Mister Hockey (Hellions Angels #1)(33)

Tor Gunnar: Too bad. Angel’s got hold of my number and calling me on speed dial. Wants a fucking quote on the contract negotiations.

Jed West: Why not give her something?

Tor Gunnar: I need to feed a jackal like I need a third nut.

Jed smirked, turning off his phone. He didn’t want to think about a lockout. Or what Tor would say if he knew he had Neve’s sister sprawled naked in his bed.

He plated their breakfasts. The sun beamed through the kitchen window, warming the back of his neck. His shoulders relaxed. He liked this, being normal, fixing waffles for a woman, listening to her terrible singing, knowing that once they finished the meal he’d coat her luscious body with whipped cream and devour second breakfast.

This wasn’t just a bit of fun on the side. She’d slipped by his defenses and gotten under his skin in a way no woman ever had. It was a problem, but maybe a good one. To be with Breezy was to take a chance, but if he wanted something new in his life, he had to be willing to do what he’d never done.



This was the best weekend of her life. Breezy never believed the idea that hurting could also feel good, but the soreness between her legs was nothing short of delicious.

Turned out Jed had a bit of a kinky side, loved watching them in his big mirror. He’d bent her over his dresser, driving hard and fast from behind, palming her breasts with one hand while working over her slick clit with the other. It was like having an out-of-body experience, watching the scene unfold. And as she gazed at her reflection—she didn’t look pathetically grateful, or insecure. She looked . . . hot, sexy even. Mouth swollen. Eyes bright with lust.

Was that line of thinking even allowed? Could she talk that way about herself without sounding conceited? She never tried before. With a deep breath, she had let the word creep into her psyche.

Hey, I look hot. Whoa. I look fucking hot.

Her lips were swollen from kissing, skin flushed from Jed’s beard. Her hair had gone absolutely hog wild, but the look was less finger-in-a-light-socket-meets-hurricane and more bow-chica-wow-wow-honey-dip-chocolate-chip-shoop-shoop-de-doop.

God, yes. She gathered the sheets to her chest and giggled. This was as close to perfect as life could be.

“Tell me a secret.” He paused in rubbing almond oil into the soles of her feet.

“A secret?” She frowned, considering. “What kind?”

“One no one else knows.” He tickled the arch of her foot.

“Hmm.” There was one. She hadn’t even spilled the beans to Neve or Margot. Or barely even admitted it to herself. But every Sunday night, as she cleaned her cottage for the coming week, bracing herself for the tedious onslaught from Tater Tots and the fear that at last would come the announcement that funding was dried up and she was out of a job, there was a dream.

She traced her tongue along the back of her front teeth. It was hard to get the words out. But come on, here she was, curled up in bed beside Jed West and even though she had started thinking about him less and less as Jed West, hockey god and more and more as just Jed, the expert Belgian waffle-making cuddler. This very act was proof positive evidence that dreams could come true.

And all those stars she’d wished upon when she was younger, the wordless pleas to be able to skate, to make her mom proud, that had all fallen on deaf cosmic ears finally made sense. The universe had been saving up its blessings to rain them down over her in one glorious torrent.

“Open a bookshop.” There. The words were out now, no take backs. “A children’s bookshop. Stock everything from picture books to young adult.”

Jed paused, considering. Nothing in his face suggested that he thought her idea was funny. “Makes sense.” He went back to rubbing her feet.

“What? That was it? That’s the sum total of your reaction,” she asked. “This is a deep, dark secret. One that I’ve never told a living soul. And look at you.”

“What about me?” He frowned, scrubbing his beard.

“You’re acting as surprised as if I’d announced that ketchup tastes good on French fries.”

“What do you want me to say?” His gaze went strangely tight. “What do you want me to say? You’re a children’s librarian.”

“So?”

“So.” His dark brows rose fractionally. “That means you like books.”

“Yes, but . . .” She didn’t know why she wanted to argue against her dream. Maybe because he made it sound too simple and straightforward. Too possible.

Grrrr.

But Jed didn’t have to stress out over making his monthly mortgage and didn’t get how scary it would be to sink further into debt. Plus there was no guarantee that the neighborhood might appreciate a good quality children’s bookstore. She hadn’t even done a full business plan. Just had a hunch she was right.

Taking a leap in life came with a risk, a better than average chance of crashing and burning, falling to Earth like a stupid Icarus. Every time she imagined moving forward, Mom’s voice piped into the back of her head. How are you planning on paying for health insurance? What about days off? Are you going to hire staff and give them health insurance? Do you know what the failure rate for small businesses is in this city? This state? This country?

Every question would underline and highlight the same fact.

Not. Good. Enough.

Same when Mom had been her skating coach.