Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“Wow, I’m an asshole.”
“Yeah. You are. Although in my mind, I walked in on you and that random guy and joined in, but I wasn’t going to tell my family that part of the made-up story.”
Clark groans. “Fucking tease.”
“Drink? I’ll replace the one Tommy spilled.”
His lips quirk. “Sure. I’ll let you buy me one.”
“It’s open bar.”
“Even better. I’ll buy you one.”
I turn back, and of course, the bartender’s at the other end again. “I think we’re in the wrong spot. It’s like the Bermuda Triangle for service. It took us forever to get this one.” I hold up my glass. “What’ll you have?”
“Scotch.”
Without even thinking, I lean in and catch the scent of beer. Then I look down at his hand where his now almost-empty bottle is. “Pretty sure that’s beer.”
“Hockey players are smart, huh?”
“Dumb as doornails, really.”
“At least you can be self-deprecating.”
“Always an admirable trait,” I say as serious as I can.
Clark lifts his bottle. “A friend gave this to me earlier when I arrived. Not a huge fan of beer, so I’ve been nursing it all night.”
“Ah, so it’s not a total loss that your suit drank more than you.”
“Except now I have to pay to dry clean the rental.” He gestures to his wet chest, and I have to fight the urge to run my hand over it.
You’re in public, which means kindergarten rules—hands to yourself.
I wish I’d remembered this rule six months ago, because God knows how many times I’ve jerked off thinking about this guy and that kiss we shared. Talking to him now, it doesn’t feel like six months has passed—it’s as if we’ve taken off from where we left it—but at the same time, it feels like I’ve been fantasizing about him forever.
And now he’s here in front of me looking adorably wet and teasing me.
“Send the bill to the B’s,” I say. “Serves Tommy right for being a dick.”
A passing bartender takes pity on us, and we quickly order two scotches.
After we’re given new drinks, Clark turns to me. “So, what’s hockey like to play? I wanted to talk to you about it that night, but … well, yeah, a lot of things didn’t happen that night that I wanted.”
The glint in his eye has me wanting to ask him to get out of here and do exactly what Tommy told me to—hook up and walk away—but I’m going to be good. Because I’m worried once wouldn’t be enough with Clark. He’s been vital in the moving-on process from Ash, and while I think I’m completely over my ex, I’m still not in a position to be with someone. I’ll never be ready for that until I’m out, and I can’t come out until my career is stable.
Right. Hockey. He asked a question about hockey.
“It’s exhausting,” I say. “But worth it.”
“I bet the money helps.”
“Is that another dig at the dry cleaning bill?” I keep my tone light, because I get the sense he’s fucking with me. “Tickets to this place were what … a thousand bucks a head? I think you can afford it.”
“I, uh”—he takes a sip of scotch—“was given my ticket.”
I cock my head. Tommy and I were given comped tickets too, but that’s because Maddox and Damon wanted us to make an appearance as a favor to Matt and his husband. They needed big names attending as a selling point for other big names. It makes me wonder who this guy is to warrant a free invite.
“What do you actually do for a living? Because it’s obvious you’re not in corporate business.”
He mumbles through another sip, as if he doesn’t want to tell me.
I can barely hear him. “A rider?” Do not make a “that sounds promising” joke.
“Writer,” he says more clearly.
“Oh, dear God, take my money,” I joke. “You poor thing, you’re probably starving. I can probably bribe a guy to give you a whole tray of appetizers too.”
“I see you’ve inherited some of your dad’s dry wit, but I do all right. I can manage a little dry cleaning.”
I reach for some napkins over the bar. “Let’s see if we can fix it.”
My movements are as reflexive as slashing someone on the ice. I don’t mean to do it, and I know I shouldn’t, but for some reason, my hand does it anyway. I rub the stain forming on his suit, but it’s no use. And then I realize I’m touching his chest. A really nice chest. Now my hand refuses to pull away, as if it knows it’s touching greatness.
“S-sorry.” I drop my hand as if his suit burns my skin, which is probably even more suspicious to anyone watching than touching him in the first place.
“Don’t sweat it. It’s not every day I have a hot guy’s hands on me.” The corners of his mouth tip up ever so slightly.