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The door swings open and a familiar face greets me, a pair of playful eyes. Shane smiles at the sight of me, then groans when he notices what I’m wearing.
“Oh, that’s nice. Can I be your date tonight instead?”
“Call it a date again and I’ll punch you in the nuts,” I say sweetly.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” He flashes a cheeky grin and I’m momentarily distracted. Those dimples are dangerous.
He opens the door wider for me. “Come in. I need you to settle something for us.”
“Settle what? And for whom?” I gaze past his broad shoulders, but he seems to be alone.
He takes my hand and tugs me inside. Amused, I follow him into the living room, which, of course, looks like a typical man cave. Huge sectional, two leather armchairs, a massive TV, and a lot of beer bottles on the coffee table. Despite the cluttered table, the room is neat and tidy, so they’re not complete heathens, I guess.
Beckett Dunne, sprawled on the chaise part of the couch, greets me with his own set of killer dimples. “Graham,” he says as if we’re old friends.
“Where’s Ryder?” I ask.
“He’ll be down in a minute,” answers Shane. “You gotta settle this first.”
“Fine. I’ll play along. What am I settling?”
Shane slides his hands in the rear pockets of his jeans and rocks back on his heels. “Which pickup line you would respond better to.”
“You’re practicing pickup lines? Classy.”
“We’re not practicing. We’re trying to determine which one of us is right. Spoiler alert: it’s me.”
“I kind of have a feeling you’re both wrong,” I say helpfully.
“Nah,” Beckett drawls.
Those dimples again. God help the women on the receiving end of these pickup lines. I have to admit, even I’m not immune. I find them both attractive. If I was in the market for another hockey player boyfriend, either of them would do. Lookswise, anyway. Personalities are yet to be determined.
“I’m saying you go charming,” Shane explains. “Be a little witty.”
“You think your line is witty?” Beckett hoots.
Shane ignores him. “It’s fucking witty,” he assures me.
I turn to Beckett. “And you?”
“I think you take the direct approach. We—the chick and I—we both know what the other one wants. Your line needs to reflect that.”
I can’t deny I am intrigued. “All right, let’s hear them.”
Shane grabs a full bottle of beer from the table and holds it out to me.
“Oh, I’m not drinking. I’m driving.”
“You don’t have to drink it. Just hold it. Get in character.”
I laugh as he shoves the bottle in my hand and ushers me to the center of the room, where he proceeds to set the scene like the director of a community theater production.
“Okay, you’re at the club, right? There’s, like, a sick R&B song playing or whatever. You’re vibing.”
I start bopping my head to nonexistent music.
He stares at me in dismay. “Oh no. I’m not approaching you if that’s how you’re dancing.”
I stare back. “Do you want me to play your game, or can I go find Ryder and be on my way—”
“Fine, let’s continue. You ready?”
“I guess so?”
I don’t know what it is about hockey players, but I find that all of them are insane. Sexy but insane.
Shane moves to the doorway, cracks his knuckles, and then fully commits to his character by striding toward me exuding sheer confidence. He casts that smile again. Tucks one hand in his pocket, all cool-like.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I play along.
“I’m Shane.”
“Gigi.”
“Tell me something, Gigi.” He slants his head. “Are you an organ harvester? Because you’ve stolen my heart.”
Dead silence crashes over the room.
Then I keel over with laughter.
Due to my hysterics, I nearly drop the beer bottle on the carpet. Beckett plucks it from my hand before it tips over.
Chuckling, he glances at his friend. “See?”
“Yes, see? She’s laughing. I’m in.” Shane narrows his eyes at me. “Right?”
“Well…”
“Come on, Gisele. You know that got you.”
“I mean. I don’t know what it did to me, but…” I take a breath, tamping down another wave of giggles. “What’s yours?” I ask Beckett.
He hands me the bottle back. “Do the weird head-bopping thing again.”
I oblige.
Beckett comes at me with an equally confident gait. Fuck, these guys are sure of themselves.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
He bites the corner of his lip. “I kind of want to fuck you. Do you want to fuck me?”
My jaw hits the floor.
I close it, then open it.
Finally, I find my voice. “I…think I might be impressed.”
He smiles seductively. “Do you want to get out of here?”
“Yes,” I answer, a bit winded. “I think I do.”
“Oh, fuck this,” Shane complains. “No way in a million years would you react that way.”
I mull it over. “I might if I wanted to sleep with him.”
“Mine made you laugh.”
“It did,” I relent, “but if we’re both there for sex”—I nod toward Beckett—“I think he’s my man.”
