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I’m hit with a chilly gust of wind. Late October brings the colder temperatures. I should’ve brought my winter jacket, but I’d figured it would warm up today, not get colder. “No. I planned to take the bus.”
“That works out well.” He jams his hand in his pocket and pulls out a set of rental car keys, twirling them around his finger.
“Sure does.”
I follow him to a Jeep with seriously tinted windows. He unlocks the door and helps me in. He doesn’t even try to feel me up, although there are kids and parents in the parking lot, so that might be why. It’s chilly inside, but at least there’s no wind. Randy tosses my bag on the console, then climbs in and turns the engine over. Country music blares through the speakers.
He rushes to turn it down and blasts the heat, wearing a sheepish grin. “Sorry ’bout that.”
“Country, eh? I didn’t figure you for the type.”
“No?” He frees the tie from his hair, then gathers up the fallen strands, pulling it back into a little nub. “What kind of music did you think I’d listen to?”
“I don’t know. Pop? Dancy stuff.”
“Really? Huh.” He moves my bag to the backseat. “Why’d you think that?”
“I don’t know. You’re always at the bar, and that’s what they play there.”
“I’m not so big on the bar scene lately.” Randy digs around in his back pocket and tosses his wallet on the seat next to him. “You don’t have to work until five, right?”
“Right.”
He stretches his arm across the headrest and fingers my hair. It probably looks like crap. Much like the rest of me. “So we have a few hours to kill.”
“Yup.” My stomach is doing all sorts of acrobatics. It feels like there’s an entire amusement park inside there, and I’m on all the craziest rides. The one I want to get on is sitting right beside me.
“You wanna go get something to eat? You must be starving.” Now he’s drawing lines on my neck, or something. Tiny pleasure currents are being radio-signaled through my body. They’d be attached to a satellite in my underwear—if I was wearing any. I’m not very focused on his words. Instead I’m staring at his mouth.
“Lily? You wanna go for lunch? My treat.”
I snap out of my vagina-induced trance and look down at my outfit. “Sure. We can hit a drive-thru or something.”
“Drive-thru? I was thinking an actual restaurant.”
And I’m thinking about how tinted the windows are, and how roomy the backseat of this Jeep is. He hasn’t even tried to kiss me yet. What kind of casual-sex business is this?
“I can’t go to a restaurant dressed liked this—unless you want to hit a crappy diner. Then I’ll fit in with the bums and potheads. We’ve got lots of those downtown.”
He looks me over. It lights all my special parts on fire. “You look great.”
I glance down at my old hoodie and my pilly, holey sweats and then back up at him. “You didn’t take a hit last night, did you?”
“What? No. Why?”
“You do see what I’m wearing, right? I can’t go out in public like this. Especially not with you looking all—” I motion to his hotness.
“Me looking all what?”
I give him the cut eye. “Are you seriously fishing for compliments? Like you don’t already have a huge hockey-star ego. You need me to stroke it now, too?”
His tongue peeks out to touch the scar on his top lip, the one I like to run my tongue across before I stick it in his mouth. I am so sexed up right now. I need to get a razor and fix my forest-style legs. Beyond that, I need to make out with this man again. I’m so busy thinking about what I want to do to him, I almost miss his snappy response.
“I have things that need stroking more than my ego.”
I shouldn’t want to launch myself at him for being such a cocky bastard, but I do. I manage to keep it together enough not to offer to eat his cock for lunch.
Instead I fire back with some snark, because it’s more acceptable. For me. “Would you like me to leave you alone for a few minutes so you can take care of that?”
Randy grins. “I’m good. I can wait until after lunch. Why don’t we stop at your place and you can change, if it isn’t too far.”
Nothing in Guelph is far away. Everything is twenty minutes, give or take. But there’s no way in Satan’s hairy ball sac I’m letting Randy see where I live. I’m not ashamed of my apartment—but I know exactly how much a professional hockey player makes a year. It’s a lot of money. Randy wears nice clothes. His underwear is expensive—I ruined them knowing this. And I bet he drives a sweet ride with leather seats.
