Why the fuck did I text Wes? I should have messaged Gillian. He’d have responded with afuck off. I thought since Wes makes a sport out of telling me no, that he’d give me what I’m sodesperate for…. For someone to talk me out of meeting Pen at the bar. Leave it to Wes to tell me no to telling me no.
I let out a beleaguered breath. “Her name is Pen Meadows…”
As the story tumbles out, I know that this is a hundred percent the Pen-effect. Wes calls me the vault. He’s made it his mission to pry open my combination lock with little to no success.
“So, what’s holding you back? She doesn’t sound like a fame fucker like Emma,” Wes asks, forehead puckered.
“Pen’s not like that,” I snap.
“Easy tiger.” He whistles. “I say she isn’t. I’m looking at her social media, and your girl is like a foxy do-gooder.”
“She’s too good for me.”
“Probably.” His dark eyebrows shrug. “Is this because you punched Landon? I know you’re taking a lot of heat for that, but what does this have to do with your new lady love?”
“She’s not my lady love.”
“Maybe not yet, but the growly face you’re making at me says she’s something.” He wags a finger. “Okay, my brother from another mother, let me drop some knowledge on you. You like this woman. Clearly a lot because you’re emotionally processing with me, and we know you hate all emotions except for annoyance, aggression, and anger. You want someone to tell you to not do something you want because you’re scared.”
I open my mouth to protest.
He raises a hand. “Hush, a grown up is speaking.”
“I’m five years older than you?—”
“Yes, but unlike you, I have the emotional maturity of an eighty-year-old, thanks to my therapist mother. You feel something and that scares you. You’re using all the excuses to keep her at a distance. From what you’ve said, it seems like this woman actually likes you, therealRowan, not the famous hockey player. And the feeling is mutual.”
I swallow and take in his words. Since meeting this morning, Pen’s only known me. The fame that comes with what I do hasn’t clouded her vision about me. She doesn’t even know I’m in the NHL. Not yet at least.
“Dude, if you won’t give it a shot for yourself, at least do it for her. Give her a chance to decide if she wants to sign up for the Rowan Iverson boyfriend train.”
“Boyfriend.” The word is a slow pronouncement on my lips as if I’m trying it out like shoes I may buy. That’s exactly what I’m considering, because if I let Pen in that’s where this is heading. I wouldn’t be casual about this… not about her.
“A button-up shirt with jeans. Blue, if you have one – the shirt, not the jeans. Though those can be blue too. Untuck the shirt and roll up the sleeves. Ladies love that look. It’s like the male version of cleavage,” Wes drawls, pulling my attention back to him.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s my suggestion for what to wear when you head down to the lobby to meet Pen. Now, get your ass moving before someone else swoops in and steals your lady.”
Fifteen minutes later,I stride down the hall towards the inn’s lobby. Clusters of small round tables surround the bar’s tiny stage. A half-wall separates it from the small seating area in front of the reception desk. A young woman with short black hair stands behind the dark oak desk, scrolling on her phone.
Scanning the area, I look for Pen. Guests mingle with drinks in hand between the lobby’s antique furniture and bar. Thequiet hum of instrumental jazz music underscores murmured conversations.
Lola, who’s changed from the blazer she wore when we checked in into a canary-yellow dress, bends talking to someone I assume from close-cropped ginger-hair is her nephew, Harley, thesexyEd Sheeran. A large grin stretches over his chiseled features. I guess I can see the appeal, if you’re into Greek god-esque good looks. His blue eyes peer past his aunt at someone or something else, obscured by Lola.
Laughing, Lola turns towards the bar and my eyes drop onto what…who…drew Harley’s attention. Breath rushes out of me as if I was checked into a rink’s boards by a two-hundred-fifty-pound defenseman hurling into me like a bullet train.
Pen sits opposite of Michigan Ed Sheeran. A glossy pink colors her lips, which lift in a sweet smile. A delicate rose glow rouges her cheeks. Her auburn hair is loose, draping around her bare shoulders. The flash of a silver necklace pulls my attention to a hint of cleavage. Her gaze locked with his.
Jealousy explodes inside me. I want to storm over there, take her hand, pull her into my arms, and kiss her. I swipe my hand down my face, knowing that this is partly due to pure envy that her sunshine is directed toward someone else’s orbit, but mostly it’s simple desire.
To kiss her because she looks so pretty sitting there. The way her skin glows against the Caribbean blue of her dress. How the candlelight from the center of the table dances in the irises of her eyes, making them almost shimmer.
Her hand reaches across the table and touches his arm. An unbridled laugh belts from her.
And I want to fucking die. My jaw clenches and I take a step toward the bar but stop.
You can’t do this.I’m ready to walk over there and punch him. He’s done nothing wrong. He just sees what I see. Howcan I expect anyone to be around Pen and not fall into her pull. I’ve seen it all day. The way her smile disarms and attracts. The cashier at Tim Hortons. The flight attendant. Lola. Hell, even the teenager who made our sandwiches at the deli had a starry-eyed expression as Pen chatted him up about his favorite sandwiches to make.
