Chapter 1

JUNE 30

T-MINUS 83 DAYS

Sex.

It’s all I can think of.

I’m sitting in the ballroom of the Peninsula Hotel watching four bridesmaids dance, and goddamn if I don’t have a boner.

The dance floor is crowded, and some of my teammates are up there—tuxedo or suit jackets off, ties loosened, rocking out to the music of Bruno Mars.

My eyes keep going back to one bridesmaid in particular. I don’t know why. She’s pretty, sure, and she has a nice enough body—slender, a few curves, nothing stupendous, though. She has long auburn hair and I’ve never really been attracted to gingers. Maybe it’s her smile.

She’s a good dancer. She laughs at something one of the other bridesmaids says to her, her head going back with utter joy and abandon. Then she turns in a circle, arms above her head, hips swaying. The chandeliers and candlelight glimmer off her peach-colored sequined dress, which is pooling on the floor around her feet because she’s kicked off her high heels.

Her skin is a paler peach color, smooth and creamy, her arms, shoulders, and chest bare in the sexy dress. I can’t see them from here, but earlier when we were introduced, I noticed the pale gold freckles dusted over her shoulders and small nose. That, too, isn’t something I usually find attractive. I’ve always liked tanned blondes, not freckled redheads.

I shift on the flimsy cane chair, my hard-on becoming painful.

This is what happens when you go sixteen months without sex. Yes, folks, that’s what I said. Sixteen months.

It’s a wonder my dick and balls haven’t shriveled up and fallen off.

Of course they’ve had a little personal attention from my hand from time to time. A little couch hockey for one. Playing five on one. Or as my dad said in a memorable conversation when I was fourteen, instructing me on using tissues not socks, dating Rosie Palm and her five sisters.

The memory makes me smile despite the uncomfortable situation in my southern region.

I also noticed that Ginger Spice bridesmaid isn’t wearing a ring and apparently doesn’t have a date for this wedding.

The song ends and the bridesmaids all disperse in different directions. My heart knocks as Kendra makes her way toward me.

She’s carrying her shoes, holding up her skirt with one hand. The sequined fabric almost looks heavy, sparkling in the low light as she walks. She drops into a gold Chiavari chair next to me and flashes me a wide, white smile. “Hi, Max.”

Yeah. That smile. “Hi.”

“Whew.” She crosses her legs and leans over to slip her shoe onto one foot. My gaze goes straight to where the low neckline of her dress gaps away from her chest, exposing a shadowy cleft. “I worked up a sweat.”

I snap my gaze back up to her face and eye her dewy glow. “That’s not working up a sweat.”

She lifts one perfectly arched eyebrow and re-crosses her legs to put her other shoe on. Now I get a flash of smooth calves and my palm itches to run over that sleek skin. Christ. My dick is at attention over a peek at a woman’s bare legs. He’s starved for pussy, apparently. “Right,” she says. “I forgot you’re a hockey player.”

She forgot. Bullshit. Women don’t forget hockey players.

I’ve been off the market for a long time, but even I know that. Women think hockey players are hot. I’ve known this ever since I played major junior hockey back home in Canada and the Wheat Puffs used to follow us with their eyes when we walked down the hall at school, and hang around the arena during games and practices.

I played for the Brandon Wheat Kings, and we had creative names for the puck bunnies there—Wheat Puffs, Wheatie Sweeties, and some other much cruder names I won’t share here.

“Actually, I haven’t played for over a year,” I tell her.

She tilts her head to one side. “No? Were you injured?”

“Sort of.”

Her lips push out. “That sucks. You’re okay, though?”

Not really. “Yeah. You need a drink, spice girl?”

Her lips quirk. “Spice girl?”

I gesture at her hair. “Ginger Spice…the hair…”

“Ah.” She makes a face. “Okay, then. And yes, I’d love a drink.” She says this with heartfelt enthusiasm that does something for me. “Would it be wrong to drink beer wearing this dress?” She motions at herself.

“It’s never wrong to drink beer.”

She’s half smiling, eyeing me curiously, because what I said sounds like a joke, and yet I’m not smiling. “Well, then, I’d love a beer. Any kind.”

“Be right back.”

I head to the open bar my buddy and teammate Marc Dupuis is so generously providing tonight. With the whole Chicago Aces hockey team here, he’s going to have one helluva bar bill by the end of the night.

I shouldn’t be drinking. I started an intensive training program this week. The guy I’m working with has me on some weird diet that doesn’t include alcohol. But hell, it’s a wedding, and I’m allowed a cheat day. The two dinner rolls I scarfed down aren’t on the no wheat, no sugar, no soy, and no processed or packaged foods list. I’m supposed to drink goat milk, for fuck’s sake, and eat sunflower sprouts, mung beans, salba, chia, and hemp. I didn’t even know what that shit was before this.

It’s only been a week and I’m sick of the diet already, not to mention every muscle in my body hurts and I’m exhausted, but I have to keep my goal in sight. I have to make it back on the team.

I’m a veteran of the Aces. I’ve played for them for the past nine years—other than last season. Even so, I still have to prove myself at training camp if I want to play. Everyone has to prove themselves at training camp, every year. It’s not going to be easy. I’m not exactly old at twenty-nine, but I feel fucking ancient and there are eighteen-year-old kids coming to camp who are gonna kick my ass. So I’ll do whatever the fuck I have to do to make it.

The bartender pours the beers into glasses and I carry them back to the table where Kendra sits. A lot of the tables are empty. Now that it’s later in the evening, some of the older family members have left and it looks like everyone who’s still here is on the dance floor. Kendra is smiling as she watches them.

She looks up at me as I hand her the drink. Christ. Her smile makes something turn over in my chest. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“This is such a nice wedding.”

“Lovey’s your cousin, right?” Lovey, the bride who’s doing some kind of line dance now in her wedding dress. She’s been with Marc for a while now, maybe eighteen months? Two years? And she’s the sister of another teammate, Duncan Armstrong, who we call Army. But I don’t feel I know her very well because of having been out of the game last season, and part of the one before that.

“Right.” Kendra sips her beer. “I’m two years older than her, but we basically grew up together. My dad and her dad are brothers.”

“You grew up on a farm, too?”

“Right. You know Duncan. You know he’s from Wisconsin.” Her lips curve into a surprised smile. “No, I didn’t grow up on a farm. My dad’s an accountant. I grew up in Madison. But I spent a lot of summer holidays at the Armstrong farm.” Her eyes shadow briefly. “Those were good times.”

I try picturing her on a farm pitching hay or something, and fail. She has such a classy air, with her smooth skin, perfect makeup, and styled hair. And the shimmery dress and spiky high heels really make it hard. Ha. That was a pun. I’m fucking hilarious.

I can see a faint family resemblance between Kendra and the other Armstrongs—her hair is a darker red than Lovey’s but lighter than Army’s chestnut hair. She has the same kind of luminous smile and high spirits that Lovey has, but she also has depths in her eyes that hint at a woman who’s…complicated.

“How about you?” Kendra’s gaze is fastened on my face with flattering—and seemingly genuine—interest. “You’re probably not from Chicago.”

“Nope. I’m from Canada, originally.”

“Cool. Hockey’s big there, I hear.”

“You could say that.” Hockey’s like a religion in Canada. “You live in New York?”

“Yes.” She takes another gulp of her beer. “Moved there after college.”

“That’s a far cry from Wisconsin.”

“Yes, it is. I needed to get away from my family.” She wrinkles her nose. “So I’ve become a big-city girl.”

“You look like a big-city girl.”

She cocks her head, a half smile perched on pale, shiny lips. “I’m not sure how to take that. Like…if you smiled when you said it, I’d think it was a compliment. But you’re not smiling.” She leans closer. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen you smile all night.”

I narrow my eyes slightly at her. “Don’t women get pissed when men tell them they should smile more?”

She pursed her lips. “Well, that depends. If a man is telling a woman she should smile because he’s trying to flirt or engage her in conversation, and her lack of smile makes him feel like a failure, it’s creepy and invasive and overbearing. It sexualizes a woman and makes her feel like she’s only supposed to be pretty and happy for his enjoyment.”

Huh.

“But,” she continues, “I didn’t tell you that you should smile. I just observed that you haven’t.”

I can’t stop the twitch at the corners of my mouth because, damn, she’s smart. “True.”

She’s right. I don’t smile much anymore. I haven’t had much to smile about for a long time.

I figure if she’s going to be honest, I will, too. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you earlier.”

She has big, big eyes and she blinks them slowly.

I lean closer, too, and our knees are touching. I can see those tiny gold freckles on her nose, see that her dark eyes are really a deep mossy-green, see that a pulse in her throat is fluttering. “But you’re even hotter now that I’m talking to you.”

Her eyes go even darker and her lips part.

“And not that I think you were fishing for compliments, but when I said you look like a big-city girl, I meant it as a compliment. You’re classy and elegant…” My gaze drops to her perfectly manicured fingers with peach polish, the nail on each ring finger painted sparkly gold. “…and maybe a little high maintenance.”

She gives a low laugh, holding out a hand to inspect her nails. “Don’t let this fool you. The bride sprang for manis/pedis and professional makeup for all the bridesmaids.”

“You’re telling me you usually have your hair in pigtails and wear ripped jeans?”

This time her laugh is louder, and it’s sexy as fuck. “As a matter of fact, I do wear ripped jeans. But no pigtails. Not since I was ten, anyway.” Her smile wanes a bit. “But thank you for thinking I’m classy and elegant.”

“And sexy.”

Her chin drops a little and her eyelashes lower. “Are you flirting with me, Max?”

My mouth falls open. Flirting? Me? I don’t know how the hell to flirt anymore. I haven’t flirted with a woman in years. I snap my jaw closed and tighten my lips.

A little notch appears between her eyebrows. “What?”

“What what?”

“You look…angry.”

I slide my gaze away from her beautiful face and stare across the room. Downtown Chicago skyscrapers glitter outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the ballroom. Am I angry? I’m…I don’t know what the hell I’m feeling.

I toss back the last of my beer. My head feels a little fuzzy…how many beers have I had tonight? Not that many, although I’m making the most of my cheat day. I turn my gaze back to Kendra. “I’m not angry. I’m horny.”

Her eyes widen again. I expect her to recoil in alarm. And I wouldn’t blame her. That was crude, saying that to a woman I don’t even know.

But she doesn’t recoil. Her mouth opens slightly and her breath hitches. “Oh.”

She’s attracted to me.

Don’t ask me how I know. Like I said, I’m pretty rusty at this flirting shit. But somehow I feel it.

“I thought bridesmaid dresses were supposed to be ugly.”

She looks down at herself, then back at me. “Lovey has good taste.”

“I agree. That’s the sexiest bridesmaid dress I’ve ever seen.” And I can say it in truth, because although the bridesmaids are wearing the same color, their dresses are all different. Kendra’s has tiny little straps and a low, drapey bodice.

Her eyes go heavy-lidded and sultry. “Thank you. Is that why you couldn’t take your eyes off me?”

“Not really.” Again I go for honesty because I truly don’t know what else to say. “I think it was your smile.”

“Oh.”

I notice that the music has changed to a slow song and people on the dance floor have paired up. “Would you like to dance, spice girl?”

It takes her a few seconds to answer and I start to think she’s going to say no. “I would,” she finally says and rises gracefully from the chair.

I take her hand and lead her onto the dance floor, the first time I’ve set foot there tonight. Sam Smith sings “Stay with Me” as we face each other. My hand goes to her hip and she sets hers on my shoulder. I hold her gaze as we dance.

If it’s been a long time since I fucked, it’s been even longer since I danced. I’m not much of a dancer, actually.

Having a woman this close to me…Christ. I can smell her perfume—exotic flower and spice and woman. Her hand is soft in mine and I’m hyperaware of her breasts so close to my chest. She’s fairly tall—I guess the heels help—because I’m six foot three and the top of her head is about level with my nose. My body is sweating and I’m trembling inside as if I’m a fourteen-year-old boy at a school dance with his crush. Not to mention my demented, sex-starved dick is so goddamn eager for her it’s painful. I’m torn between hauling her up against me so I can feel all those soft female curves, or keeping her at a safe distance so she doesn’t know how humiliatingly hard I am.

Maybe I don’t even remember how to do it, it’s been so long.

“I love Sam Smith,” Kendra says.

I just nod.

“What kind of music do you like?” she asks.

“I dunno…Jimmy Eat World, Something Corporate, Blink-182. Taylor Swift.”

She laughs and I fucking love that. “Taylor Swift?”

“Sure.” I lift one shoulder, and my mouth has twitched up into a near smile again. I turn her to the music with a little pressure of my hand on her hip and somehow she ends up closer to me.

“How about the Spice Girls?”

My mouth tics. “I’ll admit to liking some Spice Girls back in the day.”

Our eyes stay connected and then my gaze wanders over her face. It’s not classically oval, more squarish-shaped, but delicate and so damn attractive. I focus on her lips…perfect. Not too full, not too thin, with a pleasing shape that I want to trace with my tongue.

Her lips part as I stare at them and her body vibrates. Heat builds between us and I lift my gaze back to her eyes, which have gone heavy-lidded and sultry as she, too, looks at my mouth. I want to kiss her so goddamn bad.

The air crackles with sexual urgency and I know it’s not just me.

“Are you staying here in the hotel?” she asks in a low voice, lifting so her lips are near my ear.

“No.” I pause. “You?”

She nods.

We continue to stare at each other, transfixed.

“How long are you in town for?” I ask.

“Until Thursday. Wednesday’s the Fourth of July, so I thought I’d stick around for that and visit with family who are here for the wedding.”

I almost wish she’d said she was leaving tomorrow, because then I would have had no choice but to suggest we go back to her room. Now I’m hesitating. I’m horny but terrified of rejection. Christ. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt like this. I’ve never had any trouble getting girls. I’ve had lots of girlfriends and lots of girls. Not bragging, just saying.

But that was a long time ago.

The song has ended and we’re still standing on the dance floor gazing into each other’s eyes. I cast a look around, but nobody’s paying any attention to us as a Nicki Minaj song starts.

“I need another drink,” I say, and start off the dance floor toward the bar, my hand on Kendra’s lower back. “Would you like one?”

“Um. Okay.”

We get another beer at the bar and move to the side to drink them, surveying the ballroom. My heart hammers against my sternum, and I resist the urge to wipe sweaty paws on my suit pants. Tension hums around us, a sense of anticipation. I guzzle down half my beer.

“Are you done with your bridesmaid duties?” I ask.

She smiles as if she knows exactly where I’m going with this. “Yes. I’ll see Lovey tomorrow. Her parents are hosting a brunch here in the hotel for family.”

A thought occurs to me and I freeze. “Are your parents here?”

“They left a little while ago.” She rolls her eyes. “My mom couldn’t handle Lovey being the center of attention and not her.”

Jesus. I nearly wipe a hand across my damp forehead in relief. Trying to pick up a woman while her parents watch is a little unnerving.

“It’s probably crazy to take a strange man back to my room,” she says.

“Uh…”

“But you’re a friend of Duncan’s, so I guess you’re not totally a stranger.”

A tiny voice of reason in the back of my head wants to tell her that it is a very, very bad idea to take a strange man back to her room and while I’m a good guy, she doesn’t really know that. But I don’t say this.

“Let’s go,” she says softly. Her smile goes crooked. She reaches for my hand and it feels amazing the way she slides her soft fingers between mine. My skin tingles everywhere. Christ. I never knew just hands and fingers touching could be so erotic.

“I just have to get my purse.” She leads me toward the empty head table. She moves behind it to pick up a little satin evening bag from the seat of a chair and rejoins me.

We step into the elevator alone and face each other. “You’re beautiful.” It’s the only thing I can think of to say.

“Thank you.” She ducks her chin briefly as if she’s embarrassed by my compliment. I find that adorable.

We walk down the quiet, carpeted hallway to her room and she leads the way inside.