FIVE
Violet coughed loudly and held up her phone. “Ready?”
“Ready!” The enthusiasm was all Isobel. Harper merely grunted, uncaged her feet from her heels, and curled her legs under her body on the sofa in the den at Chase Manor.
“Have you ever practiced kissing in a mirror?” Violet asked.
Harper groaned. “Are these questions designed for eight-year-olds?”
“We are all eight-year-olds in hot-lady bodies. Just answer the question, Harper.”
Usually their awkward sister bonding nights saw more action than this, but these days, Harper got queasy if she went more than a hundred feet beyond the radius of Chase Manor or Rebels HQ. So they were having a quiet night in asking each other embarrassing questions from a list Violet had found on the Internet. Like you do.
When she’d landed on their doorstep eight months ago, Violet had expected the half sisters she barely knew to put up more resistance. Be outright bitches, to be honest. After all, she was the by-blow, Clifford’s sordid secret, who’d appeared conveniently once the old man croaked and millions of dollars were put in play. At first they’d circled each other warily like feral cats, but with each week that passed, with each sisterly get-together they muddled through, the threads between them braided into strings. Violet would never say she was a true Chase, but she could no longer claim not to be, either. One foot in, one foot out.
“Harper,” she prompted.
“Okay, when I was—”
“Twenty-five?”
“Ten. I was skinny and awkward and no boys were interested. But I wanted to be ready when Ben Costigan noticed me.” Harper sighed. “It took two years, and then only because I puked over his shoes during gym.”
Isobel gasped. “I thought you always had guys dropping at your feet!”
“Tales of my tween prowess were greatly exaggerated, probably by me. What about you, Vi? Bet you had tons of boyfriends.”
“Well, the Catholic school uniform is a guaranteed boy magnet, but the retainer and my nickname kind of left me on the outer edges of the cool kids’ circle.”
Harper leaned in, eyes gleaming. “I have to hear this nickname.”
“Assquatch.” She stood and cocked her hip, pointing at her rear. “On account of my most amazing be-hind. I’ve been crafting this baby for years, ladies.”
Everyone laughed their heads off at that, before Isobel blurted, “Surprised you didn’t use it for your boob job!” Immediately, she covered her mouth in horror. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. What a dreadful thing to say.”
Violet held up a hand of insta-forgiveness, not minding that Isobel had put her two feet in it as usual. “No! It’s fine. I could have. The doctor gave me a choice to use tissue from my stomach or ass to reconstruct, but I decided to go the other route with the implants. This booty has been drawing them in like honeybees for so long that I can’t imagine getting rid of it. It was already such a huge change, you know.”
Of course, she’d had a rough time of it after her double mastectomy, her mind reeling with whether the removal of those mounds of tissue that signified to the world her femininity would make her any less of a woman. Getting the implants was a huge help in traversing that hurdle, but it still took her awhile to feel whole again. Womanly. Desirable.
Tattoos were part of her strategy. They drew attention to her well-toned arms and her fabulous thighs. She’d always enjoyed men looking at her, lusting after her, and even if she wasn’t open for business, it still gave her a thrill. Some people would call her a tease, but it was her body and she would celebrate it—its strength, its beauty, its not-deadness—however she liked. But it had taken time to muster the courage to place her new boobs front and center. For months after the surgery, she wore prim, high-necked blouses, baggy turtlenecks, and full-coverage tops that sent wandering eyes away. Not anymore.
She’d survived and she had a nice pair of tits to prove it.
Her sisters nodded, and after a taut moment, Harper spoke up. “Did Clifford know? About your breast cancer?”
Sitting again, Violet felt a sharp stab of pain when she took a shallow breath. “Yeah. I didn’t tell him, but I guess he’d been keeping tabs on me. Offered to pay for stuff but I—I turned him down. When you came out to see me in Reno just after I was diagnosed, Harper, it was a tough time. I know I wasn’t all that welcoming.” She’d been downright rude, actually.
“Are you kidding?” Harper waved her hand. “There I was trying to fix years of Dad’s fuck-ups with a getting-to-know-you sister lunch. It’s a wonder you didn’t punch me in the throat.”
Isobel smiled serenely. “We’ve all wanted to punch you in the throat at some time or other, dearest Harper. Let’s face it, you’re no picnic.” She turned to Violet. “Dad owed you, and you should never doubt that. Sure, we know you have plans once the season is over, but you don’t have to scoot off as soon as the last game’s buzzer sounds. There’s always a place for you.”
Violet swallowed around the lump the size of a puck in her throat. She loved how they’d gone to such efforts to include her despite the fact she knew zilch about hockey or their world. About being a Chase. Guilt pinged her. Would they be so accommodating if they knew how her mother had gone out of her way to target a rich Hall of Famer and get him wriggling on a hook?
Harper sighed at Violet. “I’m going to miss you so much.”
Violet’s guilt gave way to warmth at the sentiment. “I’m not going anywhere just yet.”
“I was talking to the wine in your hand.” With a wink to say she was half joking, Harper gazed dispiritedly at her glass of soda water with lime. “Seven months of this. Complete. Hell. But at least I have Remy, who’ll be cooking for me constantly and making sure the baby’s jonesing for jambalaya the minute she exits Hotel Utero. I can’t imagine doing this pregnancy business and child raising alone. Bren must be freaking out.” She chuckled. “You should have seen his face today. This woman was interviewing for a job looking after children but she was dressed like a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.”
“Maybe she got confused about which sport he plays,” Isobel answered between a sip of her wine and dashing off what Violet assumed was a quick sext to her boyfriend, Vadim Petrov, the Rebels’ front-line left-winger.
“He should have no problems once all the help is in place,” Violet muttered. All the female help. She hadn’t sat in on the interviews, but she’d witnessed the parade of candidates. Besides the scantily clad cheerleader, there was a pretty college grad with an early childhood education degree and another woman (also pretty) in a skintight Rebels T-shirt. Talk about obvious.
Her pulse picked up, remembering their intimate conversation in the kitchen this morning. Bren St. James hadn’t looked at her directly since the day they’d met in the Empty Net. The day he dodged a bar fight and she found out that she owned the Rebels hockey team. That she owned him.
Since then, she’d gotten a kick out of turning his crank. He’d always acted like she was an annoying pest, but she would often catch him out of the corner of her eye, puzzling her out. Like some ghost figure, his own sneaky gaze would slide away when directly challenged.
But not today. Today in his kitchen, she’d felt the full weight of his attention, and she wondered how she had lived without it for so long. Today they had put aside the scowls and taunts, and cracked open their respective armor plates to let each other in a little. It was exhilarating. Hearing him talk about wanting to do right by his girls had both scratched and soothed a private spot inside her.
Ah, daddy issues. The best.
“Maybe banging his nanny would be good for him,” Violet said casually. “He’s so uptight. Obviously needs to clear the pipes.”
Isobel narrowed her eyes to slits. “I thought you had the hots for him! And now you’re suggesting he bone the governess?”
“Of course I have the hots for him, me and every other woman between nine and ninety. But haven’t you noticed? The guy hates my guts. Also relevant, he had his shot.”
Harper straightened. “Had his shot? With you?”
Wasn’t Violet just a font of emotional spillage today? She took a long sip of her favorite Malbec. “I might have made a pass at him months ago, when I didn’t know who he was or that I was technically his boss. And he got all high and mighty, accusing me of being a star fucker—like I care that he’s a pro athlete, who I could buy and sell, literally. So he missed his chance to tap this very fine ass and now he acts like I’m some sort of disease-ridden piece of junk.”
He hadn’t acted like that today, but she had no doubt their dynamic would return to the prickly, sexy surface level of before. To think she would have happily let Bren St. James be her first since her surgery! Let him touch her new(ish) breasts, grab her great ass, make her scream in ecstasy. She liked to think his rejection of her was more about him than about her, but it had definitely put a crimp in her confidence. These days, she might flirt with every Rebel, but her teases were more bark than bite.
She pointed at Harper. “You saw how he responded at Rebels HQ when I dared to talk to him in front of his spawn. He’s probably disinfecting his kitchen as we speak.”
“Probably.”
That response was a little on the speedy—and affirmative—side. “So, he does hate me?”
“Hate’s such a strong word. He’s, uh, made it clear he doesn’t want you to be involved.”
“Involved in what?”
“Looking after his kids.”
Violet’s heart sank. She’d known he didn’t approve, but to hear that he’d come right out and said it to Harper gutted her. She thought they’d hurdled something today.
What was his problem with her? Were her tattoos too bright, her streaks too pink? Did she laugh too long or remind him of what it was like to enjoy himself, back when he was downing a bottle of Johnnie Walker a day? More important, why did she care so much?
Despite growing up surrounded by the love of the man-hating Three Witches, she’d always gravitated toward guys out of her league. All-American guys who would somehow validate her, like Denny, her ex-boyfriend. Denny, who did “something in finance” and drove a Jag and wore Ferragamo loafers. Denny, who on hearing about her breast cancer diagnosis immediately focused on the upside. (Now you can get bigger tits, babe.) Denny, who bailed at the first sign of hair loss circling the drain of his alcove-recessed marble shower.
It made no sense why she’d want a guy like that, one who made her feel like she belonged in polite, upwardly mobile society. She knew all this about herself, so wasn’t she marvelously well adjusted? Perhaps not as much as she wished.
Papa, can you hear me?
Freakin’ Clifford Chase.
Getting breast cancer was a wake-up call, and not just for her physical health. The Year of the V didn’t have time for naysayers and haters. Now that she knew her worth, she refused to waste it on guys who weren’t as knowledgeable on this score—and that included D-bag hockey bozos like Bren St. James.
“So he hates me. Meh.”
Not wanting to appear affected by inquiring further, she was still annoyingly grateful that Isobel was curious.
“Did he say why he doesn’t approve?”
“Something about—look, it doesn’t matter.”
“Harper!” Isobel and Violet yelled in unison.
Their oldest sister threw up a hand in annoyance. “He thinks you’re a party girl, kind of flighty.”
“Wait, did you tell him about the dicktabase?” Violet maintained a fun Tumblr in praise of the penis. Harper had freaked out when she first heard about it, terrified the press would link it to the team, and the Chase sisters would look like the sex-obsessed, athlete-loving women they were. If the condom fits . . .
“Of course I didn’t tell him! Look, Bren’s attitude is more an indictment of his ex-wife and of himself than it is of you, Vi. He wants the kids to have a stable home life—”
“And a tatted-up, vino-swilling, penis-curating, pink-haired chica smacks of trouble?”
You’re nothing but trouble.
She’d thought he meant sexy trouble! Guys only said that when they were thinking of how good a girl was in bed, not that she might be a bad influence on his kids. That—that—that prick. No spot in the dicktabase for you!
“Like I said, this is more about what he thinks of himself,” Harper said, a guilty tinge to her voice. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
“No, it’s better to know. That way I won’t mistakenly offer to do his grocery shopping or breathe a word to his kids. It’s good to know where we stand.”
Fucking Manilow.
Bren leaned his forearms on the front bar of the shopping cart, and for the fifty-seventh time cursed the fact that he’d not made a list before he came out. Usually he lived on coffee, cereal, and Pop-Tarts. Most days, he ate lunch with the team and dinner with Remy when he wasn’t with Harper.
Who knew two tiny humans and a dog could consume so much? One week since they’d all moved back into the house, and the fridge that Harper and Violet had filled with groceries was practically empty. He needed domestic help, stat.
They were two all in the Dallas series, but at least he had a couple of days until game five, a reprieve while he busted his balls on the Great Nanny Hunt. The first batch had been more interested in him than in his kids. With more interviews lined up for tomorrow, he hoped he could find someone who wasn’t a hard-ass, a soft touch, or had the hots for him. This paragon of child care had to exist.
Barry Manilow continued to assault his eardrums.
He grabbed eggs because there were lots of things he could do with eggs. Pulling aside one headphone, Caitriona gave him the eyebrow raise she’d learned from her mother.
“I’m vegan.”
“Since when?”
“Since forever.”
He snorted. “You’re eleven and you weren’t vegan when you came to visit a month ago.”
“Well, I am now.”
“Do you know how to cook vegan?”
“Margarita respects my culinary needs.”
Margarita was Kendra’s housekeeper in Atlanta and Bren’s recollection was that her pancakes were as hard as pucks. He grabbed another dozen eggs and put it into the cart, enjoying his daughter’s scowl immensely.
“Where’s your sister?”
“Around.”
Bren looked over his shoulder at the far end of the dairy cases in Mariano’s. No sign of his youngest, not that he was overly worried—she had a good head on her shoulders. Despite being allergic to a shit-ton of things, she knew better than to sample anything that might kill her.
He examined the ingredients of Kraft Mac & Cheese, 99 percent sure there was no actual dairy in it. Caitriona picked up a box of angel-hair pasta and a jar of marinara sauce and placed them in the cart.
“What’re you listening to?”
Somehow she heard his question, because she answered immediately with, “Harry Styles.”
“Who?”
“Harry? Styles? He used to be with One Direction?” Epic levels of disbelief were rising with each question his stupidity was forcing her to ask.
“Any good?” He had to be better than Manilow, though now Steely Dan was slowly euthanizing him.
Caitriona shrugged, grabbed more pasta.
“Pasta’s okay?” When she didn’t roll her eyes, he ventured, “What else? Vegetables?” He’d have to talk to Remy, maybe even ask him over to cook. That shithead loved interfering with Bren’s life; he could interfere constructively by making dinner.
“Go get some produce, love,” he said. And then I’ll think of a way to cook it so it’s not as boring as fuck.
He wandered a little more, then turned down the soup aisle. Soup should be safe. But what was located in the soup aisle might not be.
Violet Vasquez, shaking her sweet ass.
For fuck’s sake, really? Someone up there was definitely messing with him. Donna Summer’s “She Works Hard for the Money” was now playing on what Bren charitably called the grocery store’s “sound system,” and Violet was dancing to it.
She picked up a can of minestrone. Put it back. Her hips swayed to the music, a rhythm that pulsed his blood and hardened his dick. She read the ingredients on another can and shoulder shrugged to the beat.
A guy checking out dried soups a few feet away snuck furtive glances, his intention clear. Bren pushed the cart a few feet into the aisle, ready to intercept.
Violet continued to sing. “She works hard for the money, so hard for it, honey . . .”
The woman could hold a tune. Her voice was sweet, and while anyone else might have looked like the crazy person you skate your cart past at the grocery store, Violet looked hella sexy and approachable.
Too approachable. Dry Soup shifted a foot closer, but Bren wasn’t a pro athlete for nothing. He wheeled his cart behind her, cutting off Dry Soup’s path to glory.
The guy raised an eyebrow of, I see what you did there.
Bren reciprocated with an eyebrow of, Too fucking right, brother.
When he turned to face Violet, she was staring at him. It was possible she might have known exactly what little turf war had just occurred here. Let her know. Not that there was a thing he could do in reality, but the likes of Dry Soup wasn’t going to get a look in, not on his watch.
“Hello,” he said to Violet.
Instead of a saucy response, he got something distinctly unvarnished: a scowl to rival the ones he usually dropped on her. Hadn’t they moved past this? A week ago in his kitchen, they’d had a real conversation. A moment. After months of teasing, taunting, and tempting, he’d never thought he’d miss the day Violet wasn’t interested in seeing him.
She looked past him down the aisle, her brow lined. “Where are the girls?”
“I set them to work, picking up stuff. One of them is likely poisoning herself, the other just told me she’s a vegan and I might have been dismissive.”
“Shooting for father of the year, then?”
“I try.”
Dry Soup still hovered, now in a foolhardy loiter near the chicken broth. Bren shot a glare in his direction until he moved off.
“What’s that for?” Violet asked.
“Don’t like how he was looking at you. Like he’s hungry.”
“He’s in a grocery store, dummy.”
“And I’m merely being chivalrous, protecting you from unsavory pickup artists in the soup aisle. You’re welcome.”
It was meant as one of his rare jokes, but judging from Violet’s reaction, it was interpreted as anything but. “Why do I need protection? Because of how I dress? How I laugh? How I flirt?”
Where was this attitude coming from? “Meant nothing by it.”
She blew out a breath that was half growl, picked up a can of Italian wedding soup, and examined the ingredient list like she was studying for a test. Why wasn’t she taking this opportunity to get under his skin using those taunts that tripped off her tongue like sensual ninja knives?
“Have I offended you in some way, Violet?”
Keeping her chin dipped, she shook her head, but it was a shake of disbelief, not of disagreement with his question.
“Violet, look at me.”
Glittering eyes snapped to his, in them a flash of something—a visceral response to his demand—but it was gone so quickly that even the rewind called him a liar.
“Has something happened?”
“Look, St. James, you and I have never meshed, so we don’t need to pretend to get along. We just ran into each other at the store and you ‘saved’ me from the unseemly interest of a fellow shopper. ¡Maravilloso! ¡Gracias! Now you can take your steel buns and your sexy scowl off in the opposite direction.”
Color flagged her cheeks, making her olive skin glow. She was furious, and he still didn’t know why. He was also furious, and he had a better idea of the reason.
She’d changed the social contract. They’d been moseying along with her teasing and taunting and flirting, and him acting like it was the worst thing ever to happen to him. Like Violet’s attention was a fresh slice of hell, because in a way it was. She reminded him of everything he couldn’t have. She reminded him of the man he used to be. His body came alive around her, and alive was dangerous. Alive was the opposite of numb, and numb was his best defense against the demons whispering in his ear.
One drink won’t hurt. Thirst like yours can’t be quenched with anything but whiskey.
If he allowed himself to want her, it was a slippery slope to succumbing to the demons at the door. Of course he couldn’t tell her this, so instead he latched on to her words.
“Steel buns?” There was also “sexy scowl,” but he figured he’d start with the ass stuff.
She rolled her eyes, then coasted those same eyes down his body, half hidden by the grocery cart. “As if you don’t know.”
“That I have an ass you could bounce a puck off of?” He twisted to check himself out. “S’pose I do, lass.”
She burst out laughing and muttered something in Spanish.
“What’s that?”
“Not for your ears, Scot.”
One day she’d tell him. One day, he’d get it out of her, preferably while her body arched into his and his body drove into hers.
He shook his head at where his brain had gone. Bad, not-numb Bren always had the worst ideas. This, along with all the other cues, should have been his signal to leave, but his feet were quite comfortable where they were. He surveyed her basket, which contained enough soup and crackers to last a nuclear winter.
“Got yourself a saltine problem, I see.”
“Harper, actually.”
“Franky said she wasn’t well the last time they stayed. Throwing up, apparently.” Recognition pinged him. “Is Harper pregnant?”
She nodded. “The morning sickness is knocking her out.”
And here he was only adding to her problems. “Remy must be over the moon.”
“You know it. He’s already talking to the peanut in French!”
Bren smiled. There was no greater joy than that of a man learning his child was on the way. At least, not until the day he held her in his arms and vowed to protect her with every fiber of his being. On the flip side, there was no greater sorrow than the day you realized you didn’t have it in you to be that man.
“So, how’s the nanny hunt going?” Violet asked.
“Interviews tomorrow. Harper can’t make it so I might have the kids sit in to see if they respond to anyone.”
“Letting your kids make the call? Bad move.”
“My kids shouldn’t have any say in who gets to spend time with them?”
“Your kids will choose whoever they think they can walk all over. Especially Franky.”
He bristled, immediately on the defensive. “Franky?”
“Yeah, that one can smell weakness. They both can—I mean, they’re Gorgons in disguise like all girl children—but Franky’s got a sixth sense about her. Tough as nails, despite the angel act.”
Should he be pissed or impressed at Violet’s insight? She had pretty much nailed Franky down. His youngest was a daddy’s girl, but she was also practical, meaning she’d have no compunction about leaving him with a broken leg on the site of a plane crash in the Rockies. She might come back with help. Then again, she might not.
“Heard the candidates so far were sort of mixed,” Violet said.
“If by mixed, you mean crazy, aye.”
“All looking to get in your Union Jack boxers.”
This was the Violet Bren knew and lo—lusted after. Feeling unusually playful, he leaned in. “Maple leaf, actually.”
“What?”
“My boxers. I’m half Canadian.”
She raised a dark eyebrow. “Which half?”
“The best half.”
He wasn’t quite sure when it had happened, but in the past few moments he’d moved close enough to cage her against the Campbell’s. Her tongue darted quickly to her lips, a sensual preview of wet pink flesh that put his groin on notice. All this time, he had thought she wasn’t attracted to him, that her moves were part of a game.
This hypothesis had just been soundly debunked.
Not because she’d licked her lips and made him spark to life, but because of how her eyes flared, lust stoked and wide with want. His body thrummed with awareness, with the need to plunder and take.
“Viol—”
“Hey, Pink!”
Jumping back, Bren peered down at his youngest daughter and her arms full of snacks—ice cream, Pop-Tarts, cereal bars. She dumped them into the cart.
“You’ve been busy, sprite. Any real food in there?” He picked up the cereal bars, scrutinizing the ingredients, which was better than scrutinizing Violet.
“I checked them all, Dad. Not a nut in sight.” She grinned toothily at Violet. “I’m allergic. To lots of things.”
“I heard.”
“We’re going to order pizza tonight. You should come over!”
Bren clamped his mouth shut, not wanting to give voice to an opinion one way or the other. He knew what his body wanted, however, which was in itself a sign that Violet sharing a gooey, cheesy thin crust was a bad idea.
“I’d love to, but I’ve got a date.”
His neck muscles tautened painfully at how fast he snapped his head back. “You do?”
“Uh-huh,” was all she said, making him feel like an idiot for asking. He shouldn’t care, so why did he?
How about because when he’d thought she had a friends-with-benefits thing with his teammate Cade, Bren had wanted to punch the two-day designer stubble off his grinning Texan face every time he saw them together? Or when he just saw Cade. At practice. At a game. Every-fucking-where.
“Well, we probably should get moving.” But Violet was now rummaging in his cart. He wished that was a euphemism for something sexier than Violet fingering his groceries.
She picked up a package of tortillas. “Flour, Nessie? Corn’s better.”
“The girls like flour. I like corn.”
“And you’re such a softie you give them everything they want.” She frowned. “No beef or pork?”
“We use turkey,” Franky said. “It’s healthier.”
Though now Caitriona wouldn’t eat it. Was he going to have to make multiple versions of everything?
“Hmm, maybe, but beef and pork taste better. The way my abuela used to make it, with her special seasoning . . .” She smacked her lips. “Sabroso. Tasty.”
Franky squinted behind her glasses. “Are you Mexican?”
“No. Yo soy Boricua.” Violet smiled, and Bren got a touch dizzy at how her tongue shaped the Spanish words. “Puerto Rican. Well, half.”
“What’s the other half?”
“Know-it-all white dude.” She winked at his daughter. “Pretty dangerous combination, kid. But the Puerto Rican half is the best.”
Bren coughed out a laugh, reminded of his earlier comment about his Canadian half being superior.
“Okay there, Scot?” But she was smiling, remembering, too.
“Fine.”
Franky was considering Violet in that way she did when she was planning something. Best to move on out.
“Do you like apple pie?” his daughter asked Violet.
“Sure do.”
“We need to get cereal.” Bren pushed the cart forward, intending to signal the end of the meet ’n’ greet–slash–eye fuck in aisle five.
Violet picked up her soup-heavy basket and walked alongside them.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Franky asked her.
“A few.”
“You can’t have more than one, but you can have a husband and a boyfriend at the same time. That’s different.”
Bren exchanged a glance with Violet. His wife’s infidelity through the eyes of his nine-year-old. They reached the end of the aisle, a natural place to separate.
“So, Franky,” Violet said. “What did the pirate say when he turned eighty years old?”
Franky looked at Bren, then back at Violet. “I don’t know.”
Violet made an eye patch with her palm and inclined her head. “Aye, matey!”
It took a second, but his little girl erupted in giggles. Bren felt his smile building, because nothing made him happier than his daughters’ joy.
“It was great seeing you again, Franky,” Violet said. “Enjoy your pizza.”
She caught his hot gaze, and there was a moment of awkwardness as they both considered how to conclude this fun little get-together. A fortunate or maybe unfortunate pause, because it gave him a moment that led to another moment, this one of madness.
“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in helping me out with these interviews? It’s just that with Harper unable to make it, I’m not feeling so prepared.”
She blinked at him, those emerald-fired eyes wide in surprise. A few seconds ticked by in silence while she worked out how to let him down gently.
“If you’re busy, forget it—”
“No, I’m not. You’re probably going to need protection from some hot Swedish chick looking to score a multimillion-dollar athlete and a green card. What time’s the first one?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“Okay, see you then.” She backed up, her gaze still on him, and he found he couldn’t break the connection.
“Enjoy your date,” Bren muttered, hoping he didn’t sound insanely jealous. Maybe it was Erik, that date she’d bought at the Hockey for Everyone fund-raiser. Tripping the team’s goalie in practice wasn’t really cool, but needs must.
“I will,” she said with a sexy kick to the corner of her mouth before she swiveled that ass he wanted to take a bite out of to the ten-items-or-less line. And he let himself look and be reminded of why he had busted his balls for the past eight months doing everything in his power to ignore her.