes me in the gut.
Then, in the ultimate act of self-deprecation, she performs a little curtsy and waves with a royal air, a brilliant smile still on her face as chuckles bubble around the room. In that moment, self-deprecation becomes my favorite personality trait in the whole world.
My chair is facing the buffet line, so I’m able to watch the temptress choose her food, laughing with a couple beside her. When she turns, our eyes meet, and all the damn cheesy clichés take effect .
The entire world stops turning on its axis. Time stands still. My mouth goes dry.
One tiny cell in my brain seems to have some common sense and yells out a reminder. No more women, Swain. Remember?
But my chin ignores the warning and gives a welcoming come here jerk. Her cheeks inch upward, and straight white teeth are revealed in a sweet, engaging smile.
Her white-sandaled feet bring her toward the dining area—toward me—and I smell that sweet aroma again, the one I’d smelled last night.
“Can I sit here?” She indicates the turquoise padded chair across from me, and I nod.
“Of course,” I say, forgetting all about my stalwart vow to avoid women.
“Thank you,” she replies in an alluring southern drawl. Her voice is a slow melody with a softness around the consonants. “I’m Juliette.”
She holds out a hand, and I realize I’m still holding my fork with a chunk of chicken on it. Setting it down, I reach for her hand and shake it. Juliette has a firm grip, but her skin is soft.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Reno. You smell really good.”
Fuck’s sake. Where’s your game, Swain?
But she doesn’t seem to mind, holding up her arm to give me a sniff. “It’s pomegranate. Isn’t it yummy?”
I hold her wrist gently and run my nose up and down her skin—just a couple inches—and I love the small hitch of her chest at my touch.
So, so yummy.
“Best thing I’ve ever smelled,” I tell her.
A flush rises on her cheeks, the same color as one of the flowers I saw outside my cottage this morning.
The pink highlights a few freckles that dot her cheeks and nose, which only makes her more appealing.
She manages to be adorably cute and a vixen at the same time, the perfect combination of charming and sexy.
In the light of day, I see that her eyes are actually aqua, framed by thick lashes that don’t seem to have even a swipe of mascara on them. In fact, I don’t think she’s wearing makeup at all. Juliette is a natural beauty, something I’m not used to from the puck bunnies that usually chase me.
I release her arm, and she reaches for her glass of water, taking a long drink. “Did you see my grand entrance today?” she asks, surprising me by not shying away from her stumble.
“Maybe,” I hedged, taking a sip of my own water.
She laughs. “I blame it on my big ole feet. My dad calls me grace. Well, when he’s not calling me dreamer.”
“Dreamer?” I ask.
“Yep, I tend to have my head in the clouds. I love clouds, don’t you?”
“I, uh, guess I’ve never thought about it. They’re just… there.” I swirl a finger in the air.
“There’s a hill behind the resort. I’m thinking of going up there to do some cloud gazing. You want to come with me?”
I’m taken aback. And tempted. But I shake my head and lie. “I have plans today.”
“Oh, I wasn’t going today. I have a lot of writing to do. I was thinking tomorrow.” Her aqua eyes flash up and down my body in a quick assessment. “Unless you don’t think you’re physically able to climb a hill. You look kinda out of shape.”
I bark out a laugh at her blatant goading. And is she flirting with me? Yeah, the flash of humor in her eyes and the bite onto her bottom lip tells me she is. So I fucking flirt back.
“I can promise you, all my physical abilities are superb, Juliette.”
She lifts one sardonic eyebrow. “I guess we’ll see. If you’re brave enough to go with me.”
I glance down at her arm and see the pineapple bracelet there.
The bracelet that tells me she’s into the swinging lifestyle.
I’ve learned that after you’ve been burned, you don’t stick your hand back into the fire.
But in that moment, with this gorgeous woman staring expectantly at me, I jam my entire hand directly into the flames.
“You’re on. What time? ”
“Afternoon? I’ll probably sleep in because I’m a night owl and get my best writing done at night.”
I finally remember I have an entire meal in front of me and pick up the fork I’d hastily dropped earlier. I take a bite, savoring the sweet and spicy combination of the chicken dish.
“What kind of writing do you do?”
Juliette takes a bite of her own food, a grilled fillet of fish with some kind of creamy sauce over rice. “I’m a romance author.”
Leaning forward, I lower my voice. “Do you write those spicy novels I’ve seen on TikTok?”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “I do. The spicier the better. Nothing like a dirty-talking man.”
Fuuuuck.
“How many books have you written?”