Page 18 of He Has Pluck

“You don’t have to convince me,” I say.

He guffaws and gives me a hip-check. I bounce off him and laugh as I stumble a step, and he reaches out to grab me. I pull away and right myself.

“Not that trick again. No more boob grabbing under the guise of preventing a fall. Besides, I have excellent balance.”

He laughs. “You do. Among other things.” He waggles his brow.

“I hope we’re not walking far.”

“Cold?”

I won’t admit to a thing.

“You might want to try zipping your jacket. Maybe wear a hat. You’re not in Columbia or whatever other godforsaken jungle you’ve been to anymore.”

I give him the finger, and he laughs. Then he reaches out, wraps his arm around my shoulders and brings me up against his solid muscled frame. I’m immediately stung by the heat emanating from him like he’s a living boiler room. And Jesus, he makes my blood hum.

We go inside a questionable establishment—my kind of place—called The Tea Party, and I shrug his arm off my shoulder. Before he takes control, because I get that total take control vibe from him, I go straight to the bar and find one stool caught between a crowd of people, mostly men, and claim it.

He follows me, chuckling under his breath. “I don’t mind standing,” he says. “I know I just played an intense game of hockey, and it looks like I’m exhausted, but I’m like a horse. I can rest standing up.” His eyes sparkle with mischief I’d find irresistible in any other man—make that any man who didn’t play sports for a living.

“Of course, I knew that. You’re a strong macho guy, right? You can take anything a little girl like me can throw at you.”

“I’m waiting for you to throw me something interesting.”

My blood pumps hard, and the challenge turns me on like a switch. I reach for the glass on the bar sitting next to me, belonging to someone else not paying attention, and I’m about to grab it to grant him his wiseass wish.

But his hand grabs my wrist and latches on so fast and so tightly that I’m startled and I knock the beer over, spilling it onto the bar and my own lap. “Shit,” I grumble, afraid to look up to see his taunting eyes, but I do.

The guy next to us, whose beer I just spilled, turns and aims an unfriendly scowl, but not at me, at Jason.

“What the fuck?” His scowl doesn’t back down as he looks between us.

“I’m sorry about that,” Jason says with a relaxed, friendly smile. “I’ll buy you another. I’ll buy a round for you and your buddies.” He gestures to the other two men, who turn when they hear their friend’s disgruntled tone.

Jason doesn’t wait for his approval and gestures for the bartender’s attention.

“Another round for these men on me. And I’ll have a Bud.” He looks at me with a questioning quirk of his brow.

“I’ll have a double shot of Glenlivet straight up.”

“No pretty girlie drink for you, eh?”

“What are you, Canadian?”

The guys next to us eye him, their scowls tamed into neutral, and when the bartender delivers their beers, they manage a grudging nod and go back to watching the sports news on the giant TV behind the bar. But the particularly offended guy keeps his attention on Jason like he’s waiting for the answer like he’s now in our conversation, part of our group.

“No,” Jason finally says, eying the guy warily, still holding onto his smile before turning his attention back to me. “But I played with so many Canadians all my life that some of the quirks of the way they speak have rubbed off, and I do find myself adding eh to the end of a question a lot.” He glances at the TV screen, and I follow his gaze to see they’re playing highlights from the game. His score in particular, followed by a headshot of him on the bench. He pulls his baseball cap down.

I lean in. “I thought you were cool with fans, not worried about being recognized?” I’m mocking him, but I can’t help myself, can’t give up the opportunity to dig into him, to unseat him because he’s too sure of himself, of his goals and what he wants, and he shouldn’t be.

The bartender brings our drinks, and Jason hands me mine before picking up his beer and taking a long sip. He hasn’t answered my question, which is the cheap way out of a challenge. Ignoring your opponent will never win you a game in real life, as well as on whatever field of play you’re pretending to live your life on.

“Not tonight,” he says. “I wanted to get to know you better, clear the air between us.”

“Afraid there’s not enough time in a hundred nights for that.” He studies me, smirking and not buying my easy line. To tell the truth, I’m not sold on my line either. So I amend. “Besides, the only air between us needs to be professional. The only way we’re going to know each other is through the camera lens.”

“You sure about that?” He raises a brow and finishes his bottle of cliché beer, the kind with the ads on every sporting event on the channels I always skip past in my survey of the video world. I’m trying to come up with a pithy answer because my first thought was, no, I’m not sure, when the spilled-beer-guy next to us turns back to Jason, reaches out and lifts the baseball cap from his head. Or he tries to.