Chapter 2
COMING IN HOT
Hayes
No matter how tempting the brunette beauty standing next to me in the lobby might be, I shouldn’t flirt with someone in the building.
Especially not the night before I start a new job. I’ve got a schedule to stick to for the rest of the evening. I already went for my run this afternoon, then I watered the rooftop garden, and I’m about to chow down on this takeout I picked up for me and my landlord.
Besides, this spicy coconut grilled chicken and eggplant dish from the food truck a couple of blocks over smells just as good as the dark-haired beauty mere feet from me.
Lies, sweet little lies.
I draw a furtive inhale of her. What kind of perfume wizardry is that berry and candy scent wafting off her? Is it shampoo? Bodywash? Lotion she rubbed over her soft, bare, wet skin moments after she emerged from a shower?
Not helpful either, dirty brain.
Best to stick to my sked for the night. Eat dinner, do some yoga, and get to bed early. Tomorrow, I hit the ice for my first practice with the Avengers.
Being the new guy isn’t easy. You’d think I’d be aces at it since this is my fourth team in a fourth city in four years.
But I loathe first days. I shudder at the thought of getting to know teammates, coaches, and athletic trainers only to find out—surprise!
—I’ve been traded again. This team’s a double challenge.
I’m close with the captain since we played together in college, but I don’t want to ride his coattails.
As I wait for the molasses-slow elevator, candy-berry girl heaves a sigh. I steal another glance at her. Her brow is furrowed, and those dark blue eyes look lost in thought.
She’s holding an open box with a couple of framed photos sticking out. They’re snuggling up against a stack of artsy notebooks, a whole mess of pens, and a pink planner thingy with whimsical illustrations on it.
Oh, shit. Those are the telltale signs of someone who either quit or got canned. I can’t say nothing.
I clear my throat. “Rough night at the office?”
She whips her gaze toward me. I take her in.
Full red lips. A pert nose. A round face, and so much long, wavy hair—perfect for tugging on.
Three tiny silver earrings line her right ear—a rose, a skull, and a dangly thing.
Pretty but fierce. Like her eyes, with fire in those sapphire irises.
They’re flecked with gold that seems to flicker like flames.
“You could say that,” she bites out, her gaze locked on me instantly. “I quit my job about, oh, thirty minutes ago. Well, I rage quit, only my boss somehow missed all the context clues that I was rage quitting.”
And someone is coming in hot. “Why did you rage quit?”
“Because tonight I found out that my boss is marrying my ex-boyfriend. What’s the big deal there, you’re wondering?
” I don’t have to wait for her answer. “That same guy dumped me three months ago because he wanted a”—she stops to sketch air quotes with the hand not precariously balancing the box of office accouterments—“girlfriend upgrade.”
“Ouch,” I say with genuine sympathy. Also, disgust. “What a dick.”
She spills a few more details, then nods to the elevators that still haven’t arrived. “These are the world’s slowest elevators.”
“Not the worst thing right now,” I say. I’m not really flirting. Just keeping up the volley. Besides, I don’t want to come across as aloof, like my ex said I was.
“Gives me time for some show and tell. Want to see a pic?”
My head spins from her rapid-fire chatter, but she seems to need to unload. “Definitely,” I say as the elevator lights up again.
She fishes around in her back pocket for her phone, but the box she’s juggling slides down an inch. I dart out an arm and grab the edge so it doesn’t fall. “Let me,” I offer, one hand still holding my food.
“Thank you. That has all my new idea pens in it,” she says.
“I’ll handle it with care.” I take the box, brushing her hand as I do, my thumb sliding over her fingers.
For a few seconds, her gaze strays down my body, but then she jerks her eyes back up. She holds her head high, almost regally. She’s very specifically looking anywhere but down at me.
Okaaay.
That’s odd, and maybe a sign she felt zero spark when we touched. But whatever. This isn’t a date.
She busies herself with her phone, unlocking, scrolling, then shoving it at me right as the elevator doors open for us.
My eyes pop as I scan the shot. “That’s a—”
Well, I know what that is. One of my favorite things to receive and also to direct.
But while I’m not afraid to say blow job out loud—or to tell a woman how I like it—an older lady with crinkled eyes and silvery hair toddles out of the elevator, so I zip it.
She ogles the shot, then rolls her eyes. “Kids today,” she mutters.
The brunette’s expression turns to oh shit. “That’s not—”
“They’re all afraid to show the full salami,” the older woman continues, shaking her head, then flicking a dismissive hand at the pic. “Just show some balls, for crying out loud.”
Chin up, she ambles on through the lobby, not the least bit self-conscious about her BJ photo feedback.
Closing my dropped jaw, I hook my thumb back at the lady. “Did that just happen?”
“You mean, did she just chastise our generation for not being…bawdier?”
“Evidently.” I stick out my arm to hold the elevator door open for the woman who quit her job to make a point. Which kind of makes her even hotter.
“Thanks,” she says as she steps inside. “You’re a gentleman.”
“Sometimes,” I say evasively. Not in bed. Not one bit.
I follow her in. “What floor?”
“Eight,” she says.
I punch that button, then pause before I hit the penthouse one, hoping she doesn’t think I’m a douchey prick for living on the top floor. I’m renting it from my buddy. I don’t need strings in real estate or romance.
“Penthouse, I bet,” she says, and when I turn to meet her face, there’s a sly smile spreading on her lips. One she erases in a flash. “I just mean, you look like a penthouse guy.”
A hint of pink tinges her creamy skin, spreading across her cheeks. I half want to ask what that’s about, but I also want to know what she thinks a penthouse guy looks like? I’m wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt from my college.
I don’t get to because she keeps going, filling the silence. “It’s a good thing. A compliment. That’s all. You look like you belong on the top floor.”
I decide to take the words at face value, pushing the button for my floor too. “Thanks. I like it there. There’s a rooftop garden from the prior tenants, so I’m learning to take care of…the veggies,” I say, since take care of the eggplants sounds like I jack it on the roof.
She sucks in a breath. “Gardening is great. I love gardening. My grandma loves to garden,” she says as the doors shut. “Cucumbers, carrots, asparagus.”
Maybe I should invite her to plant some veggies? Ask if she wants to water the fava beans or the cucumbers? Those all sound like cheesy come-on lines.
Hey, baby, come play with my cucumber.
But she’s still clutching her phone—the screen has locked now to an image of a little dog wearing a bandana—and I’m a big believer in finishing what I’ve started.
I return to the topic of the first photo, although I’m curious about the fashionable dog too.
“So you found out about the wedding via the world’s tackiest engagement photo? ”
“Yes, and this pic is also…wait for it…the invitation to their wedding. And want to hear the real kicker?”
“I do.”
She pokes her finger against her chest, diverting my attention to—oh, hell.
Cleavage.
Tempting cleavage thanks to some kind of twisty neckline on a light blue flowered shirt.
I force myself to look at her face, which is no hardship.
“I’m invited to their wedding. To cover it,” she bites out. “For my new fashion newsletter and social channels.”
“Sounds more like a righteous quitting than a rage quitting to me, then.”
She gives an appreciative smile. “But the cherry on the screwed-over sundae? I need to find a date for this event.” Her long, frustrated sigh sounds like she’s running out of steam, and she shrugs.
“So that’s my night. I’m out of a job, and I need a plus-one for a wedding,” she says, naming the date of the nuptials.
“I don’t know which will be harder to find. ”
For the first time tonight, she sounds sad. Maybe a touch desperate. Whatever wholly necessary anger she displayed earlier has faded.
I study the button display on the elevator, taking a beat or two to give the situation some thought.
While I can’t help with the first dilemma, the second one is up my alley.
I run through my schedule. I don’t have a game that day.
I’d be a dick if I didn’t help. My ex sure thought I was a jerk—cold and unfeeling were her exact words—but would a jerk rescue a damsel in wedding-date distress?
As the elevator slows at her floor, I turn my gaze back to her. She’s not looking directly at my face. She’s taking another furtive tour of my body.
Enjoy the view, sweetheart.
After she travels the scenic route, she raises her eyes to mine, blinking, looking the slightest bit caught. It’s a hot fucking look, so I seize my chance. “I’ll take you.”
Possibly I say it in more of a commanding bedroom tone than I should. But I don’t regret it when a slight tremble seems to run through her body.
Her lips part, and she’s quiet for a few seconds, her eyes glittering and her chest flushing. She bites the corner of her lips, and as the doors open on the eighth floor, she says, “Yes.”
“Give me your number.”
That’s said like an order too. One she seems to like since we’re trading digits on our phones before she says, “I’m Ivy.”
“Hayes. Also known as…your wedding date,” I tell her, then hand her the box I’ve been carrying.
She takes it then steps out of the elevator. But before she leaves, she turns around, a sly grin coasting across her lips. “Good. Because otherwise I was going to call you…the eggplant guy,” she says, and she strides down the hall.
I’m enjoying the view too much to think on the nickname. I’m cataloging the shape of her round ass, savoring the swing of her hips, memorizing the swing of the dark hair cascading down her back. It’s not until she disappears into her apartment that what she said fully registers—the eggplant guy.
Why did she say that like it means something?