The Flirting Game (Love and Hockey #6)

Chapter 1

SHARING IS CARING

SKYLAR

I’m nosy by nature.

If a couple decides to whisper their grievances across a diner table, I’m going to lean back in my booth and eavesdrop.

If someone’s reading next to me on a plane, I’m going to peek at their screen to see if the hero’s about to evade an assassin, rocket to Mars, or buy a chocolate shop as a gift for his heroine. I’ll take the latter, thank you very much.

And when I spot my brother’s cat in the mudroom with her unblinking green eyes locked on the corner of the yard, I need to know what has caught Cleo’s attention at the same time every morning this week.

I can’t leave well enough alone.

As my coffee works its magic, I peer through the open window leading to the luxurious catio—an enclosed patio for cats—trying to get a read on her target.

But I can’t tell what it is from inside my home.

Hopping onto the mudroom cubbies, I adjust my fuzzy pajama bottoms covered in illustrations of martini glasses and a threadbare T-shirt that says, Everything is Fine Here in a font of flames.

I poke my head out, taking another drink from my steaming mug, coffee tendrils wafting into the warm October air.

“Sharing is caring,” I tell the feline, but the regal tuxedo is perched on the highest shelf of the catio maze my brother built in his townhome—before he took off for an assignment in Europe six weeks ago and I moved in—and she’s pointedly ignoring me.

After I set my coffee cup at the end of the first cat shelf—like I’d leave my coffee behind—I roll up the cuffs of my pajama pants.

I hoist one leg over the windowsill, brace myself, and haul my ass out. Why didn’t I venture here sooner? This catio is state of the art, with screened walls keeping the kitty safe and an obstacle course of shelves giving her premium vantage points.

The catio is about fourteen feet long and ten feet wide, so I’ve got some distance to cover. Have I mentioned that each shelf along the catio only has about three feet of headroom?

I take a fortifying sip of coffee, then do my best John McClane impression, crawling through the catio like I’m sneaking through heating vents to save Christmas.

I wiggle forward like a caffeine-addicted snake, and finally—finally—I reach Cleo.

Oh. Hello there, hot neighbor.

My eyes pop. My pulse spikes. Hell, my coffee cup sweats.

Cleo is a naughty girl. She’s been staring for a week at an absolutely strapping specimen on the back porch of the house next door. I’ve never seen him before though. Is he a guest? Or does he live there? And if he lives there, why didn’t my brother tell me?

I jerk my gaze away from the vision of well-muscled glory and turn an accusatory stare to my companion. “You were holding out on me,” I whisper, betrayal laced through every word. “Where is the leaning in, girl? I’m seriously disappointed.”

Cleo lifts her haughty chin like she obviously doesn’t care. Well, she doesn’t. The greedy little thing has been keeping the hottie all to herself.

But not anymore.

I sit next to her, take another sip of coffee, and settle in to check out my next-door neighbor properly—or improperly, as the case may be—as he does porch yoga.

Shirtless.

This is the pick-me-up I needed. Earlier this week, I’d lost out on a project I busted my butt to land.

The client went with a big corporate design firm instead of little old solo me.

This bit of good fortune is the karmic jump-start I need this morning before I get into the badass business-babe zone to meet another potential client this afternoon.

I swing my gaze back to the man. Should I get my binoculars?

I have a mini pair inside—well, they’re opera glasses, technically.

I found them on an epic thrifting treasure hunt a few months ago.

You never know when you might need them.

For birds, obviously. I spotted a red-winged blackbird in the yard just last week, and I’m seriously thinking about taking up birdwatching.

But I don’t know how long the show will last, so I stay put. My gaze roams over the well-built man with all those muscles on display. He’s only wearing compression shorts. They’re bright yellow. I don’t love the fashion choice, but given the free view, I can set that aside.

He stands tall, his sturdy arms raised to the sky like he’s trying to touch it.

I swear I can make out every muscle. The biceps, the triceps, the make-my-jaw-drop-ceps.

His hair flops over his forehead with just the right amount of devil-may-care messiness that begs you to run your fingers through it. Are those golden strands woven through his brown hair, or is it just the October sun haloing this Greek god? If I were the sun, I’d shine on him too.

Just look at him with that strong profile. Chiseled jaw. Roman nose. Carved cheekbones. Fair skin kissed with just a hint of tan. I sigh contentedly. Despite my head nearly bonking the roof, and my legs scrunched up cross-legged, I’m going nowhere till the curtain call.

He bends, folding at the waist, dropping his arms to his feet, and—oh my god.

There’s a first time for everything, and I might need to make a T-shirt that says, “I was today years old when I became an ass woman.” Because I could set this cup on that firm rear end.

I take a satisfying sip of coffee as he moves into some kind of plank, and…that pose. Dear god, that pose is doing unfair things to my lady parts. So unfair that I hum, low in my throat, and…coffee shoots out of my nose.

I swear Cleo rolls her eyes as I mutter, “Ack.”

The man spins around, eyes darting left to right as if he’s searching for the sound of the noise.

Mustn’t have been a mutter. Could have been a shout.

I hunker down, hoping he can’t see the woman spying on him from her catio like some weirdo in pajamas.

But he’s a weirdo too. What kind of person does yoga without listening to music? Or better yet, a podcast? He’s exercising and thinking?

I don’t think he spots me though. He turns back around, settles into a plank, and holds it.

Stop the presses. Why have I never realized what a plank is a metaphor for?

He lowers his pelvis while arching up his torso, and…

it’s official. I’m now a convert to the church of yoga.

I happily settle in for more enjoyment featuring downward-make-me-stare-harder-dog and why-don’t-you-warrior-with-me pose.

A whimper from inside my home interrupts the spectator sport.

My shoulders slump.

Another whimper drifts to my ears.

I say goodbye to the heathen cat and the peep show, then wiggle backward like a snake with regret.

Nature calls.

By the time I unfold myself from the catio and step into the mudroom, Simon—my little rescue dog—is practically bouncing with his legs crossed like a kid waiting for the bathroom.

“I’ve got you, buddy,” I say to my favorite person, grabbing his harness and leash. I slip them on him—while still holding my coffee because this gal can juggle—and hustle to the front door.

I glance down at my outfit. Hmm. The shirt has a bit too much breathing room. Setting down the coffee, I reach for a jacket from the hook, not even looking at it, then snatch my life-sustaining coffee again.

Only when I step outside do I realize I’m still in my pajamas—and I’ve grabbed my bathrobe.

But Simon doesn’t care what I’m wearing, and I have plenty of time to make myself presentable before meeting the prospective client later today.

So I shove my feet into my gardening boots from the front porch and trot down the steps, thinking about how I can fit yoga TV into my morning schedule every single day.