2. Daltyn
DALTYN
I blame Peyton’s shoes for all the chaos that’s unfolded.
They really do make her feet look even more beautiful, and feet aren’t something I usually notice on women.
I tried to warn her this morning when she stepped out of her hotel room that those shoes were dangerous. She perceived it as a warning that they were impractical, which they are. Especially for an airport.
But that’s not what I meant when I said “dangerous.” Those damn things make her legs look a mile long, and I couldn’t help but notice the way her tight jeans clung to every curve.
Especially her ass.
Luckily, she was too busy ranting about losing everything—and only having one nice pair of sandals—to notice I was goddamn drooling over her.
I may have puck bunnies throwing themselves at me on and off-season, but I remain immune to their charms. I’m focused on my career.
More importantly, I don’t get involved.
My past won’t allow it .
I glance over at Peyton, thinking about how we met.
After rescuing Peyton Sinclair from her ex—and a rival hockey team player—in Vegas, I was only trying to ensure she got back to her room safely.
But the elevator had other plans.
The thing started moving, made a noise, and shook just enough to terrify Peyton. She grabbed me, clinging like a vine, seconds before the power went out.
Her panicky breaths filled the small space, and I knew what was happening. She was having a panic attack.
I focused on calming her, keeping my grip steady and my touch soothing.
When the lights came back on, she was much calmer.
When the elevator started moving, she looked at me with gratitude... then promptly pulled me in and kissed the hell out of me.
I’ve been kissed before. Plenty of times. An aversion to relationships doesn’t mean I don’t have sex.
But that kiss was like nothing I’d ever experienced before.
After being stunned for a few seconds, instinct took over. I pinned her between the elevator wall and my body, devouring her mouth like a starving animal.
And she matched me in intensity.
The ping of the elevator brought me back to earth.
She and I broke apart seconds before the doors started to open.
Peyton shot out the doors before I knew what happened, running away like a frightened deer.
I was paralyzed, remaining on the elevator until it reached the next floor.
Then I got off and headed back to her floor, on a mission to find her.
But I was intercepted by my teammates, who dragged me back downstairs to the bar. Ford’s unhinged Gram somehow got behind the counter and was pouring drinks that were probably illegal in most states, which was a bit concerning and a lot distracting.
The memory makes my jaw tighten as I guide Peyton through the airport beside me.
Every decision I’ve made about Peyton since the moment I met her is something I shouldn’t be doing.
I’m focused. Determined. Level-headed. Except when I’m around her.
Then I don’t know what the hell I’ve become.
Not only did I follow her to Key West to save her from her ex, but when she got the call that a hurricane destroyed her apartment, I boarded a damn plane with her and flew to Florida.
When she learned the full extent of the destruction, she broke.
And I was there to catch her.
And when she sobbed that she was homeless with nowhere to go, I didn’t hesitate to tell her she was going to be living with me. Temporarily, of course.
I’ll never hear the fucking end of it from my teammates.
I recruited Connor and Allie Byrns to go to my cabin, get my truck, and leave it at the airport for me. And though Connor would do anything for me, he also has the world’s biggest mouth.
The asshole created a group text with Ford Brooks, Cole Kingston, Jake Monroe, and me and named it “Avalanche After Dark.” The damn thing’s been lit with shit like, “Goalie’s gone for the cheerleader,” “Cinderella captured the goalie prince,” and “No longer guarded—the goalie who opened his heart. ”
These fuckers must secretly read romance novels.
Or else Gram is telling them what to say.
Either way, it’s annoying as shit. And not at all true.
Again, I don’t do relationships. Peyton just brings out the same protective instincts my mom always did.
Peyton says something beside me, but I barely hear it over the noise in my own head.
She needs help... and she doesn’t have anyone.
Until me.
My mom would be proud of me for helping her. She’d also be proud that she’s far more influential on me than that bastard of a man who fathered me.
The man who ruined my fucking life.
I spent the entire flight in turmoil, torn between my thoughts and Peyton.
Every time she shifted in the seat beside me.
Or took a drink of water.
Or stared out the window.
Or looked at me.
Or fucking breathed.
I kept telling myself I was just making sure she was okay. She’d had a really rough life lately.
My anxiety calmed, and things were going just fine.
Until the damn plane hit turbulence and Peyton started panicking.
At least, this time, it didn’t end with our mouths fused together and our bodies melded together.
Although I’m not entirely sure if I’m relieved or not.
But it did end with her knees going weak and her stumbling in the aisle.
Of course I caught her.
Because that’s what I do with Peyton Sinclair.
She falls, I catch her .
She breaks, I pick up the pieces and put her back together.
And somehow, every time she looks at me afterward, I feel like I’ve done something worth a damn.
Analyzing why I do it ends the second I touch her, and the tingling sensation short-circuits my brain.
When the clamor of passengers exiting the plane brings me back to my senses, I lose them again when her ass starts swaying in those tight jeans.
Fuck. Me.
The airport is sheer hell because of her.
Normally, it doesn’t bother me. I put in my AirPods, listen to music, and casually observe all the chaos like I’m watching a show.
But not when Peyton’s beside me.
Not only does her mood affect mine—which has never happened to me before—but I’m hypervigilant.
She’s a magnet for trouble... and for male attention.
And oblivious to both.
Which works for me. Mostly.
She’s affected by me, but I haven’t figured out whether it’s because I’ve become her personal savior… or something else. Something I don’t want to identify.
As pissed as I am when some asshole bumps into her, I don’t mind when she crashes into me.
My body moves before my brain catches up, pulling her closer like she belongs with me.
I also don’t mind that the chaos keeps her in my personal space.
Although I’m pissed at that dumb teenager for slamming into her and nearly knocking her on her ass, I instinctively catch her… and carry her to my vehicle.
As soon as I scoop her up, she sags against me like I’m the safest place in the world.
Because she trusts me.
Even after everything her psycho ex put her through.
Did I need to carry her out of the airport?
No.
Should I have checked whether she could walk?
Probably.
Do I care?
No... unless my teammates find out.
I don’t know what the hell makes me tell her to behave. Something seems to possess me, making me say things I normally wouldn’t.
But, goddamn, the heat in her eyes nearly made me grab her and kiss the hell out of her.
After I shut the passenger door, I discreetly adjust myself in a crowded airport parking lot. With a teenager struggling with our luggage by the trunk.
I’m snapping at a teenage kid I don’t even know because I’m sexually frustrated.
Even though I beat off that morning in the shower while thinking about?—
Stop. It.
I feel bad enough that I give the kid an autograph.
I suck in deep breaths of fresh air, getting myself under control.
But the second I slide into the Escalade, her scent hits me like a hammer to the skull. Vanilla. Warm skin. Coconut shampoo lingers in the heated air between us.
It’s everywhere. Inside my SUV. On the seat beside me. Wrapping around my lungs like a problem I should’ve never brought home.
Even worse, she asks why I told her to behave .
I can’t tell her the truth. That it just slipped out of me. That her proximity makes it hard to think straight.
It’s like something possesses me, making me say and do whatever it wants.
Instead, I use the classic distraction strategy—deflect by asking a question. I turn it on her.
She doesn’t let it go.
I figured she wouldn’t.
When she keeps pushing, I blurt out the truth before I can stop myself.
“It means, stop fighting me when I’m trying to help you.”
Shit.
Why the fuck did I say that?
But the way she looks at me makes it hard to regret it. Her blue eyes soften. A soft, angelic smile curls her lips. And the way she blushes makes me want to do things to her I shouldn’t.
Calm down.
I catch her looking at her ankle, sadness and pain mixing on her expression. And I can’t fucking stand it.
“Prop it on the dash,” I say.
I can’t believe I tell her to do that. I never let anyone put their bare feet on the dashboard.
Worse, after she complies, I say, “Good girl,” like a male lead in a romance book.
Christ, I’m losing control.
Coffee.
It’ll make it all better.
I pull in and head to the drive-through to order. I open my mouth and order her damn drink for her like it’s my own.
Then I fumble with my own drink order.
It’s her fault. She’s a distraction .
She leans over me, long blonde hair tickling my skin, and points at the menu.
“Oh. Can I get the chocolate pistachio loaf, too?” She glances at me. “I’ll give you money.”
I glare at her before ordering two of them, then drive forward.
“Hand me money, and I’ll put you over my knee,” I say when we get to the window.
She looks visibly startled... and slightly turned on.
“But I owe you for?—”
“No, Peyton. You don’t owe me a damn thing.” I twist in my seat and look at her. “This isn’t transactional. It’s not some quid-pro-quo manipulation bullshit. It’s help.”
She stares at me with those pouty pink lips slightly parted, and I really want to fucking taste her again.
Stop it. You’ll ruin her.
Luckily, the window opens, and the clerk takes my card, then hands me our food and drinks.
When Peyton takes her coffee and bag from me, her fingers graze mine, and the damn tingling starts. Again.
Only this time, I jerk away before I do something stupid.
During the drive home, I internally berate myself for telling her to stay with me, justifying it by reminding myself she has no one else.
No parents. No siblings.
Just like me.
That’s the only reason I’m doing this.
Right?