Prologue
(Where we left off with Gracie & Brewer in Pick Your Poison)
Brewer
“This is your house?” she gasps as I park in the driveway.
“This is it, home sweet home.”
“Why? Do you have, like, three sister wives and twenty-five kids you failed to mention?”
“No kids, never been married,” I chuckle, climbing out and walking around the truck to open her door. “And definitely no to three women at the same time.”
“Okay then, did you rescue and re-home all the refugees, every last one of a small-to-medium-sized country?” She’s staring at my house and speaking as though dazed, so I undo the seat belt, lift her sexy little body up and out, then set her feet on the ground for her.
“Nope, just me,” I answer… and feel my brows reach for my hairline in confusion when she cuts a scathing glare my way.
“Ridiculous.” She tsks, shaking her head. “And very disappointing.”
“Do you actually know a lot of people who’ve rescued those of small countries?” I ask, “because I don’t know any. Didn’t realize it was a common thing. Thus, my surprise at your… disappointment.”
“Funny,” she grits back, drier than my humor. “It’s just… why do you need a house this big if you’re the only one who lives in it? Are you overcompensating for something, or simply showing off?” My head lolls back as peals of laughter belt out of me, but the weight of her scowl’s hefty, so I reel it in fast. “I’m not kidding, Brewer. This country’s kind of an upside-down joke if you ask me. So many have so little, yet male athletes, yes, just the males, are paid exorbitant amounts of money to throw, dunk, or putt a ball… or slap a puck. No offense, but you know it’s true. Do you really think your job”— she pumps some haughty air quotes — “calls for an extremely large paycheck? Larger than, say, a police officer? Firefighter? Nurse? Teacher?”
I can’t argue with her, nor do I want to try; she’s absolutely right, and I agree, on all points. Not to mention, I love that she’s intelligent, passionate, and unafraid to speak proof of both. “I can’t change the whole country, Gracie, and I’m certainly not going to refuse the salary I was offered, even if it is ludicrous. All I can do is give back, pay it forward… make a change, a difference, where I’m able. Concentrate my efforts where, and how, they have the biggest impact.”
“You’re right, you can, and should.”
“I agree, and do.”
“Oh yeah?” She juts her chin out, squaring her stance and shoulders. Cute as hell. “How? And how often?”
Another chuckle I can’t capture sounds, my eyes soaking up her every aspect. She’s a bold little thing when she wants to be, and it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if she next challenges me to get my manager on the phone to verify my response — which I’ll gladly do — not to impress her, but to earn her respect; which I realize, for some reason, I don’t just want… but need.
“Well, let’s see.” I rub the back of my neck, suddenly embarrassed, and certainly not wanting to seem a braggart. “I had a rec center built downtown, so the inner-city kids would have a safe haven. A good place they can always go, instead of a bad one. Learn how to play sports, trade, or choose from lots of other activities that just might help keep them out of trouble. I provide funding, every month, and the whole team follows an unspoken rule that we, The Freeze, take care of the Women and Children’s Shelter, too. Every player, in a rotation, takes their month and pays for supplies, sees to stuff getting fixed, paints, and whatever else needs done. Plus-”
“Catch me.” She’s already launched herself in air while asking the breathlessly sexy request, and I easily snare her by the hips to haul her up and taut against me. “Altruism is very attractive,” she purrs, right before crashing her mouth over mine.
Remind me to sponsor a whole fucking planet, ASAP.
When Gracie Bolton sets out to kiss a man, she kisses the hell out of him. And praise God… him is me. Her legs are wrapped around my waist, fingers clawing at my hair, and ripe-apple ass filling my hands as our mouths, tongues, and choppy breaths get acquainted. Well acquainted. She’s wiggling, moaning, trying to climb me — seeking more — every urgent gyration of her hips rubbing her heat against my dick and seriously tempting me to take her right here, right now.
I’ve had sex in bathroom stalls, a dark corner in more than a few clubs, locker rooms that reeked of sweaty balls, and even in the back of a cab once. But for reasons I’d probably never understand, should I try, I want things with Gracie to be different. Intimate? Yeah, that’s the right word… I just can’t believe it’s the right word. I don’t do intimate.
Maybe it’s the chase that’s got me all fucked up in the head. Gracie didn’t serve herself up on a puck-bunny platter; instead, making me hunt her down. Or it could be our unique prelude — can’t say I’ve ever stopped, on the ice, to play a game of suggestive charades before.
And after her little speech tonight, giving me a few glimpses into who she is and what she’s about, I’m even more intrigued. No chick has ever complained that I have too much money, let alone argued that I should give it away. And although Gracie’s the first woman I’ve ever brought to my home, I’m pretty sure she’s also the only one who’d insinuate it’s ostentatious.
Whatever the reason, likely all of them, I release her mouth, so I can lean back and latch on to her eyes. “How about we go inside?” I grin, taken completely aback by how she looks in this exact moment — swollen, pouty lips, flushed cheeks, hair the color of a desert sunset, a beautiful mess — but above all, the pure, unfueled by ulterior motives, passion blazing in her eyes.
She wants me.
Me.
Brewer Hayes, the man. The person.
Not the Captain of an NHL team. Not in public, where everyone can see her on my arm, standing beside me, in front of the cameras, while I’m being photographed or interviewed.
Just. Me.
In the privacy of my home… that doesn’t impress her.
She bobs her head wildly, making sure I catch her ‘yes,’ too out of breath for a vocal reply, and my grin stretches wider as I walk us toward the door.
I re-adjust my hold on her to dig the keys out of my pocket, and she stops running her tongue along my throat long enough to giggle. “What, no butler to let us in? What about Alexa? Surely, she’s streaming through your whole h-, mansion. Just scream at her to unlock the door.”
“Only woman in this house is you,” I growl, landing a playful peck on her cheek.
No sooner than I get us inside, by using a key, all by myself, she wriggles to be put down. Here we go… now she’ll want to see everything… ask for the “grand tour,” gasping and fawning the whole time. I can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment, and with an accompanying sigh of such, I toss my keys on the counter and move to take her hand.
Guess I’ll start by showing her the backyard; the reason I bought this place. There’s a giant pool, complete with a rock waterfall, hidden coves, and a hot tub. Plus, the kickass landscaping, hammock, cabana, and a gazebo, but the spectacular view was the clencher — helping me when I need to escape — kind of like I’m on my own private island, any time I have time to come back here and just chill.
Yeah, I won’t hold it against her if she ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ over the backyard. Other than on the ice, it’s my favorite place to be… so to blame her, should she be impressed, would be all kinds of hypocritical.
Turns out though, my worry’s for nothing, and the “hunch” I’ve had since first laying eyes on her proves its validity once more; any and all doubt vanishing… for good. Not an act, Gracie truly wouldn’t notice, or care, if every damn wall in here was painted neon green and there were disco balls dangling from the ceiling, flashing and twirling to the beat of a really bad porno soundtrack. She’s not even a little bit interested in my house, and damn sure doesn’t care about the backyard. Her eyes are trained solely on me.
I’m right about her, dammit. I know it as sure as my own name.
Gracie Bolton is something, someone, special. Worth spending the time to explore, and get to know… inside and out.