If you asked my ex-husband, he’d tell you I was a level-headed, easy-going, never-let-anything-get-to-me, type of woman. In reality, I was the total opposite. With Ben, I was able to hide behind the mundane, find a home in the cozy comfort of ease and predictability. The everyday, the same ol’, same ol’, I hated it. In this moment, though, I’d give anything for it. Almost twenty-four hours had passed since I’d watched that game, but I was still filtering through the images in my head. Trying to reconcile the man I’d only met the two times, with the savage I’d seen on the bar’s television screen. Reconcile that handsome, sweet face to the brute covered in armor and sweat. I’d tried to concentrate on the memory of his sexy voice making plans for dinner, instead of the way he’d violently beat another man into the ice of the rink.
The guys I worked with said it was normal. “It’s hockey,” they’d said.
Maybe I wasn’t cut out for hockey.
Perhaps I’d been slightly delusional, thinking I could handle the tall, hot, tattooed, hockey player who most likely had a long line of groupies waiting and willing to fluff his ego. It shouldn’t have bothered me that he didn’t call Thursday night like he’d said he would. He had a bad night, and he was probably nursing his wounds, and I wasn’t some naïve twenty-something, sitting on my bed, pining for the guy I knew very little about. But it had bothered me. I hadn’t been with anyone other than Ben. I was a thirty-three-year-old with absolutely no idea how to date.
I exhaled a tremulous breath and stared at the laptop opened on my dresser. Reagan was supposed to video chat with me via Skype. Help talk me off the first-date ledge, but she hadn’t called yet. I stood in my bedroom, wearing black slacks and a cute black and white polka dot blouse awaiting the predate approval call she’d insisted that we have.
“I’m not cut out for this,” I repeated to myself.
I puffed out an irritated breath and a few strands of hair on my forehead shifted. It hadn’t helped my insecurities either when the post-game wrap-up announcers had discussed his rocky relations with his skate coach. They’d made it sound like the fight he’d gotten into was related to her, to a woman named Mia Sokolov. His estranged ex-girlfriend. The woman he’d been with for two years. The woman who “broke the star’s heart,” the same woman who currently worked for his team. Blonde hair, light exotic-looking eyes. Athletic, tiny—everything I wasn’t. I stared at the computer willing Ray to call already. I was falling into the pit of self-doubt with no rope to get me the hell out.
I closed and reopened my Skype app again and caught the reflection of chaos in the mirror above my dresser. I stared at the boxes strewn around my bedroom floor, some not yet opened, and the way my pale gray and green duvet was only unmade on one side. Single girl. The shelf left of the door was empty waiting for me to fill it with new books, new knickknacks—new memories.
As if the powers that be knew I was in a downward spiral, my laptop sang the familiar ring, and I accepted the call with a quick press on the touchpad.
“What the hell are you wearing?” Reagan’s confusion dipped into the creases around her eyes.
I smoothed my palm over the silky fabric of my blouse. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I tipped the screen of my laptop back to remove the glare.
“You look like you’re going to the fucking library.”
“I like polka dots.”
“Yeah, and I’m sure Mark’s grandmother does, too. Take that shit off.” Reagan turned and looked over her shoulder, distracted. She was at work tonight and the noise of the salon sifted through the speakers.
“I think it’s classy?”
“Classy?” she asked, facing the camera again. “I know he’s ten years younger than you, but—”
“Seven.”
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. You look like his kindergarten teacher.”
I ignored her comment and glanced at myself in the mirror. My hair was down and I’d managed to tame my wayward strands into soft waves. And, okay, the outfit was stuffy, but I’d found the restaurant he was taking me to online and it was swanky.
“What about those cute black skinny jeans I saw hanging in the back of your closet and the sexy, flowy, V-neck tank top you wore when we went to lunch the other day? Pair those together and let me see.”
“You don’t think that top is too… I don’t know, Ray, revealing?”
She glared at me from the computer screen. “You’re going on a first date with a hot, younger guy who happens to be a famous millionaire hockey player. Revealing is good.”
“I refuse to be someone I’m not just because he’s a professional hockey player.”
“Stevie…” She said my name as if it hurt her to say it. “That get-up you have on… that’s not you either, that’s Ben.”
I shuddered. Shit, she was right. I ignored the heaviness in my chest and the tightening of my throat as I nodded. My voice was thin when I said, “Give me a second.”
Reagan’s smile had a sad edge to it. She knew me too well.
It hadn’t taken me long to change after I’d found the pair of jeans she was talking about. The top had been recently dry cleaned and was still hanging on the back of my bedroom door. Once I was dressed, and put back together, I presented myself to her majesty.
“My work here is done.” She laughed as she ran her fingers through her purple hair.
“I feel too chubby for these jeans.” I tugged at the bottom of the tank trying to hide my stomach and stared at my full-figure in the mirror.
“You look sexy, Stevie. He’s gonna die.”
I huffed out a laugh. “You think?”
“I know.”
The jeans hugged my hips and ass like a second skin. My curves were outlined in what seemed like high definition, and my top dipped low enough to showcase some cleavage. Despite the large size of my breasts, the blouse wasn’t too indecent. My arms puckered with goose bumps and I wondered if I should throw on a jacket. It was always warm here compared to Richmond, but Floridians loved to crank the A/C.
“Do you care if I borrow that black leather jacket you left here yesterday?”
“Only if you wear those badass gray boots you bought at Nordstrom.”
“Done.”
I licked my lips to stop them from trembling, to stop the anxiety from seeping past my smile.
“You look hot, Stevie. He’s gonna die.”
“You already said that.”
“Well, I meant it. Now go burn that fucking polka dot monstrosity or I will.”
I shook my head as I laughed. “It’s good for work.”
“No, not even for work.”
“Bye, Ray.”
I walked toward the laptop and she held up her hands. “Wait.”
I giggled. “What?”
“Please remember to be yourself.”
“I will.”
She smiled again and the width of it had me smiling, too. “You can do this.”
I flicked my gaze to the mirror. My lips were painted pink, my eyeshadow was smokey, and in this outfit I almost didn’t recognize myself. I wasn’t staring at Stevie West. I was staring at Stevie Baylor and I hadn’t seen her since I’d graduated from high school.
The doorbell rang and my heart dove into my stomach. I shrugged into the jacket Reagan had left here and slipped on the gray boots she’d told me to wear. Grabbing my purse, I headed to the front door with a stomach that had twisted itself inside out. My hand hesitated on the doorknob as I caught my breath. I counted to five before I finally opened it, and when I did, I realized there was no number I could’ve counted to that would’ve prepared me for the man standing on my front porch.
“Wow.”
He chuckled.
“Oh God, I said that out loud, didn’t I?” I asked and a few more knots made a home in my belly.
Mark stood in front of me in dark, fitted, expensive looking jeans. His white button-down had the sleeves rolled up, his ink-stained arms etched and lean. The brown leather boots he had on probably cost more than my entire outfit. His beard had grown in while he was away and, as I shamelessly admired the lips that made me feel like I’d die if I never got the chance to kiss them, I noticed the bruising under his left eye. I wanted to run gentle fingertips over his purple skin, soothe any pain that might’ve remained.
He noticed my scrutiny. “The other guy looks much worse.”
“Does it hurt?” I whispered.
“Not anymore.” He raised his hand letting a few strands of my hair sift through his fingers. “You look… fuck...” His smile was private, for me, as he rubbed the back of his neck. “So sexy.”
Mark’s eyes wandered the length of my body. Lingering on every curve, kissing them with heat. Blush filled my cheeks, dripped down my chest and settled low inside my stomach. I was terrible with compliments. I wasn’t used to the way his eyes devoured me, and it scared me how much I liked it. I hadn’t felt sexy in over a decade, maybe even ever, but in less than thirty seconds he had me believing that maybe I was.
I exhaled a shaky breath as I said, “Thank you.” My anxious laugh made his smile even brighter. “Who knew hockey players cleaned up so nice?”
His laugh was full-bodied and it poured down my spine. “We have to wear suits all the time. For games… charity events…”
“Really?”
“I have more suits than casual clothes.”
Mark in a suit.
“I think I’d like to see that more than you streaking the parking lot.”
“What? Me in a suit?” He chuckled. “I’ll Google some images for you when we get to the restaurant.”
He reached for my hand, his fingers lacing with mine, and my heart climbed its way back into my chest from my stomach. Mark’s eyes fell to my mouth, and for a split second, we both stopped breathing. How could I have missed the touch of a man I hardly knew? The static air between us crackled, and I stepped closer seeking relief from the prickling distance that had separated us.
Mark cupped my cheek with his other hand. His thumb resting soft against my skin. His breath was sharp, it hitched and expanded his chest as he lowered his hand from my face. “Should we get going?”
I nodded, giving him a shy smile. The tension I carried vined around my veins, the vessels straining with each hammered beat of my pulse. I felt Mark everywhere, down to the apex of my thighs.
His lips parted into a handsome grin as he squeezed our connected hands. “Let’s go then.”
Mark’s Mercedes G-Wagon sat in my driveway looking out of place and dangerous with its matte finish and heavily tinted windows. I coughed back another nervous giggle as we stepped off the porch at the absurdity of such an expensive vehicle being parked in the driveway of my home. Reality began to sink in again.
“I’m pretty sure this car costs more than my house.”
He shrugged. “I like your house. It’s cute.”
Cute.
“It’s old.”
“It’s vintage.”
My head tipped forward as I laughed. “You sound like the realtor.”
“I almost bought a place here.”
I raised my eyebrows as he opened the door of the SUV for me. “In Seminole Heights?”
“Yeah.” He held my hand until I was settled into my seat and then shut the door.
I used the spare moment to catalog his scent. New car mixed with his ocean-scented cologne, creating the perfect masculine yet clean smell. I ran my fingertips over the indulgent black leather seat as I watched him round the front of the car. He slid into the driver side with athletic grace and started the engine. His fingers gripped the steering wheel, his tattoos dancing above his muscles as he stared ahead.
“I’m not a flashy guy, Stevie. I’m low-key on most things, but sometimes I like to splurge. I work hard and every now and then I reward myself. I like what I like.” He turned to face me, his eyes serious. “Don’t let this shit get to you. I’m just me… just Mark.”
I swallowed around the bundle of nerves in my throat, the fear of who he was, what it all represented. Our age difference, the fight he’d gotten into, his money, the feelings he was capable of conjuring, I put it all away for now as he reached across the console, his hand settling on my thigh right above my knee.
I let my eyes fall to the connection.
My smile spread as I met his dark gaze again. Mark could have anything he wanted, anyone he wanted, but he was sitting here—with me.
I nodded, pressing my lips together in an attempt to contain my growing smile. He responded, his confident grin pulling into a dimple on his right cheek as I said, “Just Mark.”