Page 73 of The Puck Bunny

“You’re right. I have questions.”

“How about if we go inside?”

“I’m dying to. You know, a person’s home says a lot about them. Let’s see what yours tells me about you.”

“Hopefully none of my secrets,” I say reflexively. Then I realize I’m not worried about sharing secrets with this woman. There’s no fear, only total trust.

And I don’t remember the last time I felt like that with a woman.

* * *

Inside, I show her around and she’s impressed, but mildly disappointed at the sparse furnishings in the living area. Nothing but a large screen TV that came with the house and an old couch that my realtor had donated after she dropped by to welcome me to the area and found the place empty.

“The couch is comfortable enough.” I shrug. “I’ve been busy. I’ll finish furnishing the place during All-Star break.” I motion for her to sit on the couch and sit next to her, not too close, but close enough so I can feel her warmth.

“What about the furniture you already had from your previous home?” She waves as if the previous home was in outer space somewhere.

It may as well have been. “I didn’t want to bring anything from L.A. back here with me.”

“Purging all the baggage?”

“Literally and figuratively,” I admit. “The literal baggage is a lot easier to get rid of, I’m finding.”

“Is the princess part of your pesky lingering baggage?” she asks.

I nod. “It’s a long story.” It’s a story I’ve avoided telling anyone except my mother—and I only told her because she deserved an explanation about where I’d been when my father had passed. I never even explained to my agent, Ham Jett, that the princess is why I’d wanted to go into free agency and sign with the Brawlers.

But looking into Sara’s compassionate and spellbinding green eyes, I find myself leaning in, wanting to share.

“I’d like to hear it. What is it between you two?”

“How about a drink before I tell the sordid tale?”

“Sounds like maybe I’ll need one.”

Rising, I cross the open space to my kitchen and grab the bottle of Courvoisier—a congratulation gift from Jett that’s gone untouched until now—and the only two glasses I own, and bring them back to the couch. I pour us each half a glass, put the bottle on the floor, then wrap an arm around her and lean back into the cushions.

“Hmm. You’re right. This couch is comfy,” she says, making me smile.

“We’re staring at a blank TV screen and an empty fireplace, yet, somehow, you make the place feel very comfy,” I say.

We clink glasses and I take a long sip of the smooth liquid, letting it warm my throat.

Sara takes a short sip and then coughs and her eyes start watering.

I take the glass away from her, but when she gets control of her cough, she gestures that she wants it back.

“Let me try again. That stuff is good.”

I laugh and give it to her. “The trick is to hold it in your mouth for a second, then swallow slowly.”

She nods and tries it, then closes her eyes while a slow smile takes shape on her face, making her look like an angel. But my eyes wander over her, taking in the creamy mounds of cleavage and the satiny black dress over her shapely hips and down to those legs. Those magnificent legs. She’s the sexiest angel who ever lived. She opens her eyes and immediately blushes when she sees the way I’m staring at her. No doubt I look like a hungry wolf and she suddenly feels vulnerable.

I clear my throat. “You ready to hear the story about the princess and the hockey player? Fair warning, it’s not one of those happy fairy tales. More like a horror story.”

“I’m ready. Though I already want to slap her in the face and I haven’t heard one word yet.”

I laugh. “It all started out innocently enough. You might even call it exciting. We met in L.A. at some opening and went to the after-party, where we were the darlings of the paparazzi all night. Then I brought her home with me.”