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“Just forget it,” I say, and step sideways to try to go around him, but he matches my step and plants a hand on my hip, bringing a tingly heat under his touch.
“I’ve told you I hated writing that stuff, that it wasn’t me. Let me apologize to the guy, maybe I can make it right with him,then maybe I can make it right with you, too. We will be on this tour for weeks together. We have to find a way to get along.”
I open my mouth to speak, but my mind is still focused on the warmth radiating at my side through my shirt where his hand rests against me.
“He isn’t a friend,” I finally say, and Ian frowns. I have no idea why I’m even considering telling him the truth. I guess I never tried to hide my casual hookups from anyone, which kind of landed me in this mess. But the idea of telling him has my heart racing.He could already know, I tell myself, trying to settle my nerves. He claims he never looked into who the guy was, but what if that was a lie? Or, what if he did have no clue who it was, but the second he knows, he plasters my name all over his magazine? Would Yarro drag me back right away to write captions for graphics, or would he let me finish this tour first?
“If he isn’t a friend, then what is your problem with it, with me?”
Fuck it.
“It was me, okay?”
“What?” Ian steps back, his hand is gone from my waist, and the room is suddenly a few degrees cooler. “What was you?”
“The guy in the pic. It was me. But I had no clue who she was when I…”
Ian’s frown deepens. “The ass threatening the NHL, that was you?”
“I didn’t threaten anything. That dickhead decided on his own to go punching shit,” I retort, my fingers clenched at my sides.
“You’re lucky he didn’t punch you.” Ian moves closer again, not so close that he’s touching me, but close enough that I can smell his cologne and its subtle hints of sandalwood. “I get that you didn’t exactly intend to be on the cover of a gossip column, but no one knew it was you and I’m not going to tell anyone.”
“It’s too late. My boss knew, and a heap of hockey players, too. Don’t you understand? That’s why I’m here. I got shut out by the teams, so my boss put me on this.”
His head tilts slightly to one side, and the frustration etched into his brow softens.
“What do you have to do to get back to hockey?”
“Hope shit dies down while I’m on tour.” I shrug. “That, and get a heap of publicity, keep the Banana Ball bosses happy, and make my boss look good in the process.”
“We can do that.”
“We?”
“Sure. I mean, I helped get you into this. It’s the least I can do.”
He can’t be serious.
“You want to help me? You do realize we’re on opposing publications, right?”
Ian’s hand moves to my biceps, and just like when he grabbed my hip, heat radiates from under his touch. He must just run hot.
“This tour is all about the game. No one said we couldn’t collaborate.” His eyebrows rise. “If you would rather go it alone, that’s cool, but I think we can help each other if you give it a shot. Give me a shot. I want to help make it right.”
I glance down the hallway. I have no idea how long we’ve been standing here, but my stomach is a flurry of nerves. What if one of the other writers comes looking for us? How do I explain being up against a wall with Ian Levram?
“Okay,” I tell him, unsure of exactly what I’m agreeing to.
He lets go of my arm to clap his hands together, a huge smile spreading across his lips.
“Awesome, okay, cool, so we can go over it at breakfast tomorrow.”
“Sure, breakfast. Okay,” I reply, following him back to the table.It’s not until I sit back down that I realize I still need topiss, but getting up again now would be weird, so I grab my phone out and pretend to read a message.
“I just have to make a quick call,” I say then head back to the bathroom.
The rest of the night, I can’t help but zero in on everything Ian says. My eyes watch the way the right side of his lips picks up just a little higher than the left when he smiles and how his tongue peeks out just a touch with every word he says, that starts with ath.
