Chapter 6
Six
NIX
Practice runs long.
Coach keeps us drilling power plays until my shoulders burn, and Jean-Louis starts bitching in rapid-fire French. By the time I hit the showers, it’s pushing three, and I’m going to be late.
I dress fast—old jeans, black T-shirt that I don’t mind getting ruined, still damp hair—and push through the team exit at 3:07.
The parking lot bakes under the October sun, heat shimmering off the asphalt. I scan for Charlotte’s car, then realize I have no idea what she drives.
We truly barely know each other.
So why does my chest loosen in a way that feels like relief the second I spy her wavy strawberry blond hair?
Charlotte leans against the driver’s side of a black Range Rover, scrolling through her phone, wearing overalls.
I didn’t realize I had classy farmer’s daughter fantasies, but I’m having plenty of them now. The dark indigo denim clings like it was tailored to her long, lean frame. Underneath, she’s wearing a nearly transparent white button-up with the sleeves rolled to her elbows.
My mouth goes dry.
How does she get sexier every time I see her? And how am I going to keep my gaze from dropping to the deep V of her unbuttoned shirt?
I have no idea, but this is my first chance to start rehabbing my image, and I need to make the most of it. Coach still didn’t look happy with me today, not happy at all, and no amount of effort on the ice seemed to put a dent in his frosty disposition.
So, I adjust myself through my jeans and force my wobbly legs to move.
Charlotte glances up as I approach, her pale green eyes tracking up and down my body, the same way I tracked hers. Apparently, she likes a man in battered, clingy jeans nearly as much as I like her in overalls.
Her gaze lingers on my thighs for a beat too long before dragging up to the slight bulge behind my fly and darting guiltily to my face. “You’re late.”
“Sorry.” I drop my gym bag at our feet. “I couldn’t help it. Coach kept us drilling. I promise, I’d never keep a lady waiting of my own free will.”
Her lips quirk as she pops the back hatch. “Smooth.”
I tip my head. “I try.”
“You succeed. Throw it in, and let’s hit the trail.”
I comply and swing into the passenger’s seat.
The interior smells like leather and her citrus-and-floral perfume, the one that’s been living rent-free in my lizard brain since June.
I settle in, trying to ignore the way the enclosed space heightens my awareness of her.
The soft sigh she makes as she shifts into gear.
The way her fingers curl around the steering wheel.
The fact that she’s close enough to rest a hand on her thigh, but I’m not allowed to.
I only get to touch her when there’s someone around to watch us “faking it.” But at least my suffering has an expiration date since we’re headed somewhere with an audience.
At least, I’m assuming we are…
“So, where are we headed?” I ask as she pulls out of the lot, heading west.
“You’ll see.”
“I think it’s time to end the suspense, don’t you?” I ask, starting to sweat the “surprise” even more than I was before. “Gotta give a guy at least a few minutes to wrap his head around what comes next.”
She shoots me a sideways glance, her lips curving. “Do I? Who made that rule? More importantly, did I agree to it? Because I don’t remember agreeing.”
I sigh. “I admire your commitment to questioning the premise, but I’m seriously stressed, woman. If you don’t give me a hint, you’re going to give me gas.”
She laughs, clearly thinking I’m kidding.
I’m not, but rather than double down on my stress-induced irritable bowel tendencies, I turn to stare out the window, watching as the city gives way to sprawling oaks and open fields.
I can do this. Deep breaths in, deep breaths out, and remember, no matter what waits at the end of this drive, I can’t fly off the handle.
That wasn’t something I worried much about before, but recent events have proven I’m not as in control of myself as I would like to believe.
Especially when it comes to assholes who think it’s okay to treat women like shit.
I know that has a lot to do with my sister, and the asshole who’s currently making a fool out of her in all the music industry press, but knowing doesn’t seem to make it any easier to keep my punching hand in check.
“You’re really nervous, aren’t you?” Charlotte asks after a few minutes.
I shrug. “I’m not good with suspense.”
She hums thoughtfully. “But you play a sport where the entire outcome is suspense, right up until the final buzzer. Do you get nervous before you hit the ice?”
“No, not really,” I say, glancing her way. “I get amped up, but it’s not the same thing. It’s a good kind of nervous.”
She nods. “I get that. So why don’t you do that when it comes to other things?”
“Do what?”
“Convince yourself that you’re the good kind of nervous instead of the bad kind.”
I frown. “How would I do that?”
She shrugs. “You just do it. Just tell yourself that you’re not anxious, you’re excited. Works every time.”
“It does not.”
“It does,” she says, laughing. “Try it.”
I scrub a hand over my face. The late afternoon sun is turning her hair rose gold. I want to bury my fingers in those silky soft waves, pull her close, taste the salt on her neck, whisper filthy things into her ear about what I’m going to do to her when we get where we’re going.
Instead, I exhale a dubious-sounding sigh and pretend I’m capable of going more than five minutes without thinking about getting her naked. I’ve always had a healthy sex drive, but this is ridiculous.
What she does to me is ridiculous.
I couldn’t have picked a woman it’s harder to “fake it” with if I’d tried.
“So, I just…tell myself I’m excited?” I ask.
“Yep.”
“No,” I counter.
“Yes! Just do it. Out loud. I want to make sure you sound like you mean it.”
I roll my eyes, but when she prods again, I give in, “Fine. I’m not anxious, I’m excited.”
She pulls a face, sticking out her tongue. “Boo. Terrible. Try again. With feeling this time.”
“I’m not anxious, I’m excited!” I say, in a corny “upbeat” voice, any haunted doll from a horror movie would be proud of.
She side-eyes me. “Am I going to have to pull this car over?”
“Depends on what you’re going to do to me when you pull over,” I say. “If it’s a spanking, then I think, yes. A spanking might help me feel less nervous.”
Pink creeps into her cheeks as she adjusts her grip on the wheel. “I’m not sure what that says about you, Baylor.”
“It says you should just tell me where we’re going. And what we’re doing there, Charlotte.”
She bites her lip for a moment before shaking her head. “Not until you say you’re excited like you mean it.”
“I’m not anxious, I’m excited,” I say with as much genuine belief as I can manage. “I am not nervous or anxious or anything the slightest bit negative. I am excited, pumped, ramped up, and ready to do the damned thing. As soon as I know what the damned thing is.”
She nods, casting an approving glance my way as she purrs, “Much better. Much, much better.”
“Hearing a man positively affirm makes your panties wet?”
She laughs, a sharp giggle that makes me think I took her by surprise. And even more intriguing, that it might be true…
“No! And stop that,” she says, slapping my thigh. “No talking about my panties in private.”
“Only in public?”
“Yes,” she says, then immediately seems to rethink the wisdom of that.
“No. Well, maybe, depending on the context, but you should run it by me first.” Her lips twitch as she fights a smile, “But to answer your question honestly…a little. Your voice is nice and rumbly when you’re affirming. It’s pretty hot.”
I lean back against the seat, grinning. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, but don’t get cocky,” she warns. “And don’t forget the point of the experiment.”
I frown, having totally forgotten the point of the experiment. “What was that again? I got distracted thinking about your panties.”
She makes a left onto a narrow road, gravel crunching under the tires. “Your nerves. Don’t you feel better? You’re excited now, right?”
I cock my head, considering the question as the trees thicken overhead, forming a canopy that filters the light into shifting patches. Spanish moss drapes from the branches like something out of a postcard.
It’s quiet out here. Peaceful in a way New Orleans rarely is.
I’m feeling pretty peaceful, too, with an undercurrent of positive expectation.
“Right?” Charlotte prods again.
I sigh, forced to confess, “Yes. I feel better. Much better.”
“See!” she crows. “I’m always right.”
I study her profile—the elegant line of her nose, her big, shit-eating grin, the way her eyes dance as she studies the road ahead—suddenly possessed by the certainty that I’m falling in love. She’s just…the cutest, and this isn’t just lust.
This is something more.
“You might want to say that out loud, too,” she says. “That I’m always right. You’ll probably feel even better if you do.”
“You’re always right,” I say without missing a beat. “Except when you wouldn’t give me your number. That was wrong, but I’m willing to forgive and forget.”
She glances over, and for a second, something flickers between us. Heat. Awareness. Longing. The same things I saw in her eyes on Saturday before she let me pull her into my lap.
Then she swallows and turns back to the road.
Her voice is all business again as she says, “You might want to check your hair. I think it looks great a little messy, but I know you sporty guys can be fussy about your front poof.”
I arch a brow. “My front poof?”
She motions vaguely toward where I use sea salt spray to form my hair into waves in the front. “There, in the front. Where it poofs. You might end up on camera, so make sure your poof is poofing the way you like.”
“Why might I end up on camera?” I frown as she pulls into a gravel lot in front of a large barn.
Maybe a dozen other trucks and cars fill the center of the space.
But there, over at the edge of the lot, sits a giant news van, right next to a smaller van with “New Orleans Alive!” written on the side.
There’s also a sedan that might belong to a rep from the local paper.
I can’t read the print on its bumper sticker from this far away, but I’m pretty sure I recognize the logo.
I nod as I catch up, “Okay. I see what you’re up to.”
She cuts the engine, turning to face me with a mischievous grin. “Yeah? You’ve figured it out?”
“Whipping up some positive press for the bad boy at a barn. Probably with something wholesome involving hay.” I shake my head, torn between wanting to tell her she’s brilliant and the urge to strangle her a little.
“But press is not always ‘good’, exciting. Especially not for me. The article the paper ran about the incident on Bourbon wasn’t flattering. ”
“The reporter was just being impartial,” she counters.
“The reporter thought I was a dumb jock with anger management issues.”
“But you’re a smart jock with anger management issues, and we’re going to prove it,” she teases, giving my arm a reassuring squeeze.
“Relax. You’ll be perfect. This is easy breezy stuff.
” She reaches for her seatbelt. “We’re here to help set up for tomorrow’s Harvest Princess Charity Ball.
All proceeds go to support kids fleeing domestic violence.
” She leans into the back seat, grabbing a black garbage bag from the floor behind me.
“We’re going to be dressing scarecrows in princess ball gowns and matching accessories. ”
I blink. “Princess gowns?”
“Yes. And accessories. For the outdoor photo area and around the dance floor. We’ll start by steaming the dresses with my portable steamer, but we don’t want to snag or smudge the fabric, so a pair of kid gloves will be required.
Don’t worry, I brought you an extra-large pair and an apron to hold your pins and clips.
The apron is also very large and very pink.
You’re going to look super cute and super silly and, most importantly, utterly harmless. ”
I grin.
She grins.
“You’re a genius,” I whisper.
“I know,” she whispers back. “Would a violent man volunteer to steam sparkly ball gowns for charity in an apron? No, he would not. You know who would, though? A sweet, pussy-whipped man dying to make his old lady girlfriend happy.”
I lean in as I murmur, “I love keeping my sexy, totally in-her-prime girlfriend happy.”
“Oh yeah?” Her gaze drops to my lips.
“Yeah,” I promise. “And being whipped by your pussy is hashtag life goals.”
She laughs, that startled, cute as fuck giggle from before that I’m already collecting like season goals. “Well, thank you. I think.”
“You’re welcome.” I curl a hand around her thigh, the way I’ve been dying to since we got in the car. “Seriously, thank you. This is perfect.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, her voice breathier than before. “I’m just getting started. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be the new Boy Scout of the NHL.”
I follow her out of the Range Rover, hoping she’s right.
Especially the part about the two of us just getting started…