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“Quinn, I don’t?—”
“Yes, bitch, you do! Let me do my thing.”
There’s no stopping Quinn once she’s got the idea in her head. Soon, I’ve got a link in my inbox. I roll my eyes even if she can’t see me do it. Speaker phone it is.
“You know something? You’re a pain in the ass.”
“Wait until you see Reese in all his flesh and glory. You’ll be wishing he was a pain in your ass then.”
I scrunch up my face. “Gross.”
“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it! Go, go. You take a look yet?”
I click on the link as I continue to talk. “I should just ignore it. You’re a horrible influen?—”
I can’t even finish my sentence. What was I about to say again?
I am met with a tile wall of practically nothing but thirst traps. There’s one, maybe two, hockey pictures sprinkled into the mix, along with a couple of shots with Reese and an older woman. She seems to be the only female that features on his Instagram, and my guess by the playful, platonic nature of the shots is that she’s probably his mother.
Everything else?
Not family friendly in the least.
I see man-chest shots, party shots, bleary-eyed just-out-of-bed shots, along with a plethora of actual shots, courtesy of his tequila, whiskey, and vodka sponsors. There’s more skin in these photos than a nude beach and if Reese didn’t have the occasional team pics or practice and championship snapshots sprinkled into the mix, I’d assume he was an underwear model.
Holy shit.
I lick my lips. I shouldn’t click, but I do.
I blow up a picture of him lying in bed. Soft sheets surround him and strips of morning sunlight spill across his Texas-tanned skin. He’s cut. Like, really, really muscular. His chest has that Marvel superhero shape to it that makes me want to use it as a charcuterie board and then lick him clean after.
Or bury my face in it while he’s got me straddled across his lap because I can’t possibly bear to look him in the eyes as he’s totally fucking my sanity away…
Another picture is him fresh out of the shower. Water glittering down his chest to his abs and the deep V cut leading to a terry cloth towel that only barely hides the fact that Reese is, in fact, alarmingly well-endowed. The outline of his equipment presses against the folds of the fabric.
How big does your dick have to be to leave an outline in a thick-ass towel?
“Cat got your tongue?” Her face is hidden at the moment, but I can still picture Quinn’s face as she asks it. A big mischievous curve like the feline that caught the canary herself. So pleased because she was right: Reese Dalton is the epitome of spank bank material.
“I need a panty change,” I say, laughing—but the joke only half-lands. After all, it’s only a joke if it’s not true.
And this, unfortunately, is hand-on-the-Bible true.
Quinn cackles again in my ear. Goddammit. “Liv’s gots the hots for the hockey hunk,” she sings to me. I immediately close out of Reese’s Instagram, turn off the speakerphone, and put my stern voice on.
“Hell no,” I insist. “Like, okay, he’s attractive. But he’s an asshole. And my boss! So it’s a no-go.”
“I mean, he hired you, didn’t he? How bad of an asshole can he really be?”
I huff a fallen bang out of my face. “First half of my interview, he implied that I didn’t know how to look after children and that I was a bimbo without an education because one of my buttons had popped off and my boobs were not cooperating."
Quinn doesn’t look impressed. “That’s all?”
I scoff. “What do you mean, that’s all? He called me a floozy, basically—no, actually, I think he used the phrase puck bunny, whatever that is. He only hired me after I told him what a rude dick he was and stormed out of his house. Probably wanted to cover his ass.”
I can practically hear the brow raise in Quinn’s voice. “Is that so?”
I’m silent for a little while, and then I sigh. “Okay, maybe not quite. He said he wanted to push and make sure I could handle the pressure.” I grumble. “It doesn’t change that he’s an asshole, and again, my boss. No amount of man-chest is gonna change that, pretty as it may be.”
