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“I don’t think a gentleman is who you go for.”
The air in the cab thickened with tension. It was hard to tell from his tone how he meant the statement. I shoved away images of the ungentlemanly things I’d let him do.
Time to change the subject. “New rule, Monroe.”
“And what’d that be?”
His eyes traced over me, the supple leather brushing my thighs as I shifted. Fuck, I wished he’d lower his brim again so he couldn’t see me.
“You need to get a diary so you—”
“Not gettin’ a diary.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Cute that you thought it was optional. Your notes app, then. A fucking stone tablet for all I care.” I threw my hands up. “Regardless, you’re getting something, so every time you’re going to say, or do, something stupid—like, oh, I don’t know, rip out someone’s to do list and steal it—you can write it down and think over your life choices instead.”
His jaw ticked under the dusting of stubble. The flaring of his nostrils drew attention to the slight bump on his bridge. A break when he was a player? I glanced at his ears, where there was slight cauliflowering of the cartilage. Something about his flaws was hot.
“All right,” he said, breaking me out of it. He leaned over the center console, crowding my already small space and I swallowed, wondering for a moment who was really in charge here. “Then I get a rule, too, Trouble. No more finding random men to complete your little tasks for you,” he said, extending his hand for a shake.
That was the rule he wanted?
My hand disappeared in his much larger one, his callouses once again rubbing against me. The hold was firm but he was careful not to hurt me.
“Fine.”
SEVEN
MONROE
THE TOUCHES AND TENSION HAVE ME SCREAMING AND KICKING MY FEET.
Dumb list was burning a hole in my back pocket. Same way Graciella’s glare had been drilling into my skull since we’d walked into the Stars’ admin offices.
I’d only been in this wing of the practice facilities once or twice since joining. My office was closer to the locker rooms. Closer to my players.
I glued my eyes to the glass walls etched with our logo, my neck cranked so far to the left that a damn cramp was forming from avoiding looking across the way at her.
Damn chairs.
I sprawled my legs out trying to get comfortable, but the things weren’t built for guys my size. Ironic given that the chairs lined the waiting area for an NHL team. Actually, the space kind of mimicked the rink, lined with all the glass, leaving me feeling like someone might be watching from the offices.
Normally, I didn’t like being around strangers, but I’d have given anything for there to be someone else there with us right now. Someone to break the simmering tension. But it was a ghost town, the lull between our win and the start of offseason plans.
A ring sounded from the receptionist’s desk around the corner, shifting to a muffled conversation. I picked at a stray thread on the inner stitching of my jeans, anything to keep from dissecting why her ribbing nearly had me smiling. Or how she seemed to suck me into her orbit—whether I wanted it or not. I didn’t.
A chirp came from my wrist, interrupting the low hum from the fluorescent lights and the groaning from a watercooler kicking on somewhere down the maze of halls.
Elevated heart rate detected. Would you like to track a workout?
I smashed “no” on the screen, which only spiked the number higher.
“Thumper, quit it.”
I looked up to see Graciella frowning at me. A ghost of her reflection doubled off the glass wall she leaned against. My eyes focused on her slightly chipped yellow nail, pointed accusingly at my leg, irresistibly drawn to it landing on her hips. The vibrant green fabric of her dress cinched at her waist, and the hemline crept up slightly.
Fuck, her bare thighs.
I tipped my head back, forcing myself to count the sprinklers popping out of the drop ceiling panels instead of the little gold specks I swore shimmered on her legs.
