“Kids are good fans. They’re authentic. They care for the right reasons.”
“Is there such a thing as a bad fan?”
“If you’re asking that question, you clearly don’t know sports,” I say grimly.
“Not even a little bit,” she confirms. “But I’d love to learn.”
I let my gaze dip to her lips as she nibbles the bottom one. Fuck, she’s so pretty. And she smells amazing. Like flowers and marshmallows or something. My nose has been broken enough times that my sense of smell isn’t what it used to be, but the hints of Lila’s scent are tantalizing.
“You wanna learn about hockey?” I ask, bemused.
“I’d love to.” She smiles at me, and it’s so pure and lovely that for a second I forget to breathe.
I get it now, why men do stupid things over girls they just met. Blow their lives up for someone they barely know. Start fights and wars over a woman.
This girl is Helen of Troy with pink hair and triple ear piercings. I could see launching a thousand ships for her.
Or rescuing a gigantic stray dog off the side of the road.
Chapter 3
Marble Falls Royalty
LILA
Even though I have a busy day at work the next morning—taking in a new shipment of antiques I sourced at Round Top down in Texas, organizing the store to make room for them, pricing adjustments and check-ins on shipments and all the million logistical things that come with owning a small design firm and boutique—I can’t stop thinking about last night. About the poor injured dog and how she’s doing during her overnight stay at the vet.
And about the breathtakingly handsome, gruff cowboy who helped rescue her.
Not just a cowboy, either, apparently. The first thing I did when I got home was do a thoroughly stalker-ish Google deep dive on one dark-haired, green-eyed, hot-as-hell Slade Rhodes.
But not before several other things happened.
For one, when I went up to the counter at the vet to ask if they could split the bill over several credit cards, thereceptionist told me, “Your boyfriend already paid,” and lifted her chin towards Slade with a wink at me.
And when I tried to tell Slade that was crazy, that I couldn’t possibly let him do that, he just quietly let me babble on for a while before giving my arm a brief touch and saying, “It’s already done.”
I’ve dated men who made a production of picking up a check at a restaurant, who wanted you to notice and be grateful. Slade paid a four-figure vet bill for a stray dog without blinking and then changed the subject.
And then he drove me back to my car, waited the entire time while the locksmith worked, and insisted on footing the bill for that too.
He’s an old-school, traditional kind of guy. I never thought I’d be into that. The kind of traditional guys I knew growing up were the ones who got off on plastering their family name all over libraries but shriveled at the thought of their wives and daughters studying inside those same buildings.
But Slade is traditional in a good way. A way that made me feel safe and cared for.
His professional accomplishments are all over the web, but there was absolutely nothing about his personal life. No pictures of him with girlfriends on the red carpet. The paparazzi shots that are out there consist of pictures of him wearing various team baseball caps pulled down low over his eyes while he scowls in the direction of the camera.
For a famous athlete, he’s still quite mysterious. And apparently intensely private.
Which has only made my curiosity about him go up to the n-th degree.
I gave him my business card, not really expecting that he’d use it. But he texted me that same night to make sure I made it home okay.
I was kind of hoping he’d use it as a pretext to asking me out, but no such luck.
I guess he’s just a decent guy who was trying to do the right thing. Not actually into me or anything.
Which I get. I mean, I looked like a crazy person dressed in a sexy bunny costume. He’s a professional athlete. He probably quietly dates supermodels or something.
