7. And Just Like That… #2
I shift at the phantom sensation of my panties dropping.
He licks his lips. God, I feel it everywhere.
“Red suits you.”
Is it possible to come from someone alluding to a nickname?
Jace’s guffaw breaks the intensity of the moment. “Ha! Save your moves, playboy. She’s—”
“Going to murder you in your sleep if you don’t go to your table right now,” I interrupt, although for the life of me, I can’t figure out why it matters so much if Brett finds out I’m Craig London’s daughter.
My dad owns part of the team and runs the damn thing. My identity won’t stay secret for long.
Jace blinks at my brusque tone. “Okay, damn. Thought we were all friends here.”
“Well, go schmooze it up with the Brinderhoffs like a good little hockey player and I’ll consider forgiving you for your tardiness. Table fourteen,” I tell him, as Shanna returns to escort him there.
“I wasn’t that late,” he protests as they walk away, already trying to charm his way back into good graces.
And just like that, Brett and I are alone in the middle of a crowd.
The man I never thought I’d see again capitalizes on the moment, stepping right into my personal space. He’s so close the top edge of my clipboard presses into his chest, and my stupid heart flutters against my ribcage, trying to get closer to him.
“You disappeared.” His voice is a low growl that rasps against my skin, raising goosebumps on my arms. As a defense mechanism, I angle my body toward the stage at the front of the room.
“I thought that was how one-night stands worked.” I inspect my clipboard even though I don’t need to.
Brett’s sitting at my father’s table. He’s just here for a show of solidarity tonight, so they can trot him out like a show dog and hand him a jersey while donors clap.
They’ll let him mingle after dinner, but they aren’t ready to let him off-leash yet.
Brett’s chuckle tightens my nipples. It’s like they’ve been trained to sit up and beg at the sound in some kind of inconveniently Pavlovian sex response.
“For ordinary ones, sure, you can get that done in regulation time. But I was looking forward to some sudden-death OT this morning. See which one of us would score first.” He shifts closer, until his breath tickles the shell of my ear, and I’m lost in the delicious sensation of all my hormones migrating south.
“I was gonna let you win, too.”
Jesus.
Is it wrong how much I want to let him? It has to be.
“What are you doing?”
“Flirting.”
“Well, stop it,” I snap, reality setting in. “We can’t do this here.”
“Tell me where we can do it, and I’ll make it happen.”
How is he so cool about this? Can’t he see I’m barely hanging on here?
A hockey player. Not a model. Not a biker. He’s a freaking hockey player.
Because of course he is.
“Why are you making this so hard?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
It takes a moment for the dumb joke to land, and he tips his head, flicking his eyebrows up in expectation. “C’mon,” he teases, and just like that, I realize he’s pulled me back from the edge. “That was funny.”
“That was pre-pubescent,” I chide, even as a smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. The panic that was working its way through my blood ebbs into something mellow and fizzy.
He lifts his chin, and I get the weird impression I’ve somehow made him proud.
“Well, yeah. Dick jokes always are. It’s what makes them great. Seriously, Chelsea. What kind of party are you running here?”
The casual use of my name catches me by surprise.
The fact I like it so much, even more so.
The moment stretches out between us, and my brain tumbles with all sorts of media-appropriate answers to his question, but only one takes center stage in my mind:
It’s the kind of party with too many people.
Something low and wicked throbs in my belly as I stare at him. That awareness we’d shared at the bar is unfurling between us now, and my tongue darts out to wet my lips.
His gaze tracks the motion, and when he lifts his eyes again, my body reacts to the promise in them.
“Brett!”
The greeting breaks the moment, and I bobble my clipboard.
Brett snatches it out of the air before it falls to the ground, and I try to tell myself his quick reflexes and heroic catch do not make him even more attractive.
You’d think he saved a kitten from a burning building or something.
I take it from him, pulling it close and hugging it to my chest like armor.
“Great to have you here!” My father’s voice is a little too loud.
It’s a thing he does sometimes, when he’s trying to garner attention.
Craig London is the undisputed king of the photo op.
As intended, one of the roving photographers hears the commotion and raises his camera to capture the moment for posterity.
I step to the right so I’m not in frame.
“On behalf of the Wolfpack, hell, on behalf of Montana, we can’t tell you how pleased we are to be adding some size to our defensive line.”
“It’s a pleasure to be here, sir.” Brett plays the game with aplomb, accepting my father’s hearty handshake as though they hadn’t met the day before.
This greeting is strictly for show, which is obvious to everyone, even before he slaps a hand against Brett’s back and angles the two of them toward the assortment of lenses now pointed at them.
“I’m looking forward to the rest of the season.”
“But enough shop talk,” Dad says, which is a load of crap. This entire event was built on the altar of shop talk. “Tonight is all about having a good time. And of course, raising money for a worthy cause. I see you’ve already met my beautiful daughter.”
My dad’s beefy hand lands on my shoulder, and he tugs me close for a one-armed bear hug.
Brett’s head snaps toward me, a little desperate, wordlessly asking me to deny the one thing I can’t.
“Chelsea helps run the Community Foundation, so she’s always setting up these fancy parties and making us wear our monkey suits, right sweetie?”
I open my mouth with the best of intentions, but nothing comes out.
The lights dim suddenly, right when they’re supposed to, to signify the start of the evening’s festivities, but I take no pleasure in the clockwork precision.
“Oh, looks like we’re about to get started. C’mon, Brett. Let’s go take our seats.”
I stand rooted in place, clipboard in hand, watching as my father ushers the man I never meant to see again toward the head table like the guest of honor he is, and wonder how the hell I’m going to survive the rest of the night.