Chapter 7
“I probably should have mentioned this before, but I need to change.”
I glance at her quickly before turning my attention back to the road. “Can’t you do it at the venue? I should be able to get you there in thirty minutes.”
She takes a sharp breath, and I catch the way her fingers tighten on her bag. “I have to be dressed before entering the venue. Otherwise, it ruins the illusion.”
Illusion.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel, making my knuckles go white.
The word sends my imagination into overdrive. My mind’s been spinning since she showed me the address to where she’s going downtown.
Behind Closed Doors.
The burlesque bar that Cade practically spends every waking hour he’s not on the ice.
She works there… She gave me its freaking address.
Okay, that wasn’t the address she gave me.
It was basically the chicken joint directly across from it.
That’s when it all started to piece together.
She didn’t want to tell me where she worked because she was embarrassed, but what she doesn’t realize is, now that I know this, I’m not going to let her do a single shift without me in the audience.
“Change all you want, Princess.”
She shivers at the nickname, but she hasn’t told me to stop using it yet.
She reaches into her bag, and I’m bracing myself to see some sexy lingerie, but that’s not what happens.
What the actual fuck?
An explosion of blue fabric erupts from her bag, and the fabric is so sparkly, it nearly blinds me. It’s huge—tulle and sequins and rhinestones, all catching the sunlight and turning my truck into a disco ball from hell.
“Watch out,” I say, pushing the fabric back toward her as it threatens to swallow my face whole. The material brushes my jaw, and I feel glitter transfer onto my stubble. Great. I'm going to be sparkling for a week. “What the hell kind of weird kink are you dancing for?”
The words are out before I can stop them.
Her head snaps toward me, eyes blazing. “It's not a kink, you absolute Neanderthal. It's a job. Some of us have to work for our money instead of having it handed to us by—”
She stops, and I see it—that flash of regret.
Something twists in my chest. It shouldn't hurt. I'm used to people assuming things about me—about my dad, about the money, about everything being easy. But coming from her? Yeah, it stings.
“Hey, I’m not saying anything about what you do for a living. I just didn’t think Behind Closed Doors catered to princess kinks.”
“Behind Closed Doors?” She glances down at her dress, then back to me. “Wait, did you think—” Her mouth drops open in shock as she glares at me. “Not everything women do is for men’s entertainment, Hendricks. We aren’t going to a strip club.”
“Burlesque,” I correct automatically, because the only thing my brain can focus on is the fact that she said we aren’t going there.
Thank fuck!
That means I’m not going to have to rearrange anyone’s kneecaps who so much as breathes on her.
There’s a beat of silence, and then…
The sound of a zipper.
The rustle of denim.
My eyes drift over to her—and holy hell.
The truck swerves.
Hard.
“Shit—” My voice cracks like I’m fourteen again because her jeans are halfway down her thighs. “A little warning would’ve been nice.”
“What?” she says innocently while taking them off the rest of the way. “I told you I needed to change.”
“You’re just—you’re stripping your jeans off in my truck like it’s nothing!”
I force my eyes to the road, I really do, but they slide back anyway—traitors. Just glimpses. Her smooth legs. The way her T-shirt has ridden up slightly. Plain cotton underwear that I want to get my fingers under.
I’m sweating. Actually sweating.
“What? Are you afraid of a little skin, Scotty?” she teases. “The guy who introduced himself to me penis-first is suddenly shy?”
Deep breaths, Hendricks. Deep, cleansing breaths.
“Clearly you aren’t,” I mutter, adjusting in my seat. There’s no comfortable position right now. Everything is too tight, too warm, too—
“Oh, please. I’m wearing more clothes than most girls wear to the beach.” She points at herself matter-of-factly. “You’ll survive.”
Maybe. Maybe not.
Her shirt falls mid-thigh. Objectively, she’s right, this is more coverage than a bikini, but somehow the context makes it infinitely worse, or better. I can’t tell anymore. All the blood is rushing away from my brain.
“Most girls aren’t you,” I mumble before I can stop myself.
“What was that?”
Shit.
“Nothing, Princess.” I clear my throat. “Just keep doing your thing over there.”
Translation: Please stop doing your thing over there. It’s driving me to the point of insanity.
I take another glance, and she’s grabbing the hem of her shirt.
No.
No, she’s not—
She pulls it off in one smooth motion.
“WOAH!” The car lurches toward the shoulder.
“Are you trying to kill me?” she hisses.
I yank it back into the lane, my heart hammering against my ribs. She flings her shirt off, and there, right there in my passenger seat, is Laura in a simple white bra, her hair a mess from the shirt, her skin—
Don’t look. Do NOT look.
I’m looking.
“Fucking hell,” I wheeze. I sound like I just finished a full practice. “I think it's you trying to kill me. Give a guy some warning that he's about to see the most spectacular tits of his life.”
She runs her hands through her hair, smoothing it down as she glances down at herself.
“They're covered by a bra, you dramatic walnut. I'm changing clothes, not auditioning for Girls Gone Wild: Hockey Edition.”
Dramatic walnut.
Even now, she's giving me shit, and I'm half in love with it.
“Yes, but most of the time I have to buy a girl dinner before she'll get naked in my truck,” I say, desperately trying to keep my eyes on the road. The road. Just the road.
“Dinner? Please, one flash of your smile and those hot dimples and you could have any girl you want.”
My head whips toward her.
Did she just—
“Was that a compliment?” I can feel the stupid grin spreading across my face, dimples and all.
She purses her lips, and I swear I see her cheeks flush. “I'm an actress. I'm used to changing quickly in front of people.” She waves her hand dismissively, completely dodging my question.
But I caught it. That was definitely a compliment.
I watch from my peripheral vision as she pulls out the blue dress again. It cascades everywhere—her lap, the floor, probably into my vents at this point. The sparkles catch the sunlight, and I realize my truck now looks like a craft store exploded.
She starts pulling the dress on, and I force myself to look away, giving her privacy.
Even though every instinct in my body is screaming to look.
“Come on, Hendricks,” she says, and I can hear fabric rustling. “I'm sure you see a lot of naked bodies when you're changing in hockey.”
“Oh yeah?” I can't help the edge of amusement in my voice. “Is this where you're going to try to distract me with fake hockey knowledge again?”
“What makes you think I don't know anything about hockey?”
“Because you didn't know who I was.”
It comes out more defensive than I intended. But seriously—how does someone know about hockey and not know me? It doesn't make sense.
“So arrogant,” she scoffs, and I can practically hear her eye roll. “Well, I know a hell of a lot more about hockey than you think.”
My hands tighten on the wheel.
“How? Did you date a player or something?”
The question tastes bitter coming out. The thought of her with some other hockey player, some other guy who—
“No hockey boyfriend, thank you,” she says.
The relief that floods through me is embarrassing.
“But you dated one?” I press, even though I know I shouldn't. “Is that why you hate me?”
Please say no. Please say—
“I don't hate you.”
I’m conflicted. She hasn’t denied dating a hockey player, but she also told me she doesn’t hate me.
Fucking progress.
“Are you sure you don’t hate me?”
“If I hated you, do you really think I’d be sitting in your truck looking like this.” She gestures at herself.
That’s when I let myself look at her again.
Perfection.
She looks like she stepped out of a kid’s movie in a blue princess dress which has puffy sleeves and a giant skirt. She toys with the tiara in her hands as though she’s waiting for me to mock her.
Never. She’s so fucking gorgeous in this moment. I’d tell her if I didn’t think it would earn a punch in the balls.
“I gotta admit,” I say, unable to stop the grin spreading across my face, “when I started calling you Princess, I didn’t realize you were one.”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the faintest hint of a smile before she puts the tiara on her head and reaches for her makeup bag. “I know. I look ridiculous. You don't have to remind me.”
Ridiculous? Is she serious?
“You look hot,” I blurt out.
The words escape before my brain can catch them. My eyes widen slightly because—fuck—did I just say that out loud?
She freezes with a mascara wand halfway to her face.
For a second, she just stares at me, and I swear I see something flash across her face. Surprise? Pleasure? But then she blinks and it's gone, replaced by that familiar defensive wall.
“Right. Because every guy's fantasy is a girl drowning in enough tulle to upholster a couch.” She gestures at the absurd amount of fabric surrounding her, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
My chest tightens. Every single time. Every time I try to tell her something real, she twists it into an insult.
“Why do you do that?” The question comes out sharper than I intended. I pull into the parking lot of the hotel across from Behind Closed Doors.
She pauses. “Do what?”
“Take everything I say as an insult.”
“I-I don't,” she stammers, and that catches me off guard. Laura doesn't stammer. She fires back with sharp retorts and cutting remarks. But right now? Her usual armor is cracking. “I'm just nervous. I've got to go in there and act like a princess in approximately five minutes.”