Page 6 of Tricky Puck

We stop at an intimate booth in the back—the one that people wait months to reserve—where a woman sits in the shadow of the low lighting. The matchmaker drops my arm, and the woman stands so I can see her.

And I stop breathing.

Because whatever this woman has—and I don’t mean her electric blue eyes or her creamy skin or full mouth that I automatically picture wrapped around my dick—I mean the kinds of things a person can’t see, reaches out and grabs me—and I’m not talking about a light touch, I mean a full-fisted vicious squeeze that surrounds my soul.

I’m barely listening as the matchmaker introduces us, but when the lady who is my supposed match smiles, all hell breaks loose in my nervous system, short-circuiting things so thoroughly I don’t hear whatever the hell the matchmaker is saying now—and don’t much care.

The only things working properly are my eyes as I take her in—and my dick. But that goes without saying, right?

Shit. This isn’t how I react to women. Never. Ever.

Not since my second-grade music teacher, Miss Annie Borelli. She had the voice of an angel, and I was in love with her for the entire school year.

And for the entire school year, I was tongue-tied. I couldn’t speak in her presence.

Kind of like now. Fucking hell. This is not good—and so not happening.

A beat of silence passes, and the matchmaker turns to go. Panic seizes me, making me reach out to stop the old woman. She turns to look at me, and I don’t know what to say. I gulp down a puck-sized lump of trepidation.

The old woman smiles then, the first crack in her game face I’ve seen, and it’s a smile of triumph. Shit. She pats my hand and winks at me, reminding me of Grandma. Maybe they’re related? But that makes no sense because I know all our relatives. Maybe there’s a league of cagey old women out there who mysteriously know everything about life and who occasionally use their powers to help—or interfere with—others.

I’m fucked.

The wise old matchmaker, in league with Granny or not, walks away, and without a choice, I man up and turn back to my date—whose name I still don’t know. Fuck. It’s disconcerting as hell that this nameless woman has the power to turn me into a second grader with a crush. I hope she doesn’t have the power to turn me to stone—although my dick is well on the way to granite hard right now.

Fuck this. I can handle this. I’m no second grader. So what if she’s a beautiful woman? I’ve been handling women of all kinds since high school. I force myself to look her in those vivid blue eyes and smile.

She’s not smiling.

I cough, swallow down a lump of whatever, and talk. Or rather, motion with my hand for her to have a seat. Then I sit across from her in the cushy booth.

“Man of few words, I see,” she says, her not-smile changing to a let’s-get-this-over-with expression before it moves on to a patronizing look.

That attitude doesn’t detract from her beauty or whatever the fuck else she has going on that has me—and my dick—stuck on alert, but it does loosen my tongue. For better or worse.

“Why are you here? You don’t look like the matchmaker type.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “I could say the same about you. But I’m not rude.”

My mouth curves up, but I tamp down on the prick of pleasure at her spunk. I don’t mind a good sparring partner. It could be fun for one night. If I can unstick myself from her magnet or whatever she has holding me.

“You don’t like straight talk?”

“You say that like you’re accusing me of being a lightweight, but I’m no wimp, big boy.” She leans forward, and I keep my eyes on hers while my peripheral vision—which is damn good—is good enough to see the dip of creamy cleavage she’s showing between the buttons of her blouse.

“Give me your best shot. Tell me what you think.” She asks for it with way too much confidence.

“She’s capable of multi-layered sparring.” I lean forward, my blood heating up with competitive juices overtaking my hesitation because this is my kind of conversation—gloves off.

“I’ll tell you what I think.” I keep my voice low for emphasis. “You’re smart and hot, and you don’t need a matchmaker to find a date. Which means you don’t want to date, and some well-meaning family member set you up—for your own good—because you’re damaged and lonely, and you don’t think you need a man to make you happy.” I throw in all the likely clichés that might fit and hope something hits.

She opens her mouth, doesn’t say a word for a beat, and doesn’t move her eyes from mine, not even to blink. I stare back at her bright blue eyes, concentrating hard not to be distracted and to keep sharp for the sparring. The last thing I want is to be blindsided by an uppercut. Without even a flicker in my attention, I wait for her return shot.

“Very revealing. I was wondering why you were here,” she says. “Now I know.”

I hold back my grin, but it’s damned difficult to keep my expression blank when it should be an automatic thing.

“I notice you didn’t tell me I was wrong.”