Chapter 13—Wolfe
Wolfe took stock of the bakery while he waited for Aspen to get ready for their dinner. Their date.
He’d done minor things around the shop like changing the hinges on a handful of cabinets, the faucet debacle and, of course, the caulking of her windows.
He grinned at her double entendre of the word, but wouldn’t lie that the thought of ‘cocking her stuff’ zoomed his thoughts well past kissing to that sweet little mouth of hers wrapped around his cock and sucking it with gusto.
Seeing her blush madly at her own words turned him on even more, which helped seal the deal for the impromptu celebratory dinner invite.
He’d tried to keep his distance after the spoils he collected upon solving the Wheel of Fortune puzzle.
He was a bit flummoxed at the fact she’d crashed—hard—upon his return from clearing the dishes.
Wolfe had hoped that they could escalate the contact to something beyond mild petting on the couch to sating their desires completely on her bed in a sea of pillows.
His ego took a bit of a hit when he returned amped and ready to go just to find her snoozing.
He knew with a few nibbles here and targeted licks there, he could quickly return her to the game, but seeing BB’s delicate arms clutching the pillow to her chest, he knew he was destined to finish himself off at home.
Alone. Again.
He hadn’t called any of the go-to businesswomen he normally connected with at these times, but didn’t read too much into it.
Nor did he read too much into the fact that he couldn’t keep his mind off of the boss baker with blazing red hair who wore the weight of the world on her shoulders and worked far too many hours.
As much as he wanted to push his cock deep inside of her and feel the silken skin of her long legs wrapped around his lower back as he drove them both to wicked release, he knew he had just as much shit on his own mind as she did at the moment.
So, he’d resigned himself to offering her some relief through his handyman efforts.
The dinner invite? That came out of left field but he didn’t regret asking. In fact, there was a kernel of something very foreign to him—joy—percolating, threatening to tap against his carefully crafted shell of indifference he’d built over the past couple of decades.
He’d best remind himself that his sole focus was keeping the past firmly where it belonged and winning the Cup in his immediate future.
The smoking-hot boss baker was in his orbit, but he could keep her at arm’s length while providing her the help he longed to deliver without getting too attached. Otherwise, he’d be fucked.
***
HE WAS FUCKED.
His inner pep-talk about the lane in which he was supposed to stay completely evaporated when BB re-entered the bakery donning a long, collared green t-shirt dress that matched her moss-green colored eyes to perfection.
He supposed the shirt could be considered a dress as it hit just above her knees and hugged her lithe frame in all the right places.
The outfit gave him a tantalizing glimpse of her perfect rack and narrow waist that he knew his hands could easily span.
She wore her hair down. He was certain the mane sported natural curls, and the strands down her back in thick, curly-Q waves caused a visceral reaction deep in his gut.
Visions of them spending a lazy day in bed, her naked body draped over his, and Wolfe coursing his fingers through her goddess-like tresses became his sole focus.
Mine exploded in his brain.
“You look stunning, BB,” Wolfe grumbled, his voice sounding foreign.
“I wouldn’t go that far, Connor,” she said with a smirk. “Besides, I’ve never seen anyone rock a Def Leppard tee as well as you.
They made their way outside of her shop to his truck that was parked about a half a block up the street.
His truck. Damn, he should have brought the Jag today since he wasn’t doing too much around the shop in her absence.
Quit being a pussy and second guessing yourself.
“Is this your truck?” Aspen asked Wolfe as he opened the door and it groaned offering its own welcome.
“Yeah. Not what you expected?” he replied, challenging her, but extremely interested in her response.
“Honestly, I never know what to expect with you, Connor,” she said with a smile, which quickly dropped.
Wolfe could tell she was working overtime, twisting and turning, trying to figure out a way to enter the cab of his truck.
She certainly did not want to be flashing the world a-la-pre-Duchess Kate at a British club the night the paparazzi were privy to a view of her panties as she slid into the backseat of a waiting car.
“Let me help, BB.”
Without preamble, Wolfe wrapped his hands around BB’s waist—and hot damn, his fingertips nearly touched behind her back—and lifted her to set her ass on the bucket seat.
And because he wanted an answer to another question, he glided his palms down her bare—and you guessed it, silky-smooth legs—to swing the rest of her body into the truck before slamming the door.
So much for the fucking pep talk to keep his distance from her.
“You’ve got a nice truck,” she said touching the metal stripping over the glovebox as he eased into traffic. “It suits you and the construction vibe you rock.”
“Construction is the only thing you know since you haven’t seen the hockey vibe I rock.”
“When does your season actually start?”
“Camp starts in September, but a lot of the guys stayed in town this summer to work out so we can hit the ice running so to speak.”
“And when do the bouts begin?”
“Is your boxing reference a play on words about the fighting, because not a lot of that goes on in the league anymore. Speed is the name of the game. And our games start in October.”
“You fight during games?” Aspen’s eyes widened, shock lacing her voice.
“Jeez, woman, have you ever watched hockey?”
“Ummm, I know about checking the boards,” she said defiantly, lifting her chin at his ribbing.
“Close. I check the boards in construction to ensure there are no flaws in the wood,” Wolfe explained as he pulled his truck into the parking lot of his favorite burger joint in the city. “I check players into the boards in hockey to pulverize my opponent.”
“Oh, my.”
“C’mon, BB, let’s go educate you about my day job over a burger and a beer.”
They sipped on their beers once they were seated and ordered food.
Wolfe marveled at the way the light from the overhead can above their table shined on BB’s hair.
It turned the red into the color of the rays of sunlight bursting across the horizon just before dropping behind the Rocky Mountains at sunset.
Thank God he didn’t utter such a bullshit line aloud. It was about as cheesy as the aged cheddar covering their burgers.
“Hi, Wolfe!” a woman in her early twenties, donning a revealing scoop-necked Colorado Crush t-shirt approached the table in a weird déjà vu moment from the food truck incident. “It’s so amazing to meet you. I’m Trish, and I’m your biggest fan.”
Wolfe caught an expression of anger or maybe jealousy flash in BB’s eyes as she slid deeper into the seat of her side of the booth.
“Hi Trish,” he said, with politeness in his voice, but keenly aware of his primary focus of BB across from him.
“Could you sign this for me?” Trish pushed a napkin and pen Wolfe’s way.
Thank the spirit of Gordie Howe that this wasn’t a repeat performance of the puck bunny’s bust thrust from a few weeks ago. “And could we do a selfie?”
“Sure,” Wolfe dutifully signed the napkin then stood up to move behind the woman.
Trish pointed her cell phone their way. Wolfe leaned in, but didn’t touch the woman. It didn’t matter who he took pictures with, he never touched; it was too creepy.
“Perfect!” she said not looking up from the picture on the screen of her cellphone.
“Thanks, Trish. We look forward to your support this year as we bring the Cup home.”
“You can count on it! Have a nice evening,” the woman called over her shoulder and made her way from the table.
“Sorry about that, BB. That happens from time to time.”
“Seems like all of the time,” she grumbled.
“Jealous, BB?”
“Noooo.”
Wolfe could tell she was lying, and wasn’t sure why that little nugget pried open a little folder of gladness deep inside of him.
“You sure?”
“It just seems like it’s the norm for you, that’s all.”
“I think the endorsements have been a big part of that. Regardless, I don’t mind meeting the fans. Without their support, I wouldn’t be where I am, you know? Most are just as rabid about the game as I am.”
“Trish seemed a little different from the women at the food truck who...” Aspen didn’t finish her thought and instead used her hands to motion a giant rack. “...were quite eager to share their assets with you.”
“Like I mentioned the other night, they are called puck bunnies, who just want to say they slept with a hockey player or try to land one as a boyfriend or husband. There aren’t a ton of them, and they’re not for me,” he continued when she looked at him skeptically.
“Yeah, I’m not going to lie, it’s weird having some random woman smooshing her tits against you.
But on the other side of the coin, we have season ticket fans that I genuinely enjoy meeting.
They’re amazing with their signs and support on social media. That I don’t mind.”
“Tough not to engage when they practically rub their boobs in your face.”
“Now that does sound like jealousy.”
“No.”
“I like it. The jealousy, that is.”
“Too bad. Not jealous.” She toyed with the square napkin under her beer mug. “Let’s get back to this. Why was your response with Trish different than the women from the other night? The whole dinner, really. You seemed so angry, so... Mister Bluster Britches.”
“Mister Bluster Britches,” he said incredulously. “Seriously?”