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She lowered her gaze to his. “And yellow like pineapple.” She looked into his green eyes. “Most people think all Smarties taste the same.”
“I know my Smarties.”
She raised a brow. “Did you line them up according to color?”
“Of course.”
“We’re Smarties connoisseurs.” She laughed and shook her head. “In the
same room.”
He smiled and pulled his hat from his head. A lock of damp hair escaped and curled over his forehead, touching his brow like a big C. “What are the chances?” He combed it back with his fingers, taking his time adjusting his cap as if getting it just right on his head. “I ran into town earlier, and your picture is on a bunch of newspapers. I’m surprised no one has spotted you.”
“I’m surprised your mother hasn’t turned me in.” She wanted to ask if he was a spy, or at least worked for the Canadian equivalent of the CIA. “This whole thing has gotten way out of control.” She watched him reach for another sandwich and added, “It seems like it started out small, but every day it just snowballs bigger.” He handed her a bottle of BioSteel. “Thanks.” She took a sip of the sports drink that reminded her of Gatorade. “I don’t know how I got here or what to do about it.”
“I know the feeling.” He swallowed, drawing her attention to the muscles stacked around the hollow of his throat. “Shit can go sideways real fast.”
She wondered if that was a military term and fought the urge to look lower as the words “devil’s playground” slid across her brain like a serpent’s tongue. She purposely raised her gaze up his face to his sweaty hat. “Are you an Oilers fan?”
“We used to live in Edmonton.” He glanced at her, then pointed at the plate. “Are you sure you don’t want to eat?”
“I’m sure.”
He reached for another sandwich. “Can’t hardly live in Alberta without being an Oilers fan.”
“My dad played for the Oilers. Of course, that was before I was born.” She stood and moved away from the devil’s playground to a cable weight machine in the middle of the room. The pins in the dual weight stacks were set at three hundred. “Hockey players get traded a lot, but my dad played in Seattle until he retired after ten seasons. My mother wishes he’d stop coaching and retire completely.”
He took the napkin from the bench and wiped his mouth. “Why?”
“Hockey teams are on the road a lot.” Wasn’t there something about the devil’s workshop, too?
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She reached into her shirt and pulled out her Chap Stick to cover her suddenly dry lips. She hadn’t been to First Baptist for a while, but she was pretty sure she’d been warned to stay away from both. “He gets cranky and jet-lagged, and Mom thinks he’s getting too old to keep up such a hectic pace. She wants him to stay home and help hang wallpaper, but I doubt that will happen.”
The one-sided smile she recognized tugged at the corner of his mouth and was followed by an unexpected chuckle.
“Every time he comes home from the road, he complains more and more about old injuries.” She liked his laugh. It was deep and honest and slid down her spine. “But I’d much rather hear him complain about old injuries than grumble about some of the players.” She took the top off the Chap Stick and smeared her lips. Hadn’t there also been something about devil’s tools? “Those rants can last a long time.”
“What does he rant about?” He stood and moved toward her.
“Everything.” He hooked an arm over the top of the weight machine and looked down into her eyes. He was close and half naked, and against her will, she responded to the pheromones attacking her senses. She should move. Run away. “If he thinks a guy’s taking a dive.” The serpent’s tongue whispered, Maybe later.
His hand rose from the machine and he pushed her hair from her temple. “What else?”
The slight touch scattered warm tingles down the side of her neck and across her chest. Earlier, he’d made her feel safe, and now he made her feel tingles. Maybe it was stress. Only she felt relaxed. Maybe it was the devil in her head. Only that voice sounded a lot like her own.
“What else?” His finger slid down the side of her face to her jaw.
Maybe it was Stockholm syndrome. Only she hadn’t been kidnapped. “What?”
“What else does your dad get grouchy about?”
“Oh.” She took a deep breath and let it out, hoping to clear her head, but not having much luck with his touch on the side of her face. “He gets really grouchy if he thinks some guy cares more about his hair than scoring goals.”
He dropped his hand.
“He thinks a guy’s hair shouldn’t flow beneath his helmet,” she explained, and took a step backward. “When I talked to him yesterday, he wasn’t happy with the team’s new sniper. I guess the guy needed some time off to deep-condition his flow.” The little tingles began to dissipate and she said through a relieved laugh, “Dad said he’s a nancy-pants.”
