Page 17 of Hot As Ice

“I’m right on time.”

“Which means you’re late.” He adjusts the lapels of my tux, which need no adjusting, and it makes me want to gag. I hate when he touches me. It’s always some type of power move.

He sniffs and glances at Stevie dismissively. “Who’s this?”

“This is Stevie. My date.”

Stevie smiles politely. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Cruise.”

My dad grunts but takes her hand in a handshake. He’s pretending not to care, but I know he’s dying to know who she is and why I’ve decided to bring a date for him to meet for the first time in my life. I love having the upper hand.

“We’re gonna go mingle,” I tell him, steering Stevie away.

“Don’t leave without telling me,” he says as a parting shot. Fucking control freak. I don’t reply. Any other time, his words would have me fuming, but having Stevie beside me, my hand on her back, calms me somewhat. Strange.

I follow behind her as she takes in the art on the walls. She stops at one painting of a mother and child embracing. The mother is cuddling the child, a daughter, close to her breast, her eyes closed, looking peaceful. Stevie stares at it for a long time, and I drink her in.

I might have invited her to act as a buffer for me tonight, but she’s intriguing me more and more with every minute. I like her quiet demeanor. She doesn’t babble or cling to me or act like a deranged fan. She probably doesn’t even know anything about hockey.

She notices me staring at her and turns away from the painting. “Sorry,” she says, looking sheepish. “I got a little too engrossed in that one.”

“It’s a nice piece.”

She nods. “I like art that evokes a feeling out of me.”

“Some would say that’s the whole point of art,” I say.

She shrugs. “I guess so. But I feel like some people just like the aesthetic or what it might be worth in value, and not necessarily what it makes them feel. If anything.”

“Yeah, like my father. He only gives a shit about art if it’s a good investment.”

“Not your uncle though?”

“No,” I concede. “He actually cares about this stuff.”

“You don’t get along with your dad, do you?” she asks, catching me off guard. It’s obvious my father and I hate each other, but most people are too polite to mention it.

“Not really,” I admit.

“I don’t get along with my dad either. I mean, I haven’t even seen him in years.”

“That’s better than having a dad who’s always in your business.”

She looks at me intently, and it feels like she’s seeing way too much of me. I don’t like it. Not at all. “Come on,” I take her arm. “I want you to meet my grandfather too.”

I have no idea where Grandad is but he’s got to be here somewhere. At 69 years old, he’s still a force of nature. Sure enough, it doesn’t take long before I home in on his booming laughter and find him in the middle of the room, holding court with a glass of champagne in his hand.

“Hunter, my boy,” he rumbles, beckoning me toward him.

“Hey, Gramps.”

He claps me on the back. “Looking good.” He ruffles my hair. He’s the only one who can get away with doing that. I smooth it back down and turn to Stevie.

“Gramps, meet Stevie, my date.”

“Hello,” grandad says politely, his shrewd eyes assessing. He looks at me while shaking her hand. “She’s beautiful.”

Stevie blushes.