Destiny on Ice (Boys of Winter #1)(24)

Nope. This guy is everything I never find, but am always looking for—a perfect face, a body to die for, and a cocky attitude that I hate and love at the same time.

I did not just think that! Stop it right now. Thoughts like that will only lead to trouble, especially since you have to basically live with this guy.

I sigh, and Brent looks up, his pen stalling on a doodle. He catches my eye and smiles, like he knows what I’m thinking. Or is that just a nice smile, a truce maybe? I hope not, because that makes him even more attractive.

Living with him might pose a problem.

No, I’ll be fine. I’m the pro here, and not the hooker kind he’s probably acquainted with. In any case, this Oliver dude must really be a big deal. I’ve never been required to live right on top of one of my clients.

On top of Brent Oliver, would that really be so bad? All those muscles under little ole me. And I bet with playing all that hockey, his endurance is—

Wait! What the hell is wrong with me?

Luckily, the tortuous meeting adjourns. I quickly gather my folder and say good-bye to everyone. And then I make a beeline for the elevator.

Seems my life is becoming a series of escapes from Brent Oliver.

I stop in the ladies’ room on the first floor to splash some water on my face. That delays my trip back to my waiting car with the friendly driver.

Bad move. When I arrive outside my car is waiting for me, yes, but my driver—the rabid Wolves fan—is talking animatedly with none other than my new client.

Big surprise there.

Not.

Prancing up to the car, kitten heels clicking, I announce my arrival with a very loud cough.

Brent turns and instantly offers me his water. “Here. You sound parched. Have some water.”

“What? You expect me to drink from the same bottle as you?”

“Yeah, sure.” He wiggles the water out in front of me. “Have a sip. You look like you could use some cooling down.”

“As if,” I declare, channeling my best Cher Horowitz from Clueless. “I’m not, nor will I ever be thirsty enough to drink from a bottle that has touched your lips.”

Brent shoots me a look like I’m half off my rocker. “Suit yourself,” he says.

It’s still stifling hot outside, and I actually am thirsty as hell. But I’ll be damned if I’m drinking from his bottle. One of the “problems that need addressing” listed in the file stated that my client is a womanizer.

With this in mind, and clearly without thinking it through, I blurt out, “God knows where those lips have been and what you’ve picked up this summer.”

Okay, it’s now official—the Las Vegas heat has melted my brain and my filter.

The friendly driver gawks at me, surely shocked I’d say such a thing to Mr. Superstar. But it’s Mr. Superstar himself who looks genuinely hurt by my comment.

“Relax. It was just a joke,” I mutter.

I don’t think he takes it very well, since the look he gives me shouts a clear, Game on, bitch.

Since I have a job to do, one that demands he respect me, I send him a message with my eyes that says right the hell back, Go ahead and bring it, buddy. Show me your best.





If Looks Could Kill





I was all set to be nice, willing to call a truce even. But f*ck it. If Aubrey Shelburne wants to spar with me, let’s do it. She’s about to get more than she bargained for.

It was more than clear when Dolby informed her that she has to stay with me, to essentially “train” me to be a good boy—f*ck that shit, by the way—that she wasn’t digging it.

And now she has the nerve, after insulting me when I only asked if she wanted a sip of my water, to completely ignore me like I’m not still standing here.

Turning away, she strikes up a conversation with the driver.

Oh, so she thinks she can dismiss me and she’ll have a nice, quiet ride to my house, just her and the limo guy.

Not gonna happen, sweetheart.

The driver is a fan, as I discovered when I first spoke with him. Well, I’m not above using it to my advantage.

Speaking right over Aubrey, which earns me a scowl from her, I say to the driver, “Hey, man. Can you do me a big favor?”

“Yes, certainly, Mr. Oliver.” The driver’s eager smile tells me he’s more than ready to help. “Anything you want,” he goes on, “you just name it.”

I shoot Aubrey a smug ah-it’s-good-to-be-a-star expression, to which she rolls her eyes. Such pretty eyes too, just like this morning. It’s a shame we can’t stand each other. And let me be clear. I may have been up for her challenging me, but that was before I had any clue she was about to be assigned my—insert my own eye roll here—life coach.

Back focusing on the driver, I say, “You may as well go ahead and take off since—”

“Wait, no—” Aubrey tries to interject.

“—Miss Shelburne here is headed to the same place I’m going, which happens to be my house.” I narrow my eyes at her. “She can just ride with me.”

My new life coach glares over at me. And honestly, if looks could kill I’d be a dead man.

“Sure, fine, that’s cool with me, Mr. Oliver.” The driver hops out and begins unloading Aubrey’s bags from the trunk.