Mister Hockey (Hellions Angels #1)(14)

“Yeah?” He answered like it was normal.

Because it is his name, Stupid.

She blinked twice. “Mind helping me in the kitchen?”

While he might be a god, he was also slumming it among mortals and her family looked ready to stroke out. It was all hands on deck.

“Sure.” He followed her into the tiny galley kitchen. When searching for a home to buy, she had craved an open plan living and kitchen area, but right now was grateful for the ability to shut the door. She leaned against it and pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Okay. Brace yourself. Some of my family members happen to be pretty big Hellions fans.”

Some being code for every single woman in her bloodline.

He digested the information. “And you?” He asked the question casually, but it had a loaded feeling.

She shrugged, feigning nonchalance to hide her agitation. Outright lying was always a bad idea, but this didn’t seem the time to mention she had a cardboard cutout of his likeness in her closet.

Was there ever really a good time to share such information?

“I . . . you know . . .” She cleared her throat. “Hockey is a good game. Exciting, I guess. If you’re into that sort of thing.” Uh, which she was. In fact, she had a family rep for hurling handfuls of cheese and caramel popcorn at the screen during bad calls.

“But you’re not a fan?” Obvious relief lit his eyes. “That’s good. Real good.”

“It is?” She wanted to press him, ask follow-up questions, namely “why?” but the only part of her cognitive functioning that seemed operational was the area that controlled basic vital functions. And from the freaked-out way her breath hitched and her heart pounded, even that was pushing her physiological luck.

“Breezy? Honey? Join us a moment?” Her mother’s voice rang out from the living room. It had a stilting, formal, polite quality. As if they were strangers. “In your room if you please.”

She needed a fire engine hose to put out the burn in her cheeks. “Crap, my room, moving the bed . . . you saw. . . .” She couldn’t even say the words.

Sex. Toys.

My sex toys.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

Now it was his turn to blush and the unexpected sight nearly catapulted her heart from her chest. “I moved your, uh, special things into the laundry basket.”

“Special things?” Her voice squeaked. “That’s one way of putting it.” Jed West had touched her vibrators. It could almost be sexy if it wasn’t absolutely horrifying.

A box of red wine perched on the third shelf in her pantry. She could barricade herself inside and position her mouth directly under the spigot. While it might not be possible to drink the shame away, she was willing to give it her best shot.

“Your grandma burst in and I had to think fast. Didn’t want to give her a stroke. Haven’t taken a CPR class in a while.” That smile might be “boy next door” but those eyes were straight-up bad boy. Right now, he didn’t resemble the most respected and beloved hockey player in the state. Just a good-looking guy with dirty thoughts on the brain. “Quite the collection you have.”

And in this weird alternate universe of her kitchen, she wasn’t a dumpy librarian who couldn’t keep even a subpar man, but the object of desire.

“Seemed more fun than stamps or spoons.” She subtly pinched the soft flesh of her inner elbow. Hard. Trying to find her center again. “Anyway. Looks like you . . . uh . . . you . . . rescued me again.” And while saving her from sex toy shaming wasn’t exactly a moment to be memorialized in the next Disney movie, no white knight could have done better.

His wicked smile heated her to the tips of her toes. She’d seen his grin a thousand times on television, and on occasion had even wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of such perfection. Turned out that the answer was so good that her mind had never had a chance in trying to comprehend.

“Breezy!” This time there was a definite squawk to Mom’s voice.

Ah, memories. That was the same tone Mom had used when Breezy klutzed through yet another one of her figure skating classes. Never a good look when the coach’s daughter was unable to make it through a session without turning her butt black and blue.

This afternoon might have been an opportunity to slip into a wonderful alternate universe, but everyday reality was right there, down the hall.

“Hold that thought,” she burst out.

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” His eyes were something else, bits of green and gold, with a smoldering expression that threatened to leave her panties in cinders.

She blinked, fighting for equilibrium. “I am sure it’s all sugar and spice. After all, you were an altar boy for how long again?”

“Eight years.” His smile wilted. “How do you know that?”

She slammed her lips shut, teetering on the edge of the conversational cliff. What was going to be next? I happen to know pretty much everything about you, Westy. Thanks to my mindless midnight stalking sessions on the internet, I’ve built up quite the dossier. Birthdate: April 29th. Sign: Taurus. Hometown: Sausalito, California. Sibling: One, brother. Father: Living. Retired transplant surgeon from UCSF. Mother: Living. Homemaker. Favorite food: Burgers. Wife: None.

How about hell and no.

Jed couldn’t know that. He’d think she was crazy pants.