Mister Hockey (Hellions Angels #1)(16)

They were polar opposites and mostly the knowledge that Mom preferred Neve rolled off Breezy’s back. But today it froze like a film of ice.

Because the truth was that Jed West was in her house. Helping patch her leaky roof. Giving her those curious lingering gazes.

Doubt chilled the blood pounding through her heart.

Because it could be that he was just nearsighted. Or she reminded him of someone he couldn’t place. Or he thought she was funny-looking.

She tried breathing in, but no dice, her chest was tight with tension. Goddamn it! Her mom was getting in her head, infecting her with a bad case of not-good-enough-itis.

Why couldn’t Jed West have been looking at her because he saw . . . something, a something that didn’t suck. A something that made him stick around for the whole afternoon.

Why couldn’t she be good enough to warrant attention from a guy like that?

The anger from when Rory dumped her and her mom didn’t look one smidge surprised bubbled up her throat in a molten gurgle. The hurt she swallowed every time Mom read one of her sister’s articles—heck, emailed them around to the entire family—but had never visited any of her library events, tightened her throat.

“Mother, you need to leave.” The clipped sentence was off her tongue before she could stuff it back inside. Maybe there was no room left.

“Breezy.” Mom’s fingers literally clutched her twenty-four carat ice skate necklace.

“I’ll see you at the picnic.” An invisible good day, sir exclamation hung in an invisible word bubble over her head.

Mom’s brows squashed. “Don’t start—”

“My vision isn’t what it used to be, but I think we’re looking at a grown woman,” Granny Dee said sagely. “One in her own home who is calling her own shots. I suggest we respect that.”

The stunned silence that followed had its own roar.

Mom straightened her posture and stalked out the door, for once surprised enough not to insist on the last word.

When the door slammed shut, Breezy turned and drew a deep, shuddering breath. The frame on the top of the closest bookshelf read Mirror, Mirror on the Wall, I am Sexy, Screw You All. She glanced down at her leggings.

They were so pants.

The floorboard creaked and she swiveled her head.

Jed West stood in the doorway.

Her world still existed, as ordinary as ever. And yet somehow everything had changed.





Chapter Six




Jed rocked on his heels. It wasn’t entirely clear what went down between Breezy and her family, and in the grand scheme, it shouldn’t matter. At least not to him. He’d meant to come in, rattle off a quick excuse and get the hell out of Dodge. That, of course, was the most intelligent course of action. This afternoon had been a distraction. That’s all that was going on here. A fun little break from stressing about whatever was wrong with his fucking head. He had drama enough in his own world. No need to forage for more.

He ran a hand up the rough side of his beard before smoothing it back down. Anyway, he couldn’t seriously be considering asking out a librarian, could he? What the hell would they even have in common? If her stacked bookshelves were any indication, she was as avid a reader as her profession suggested. In a good year he made it through a couple of audiobooks.

She walked into the kitchen. “Hey.”

But the second his gaze locked back on hers, the attraction simmering in his gut rose into a roiling boil. The rules were changing and he didn’t know this new game.

Triumphant color blazed across her cheeks and he recognized a moment of victory when he saw one.

Jesus. She was stunning.

“Sorry to make you get up close and personal with my kitchen,” she said, waving a hand at her cluttered counter.

“I was going to compliment you on your stand mixer,” he replied. Stand mixer? What the actual fuck was coming out of his mouth? Worse still, he kept right on going. “I have the same model back at my place, but in silver.”

“A Kitchen Companion?” A puzzled furrow appeared between her brows. “You like to cook?”

He leaned against the doorway, crossing his legs with a casualness he didn’t feel. “It relaxes me. Plus food on the road sucks most of the time.”

She laughed. “That mixer is one of my prized possessions. I own most of the attachments.”

“Me too.”

She arched a brow. “The ravioli maker?”

He folded his arms. “Used it last Sunday afternoon making kick-ass rosemary sweet potato ravioli.”

They stared at each other for a drawn-out moment. He should be leaving, not swapping recipes like Julia Child, and definitely not guesstimating how the weight of her breasts would feel in his upturned palms.

This situation was turning into a gong show, but his feet refused to budge.

“I ordered the ice cream maker this week, should be here any day,” she continued.

“It’s worth it. I whip up these old-fashioned ice cream sandwiches so good that it would make you think you’ve died and tasted heaven.”

Her lips parted and he could swear her shoulders quaked. “I believe you.”

A flash of her naked, spread on his sheets, biting into one popped into his mind. A dribble of vanilla ice cream sliding over the sweet curve of her breast. Licking her to a clean polish.