Page 32 of He Has Charm

“Jesus, Harper. Do you ever stop rambling? Maybe you need a sedative.” He’s suppressing a grin.

“No. no sedatives.” I clamp my mouth shut before it runs off on another stupid ramble about the evils of sedatives and drugs. Instead I take a deep breath. It’s about time I do my job.

“What time did you get home last night?” I ask. “I waited up.”

“No you didn’t,” he says as he goes back into his room. He leaves the door wide open so I follow him. We need to have this conversation. I need to know that he didn’t go out tomcatting, don’t I? I’ll double-check with O’Rourke and have to do damage control if he did. But O’Rourke would never let him get away with that, would he?

“I tried to wait up,” I say. “I was up until at least eleven p.m. But never mind that I fell asleep. The point is, where were you? Where did you go so late? Please don’t tell me you went—”

“Nowhere except where I told you I was going. Don’t worry. There were no women involved unless you count my teammates’ wives and girlfriends and I don’t go there. Ever.” I snort my disbelief, but I forget to talk when he plucks a T-shirt from his bag and pulls it on over his head and I watch every consequential rippling of every muscle in his torso, chest and arms.

His body is magnificent, even covered by an orange T-shirt with a yellow smiley face. He could have posed for Michelangelo or any world-class sculptor and they’d pay him dearly for the privilege. Shit. I close my mouth as he pulls on socks and sneakers and stares at me, his eyes aimed at my mouth.

“I would never cheat on you.” His smile drips with promise and I shake myself, metaphorically speaking, because he’s toying with me and I need to stay cool. But shit, ignoring his words is hard.

“You expect me to believe O’Rourke and the others were up until all hours entertaining you?”

“Nah. It was more like I was entertaining them. I’m a very entertaining guy, if you recall my recent starring role in a certain video.” He wiggles his brows and now I’m mad because he’s just caused a reflexive hot blush to rise up from the furnace of my center and heat up my face.

“Stop it. You’re ridiculous. Why can’t you just give me a straight answer?” He chuckles and yet again I’m all worked up, losing my cool.

“But getting a rise out of you is so much fun. And it looks like this is as close to flirting as I’m going to get for a while, so maybe you should let it ride.” I stare at him because he actually sounds serious. And if I think about it, he makes sense. I heave a sigh as he aims those baby blues at me like he needs a favor and I’m the only one in the world who can grant it. Shit. I roll my eyes and turn away, waving a hand.

“Just… get dressed. In pants and a shirt that doesn’t light up the night sky and look like it belongs to a fourth grader.” I march from the room to get my bags and check my phone again for messages. I’ve already checked and responded to a dozen of them since I got dressed at seven this morning. Everything is taken care of. But I need the distraction of scrolling through my phone as if I can actually register what I’m seeing. Focus, St. John. I reread Delaney’s text telling me she’ll meet us at the townhouse with the key and some papers to sign.

“Get yourself packed and make it fast. Delaney won’t like it if we keep her waiting,” I call out in the direction of his bedroom in a desperate move to reassert some control.

A few seconds later he emerges in a Brawlers jersey and jeans, a denim jacket slung over his arm and his duffel slung over a shoulder. It’s a gigantic duffel bag and probably weights more than me, but he carries it like he’s Thor’s stunt double. I thought hockey players were supposed to be lean and fast, not big and strong like—he cuts into my thoughts as he steps around me to the door.

“We definitely don’t want to piss off the ballbuster Delaney,” he says. “Finn told me stories about her that would curl your toes. She has brass ones and a take-no-prisoners attitude.” He smiles as he pushes open the door, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Not like you.” He steps into the hall, grabs the handle on my luggage, and heads for the elevator. I’m left following behind.

“Hey, what do you mean by that? I’m just as tough as Delaney. Don’t think you can get away with anything just because I’m—”

Not sure what I am. Nice? That’s what I was about to say, but nice hardly qualifies for prison guard material, does it? He punches the elevator button and turns to me.

“Sweet. And soft. Warm hearted. That’s what you are.” He gives me that smile again with the crinkles and it looks so sincere my knees want to give in and my uterus lets out a moan I can feel vibrate through my tummy.

“I’m none of those things. I’m tough and serious and professional and—”

“Adorable. Can’t forget adorable,” he says as the elevator doors open and he puts a big strong hand on the small of my back to guide me on ahead of him. I have the feeling again like he’s in charge and that can’t be how this goes. I need to take back control.

“No. You’re all wrong about me. Let me correct your picture. I’m relentless. I’m dogged and tireless in my quest to get things done and get them perfect. I dot every i and cross every t and never miss a detail. I work hard because I love work. In fact I love it so much it feels like play. I have ambition and—”

“You ramble like a fucking maniac when you get going, and I don’t know when I’ve been more fascinated by a rambling mouth ever in my life. And that’s the fucking truth.” His eyes hold mine. No crinkles. No smirks. No tease in his voice. I forget to breathe because I think he could be serious but he’s never serious and if he is now then I’m doomed. But he can’t be. This is Maddox Knight, the madman of NOLA talking.

The guy who visits sick kids at children’s hospitals in every NHL city and wants no one to know about it. Shit. I stare back, trying to think past the shock for something to say, but the elevator doors open and I rush out like I was about to drown and need a gulp of air to revive me, to live another day. He’s not serious. He’s not fascinated by me. And even if he is, it’s not the kind of fascination I’m interested in. He’s interested in Sugar Buns and that’s not me.

So what if I had a momentary lapse when I overheard him… in the shower. I’m human, aren’t I? That could have happened to anyone. Any girl with a drop of estrogen would have responded the same way—or worse. I know a few who would have joined him in the shower without hesitating—like Shelly, probably. But not me. I restrained myself admirably, like a professional with bigger and better things to concern myself with.

He’s a player.

He’s the guy who put a blanket on me and a pillow under my head last night.

We walk through the lobby and I get ahead of him to arrange a cab with the valet out front.

“It’s fucking cold,” he says, slipping his jacket on then standing close to me and leaning in like we’re a couple waiting for a cab out front of a hotel after a tryst. A shiver runs down my spine. Where the hell did that thought come from? I turn to him.

“Thank you for the blanket and pillow last night,” I blurt. Shit. Why did I have to acknowledge that gesture of kindness? Why couldn’t I just let it go? Because it kills the nice girl in me not to say thank you, not to be grateful for a kindness and say so. A smile spreads slow and deep on his face, showing all his laugh lines around his mouth and eyes like he does it so often the lines are etched. His face is more relaxed, more natural with that expression of pure joy.