Mister Hockey (Hellions Angels #1)(5)
His black raincoat offset the rich, espresso-brown gloss to his thick hair. Tiny rain beads clung to each perfect strand, bright as carat diamonds. The Fates swooned. Nope, wait. That particularly breathless mewl came from her own parted lips.
“Told you I was bringing a surprise.” Neve spoke in a slow, even cadence while her piercing gray eyes silently ordered, Get a grip, dude. Do not lose your shit.
“Nice cape. Do I get one?” Jed’s famously lazy smile twisted an invisible screw at the apex of Breezy’s thighs, a sharp twinge that settled into an acute ache. Of course he didn’t know about the starring role he played in her biweekly Hitachi wand sessions. Or the imaginary dirty talk he groaned in her ear while she writhed in the dark.
I taste you on my lips, sweetheart. Tell me who owns you.
He couldn’t have the first clue about her dirty overactive imagination, but Jesus H. Christopher Christ riding a unicycle, she knew. Whenever she fantasized about a guy putting ranch dressing in her Hidden Valley, he was the one wielding the big, big bottle.
Her cheeks turned a subtle shade of rose-blooming-in-hell as she forced a gasping chuckle. “Uh, hang tight. I forgot . . . a . . . thing.”
Beating a quick retreat into the bathroom, she did what any non-freaking-out, red-blooded gal would do when encased in ancient threadbare red Lycra and confronted by their ultimate dream man.
She let the door smack his beautiful face.
Chapter Three
“Please.” Breezy’s horrified gaze bored into the bathroom door until her eyeballs burned. “Oh please, oh please,” she chanted through the fingers pressed to her mouth. Let this nightmare be an oxygen-deprived dream triggered by the too-tight costume.
A comforting flicker of hope flared in the black pit of her belly. God, if that could be the case than she’d never park crooked at the grocery store ever again.
Jed West standing five feet away—ridiculous! Not improbable. Straight-up impossible. He was on her mind because of that silly coffee cup and her stressed-out brain manufactured a hallucination. Not altogether comforting, but then a psychotic break was preferable to encountering her ultimate sexual fantasy while sporting serious camel toe.
A short rapping knock came at the door. “Breezy?” Neve’s peeved voice was a half step below testy.
She expelled a lungful of air, tightened her grip on her tote bag and stepped back into the hall. “Forgot to turn off the sink. Water conservation is very important.” Her laugh came out thin and high.
Jed West wasn’t a mirage. She was speaking to him, actual words out of her actual mouth. He made eye contact. Knew that she existed in this mad-spinning world. The downside was that he stared as if she’d sprouted a second head, one that insisted on belting out the Titanic theme song.
In Russian.
“Wait. You two are sisters?” Incredulity infused his syllables.
“Affirmative.” Neve looped an arm around her waist. “Born eleven and a half months apart.” And they were night and day. Neve defined dainty, at least on the surface. Although she was a former figure skater who’d followed in the footsteps of their mother, she held a black belt in Brazilian jujitsu. These days she took down dudes twice her body weight during weekly sparring sessions.
Breezy had a black belt too, hers just happened to be in bookworming. July had barely started and already she’d logged one hundred and sixty books on Goodreads, well on track to surpass her year-end goal of two hundred. Neve had inky hair, strong brows and a wide sulky mouth. Breezy was a placid dairy cow in comparison, big-eyed and big-boned. Not blonde enough to have more fun, nor sleekly brown enough to classify as an elegant brunette.
“I’m the big sister,” Neve deadpanned the long-standing joke as the top of her head scrapped Breezy’s shoulder.
Breezy licked her dry lips, fighting to remember how to put the English language into usable sentences. “So, um, Jed. What brings you here?” Yes. Good. A perfectly safe, normal question. Way better than “Mind if I step closer to better assess the nuances of your scent?”
“Heard you’re in the market for a reader.” His deep rumble was a chisel striking granite. The vibrations thrummed to her bones. “We stopped in the kid section to grab a book. Want to vet my choice?”
What she wanted to do was gather each of his words like a precious bloom, build a bouquet and hug it to her chest then skip through sun-dappled meadows. Her sister had pulled off the coup of the century–Dear, darling Neve, currently sporting a bemused you’re being a giant idiot expression.
“Nah, as long as it’s not The Giving Tree you’ll be fine,” Breezy said, fighting to regroup.
Neve huffed a husky “Oh good God” under her breath and the hall went into rapid decompression, all available oxygen whizzing through invisible cracks.
But she wasn’t Neve of the quick comeback. Her tongue tied into a figure eight knot. “I . . . it’s . . . the message . . . not good. Bad.”
Great. Apparently she also took elocution lessons from Tarzan.
“I see.” The bewilderment on his face begged to differ.
“Terrific little getting-to-know-you, Breezy, but Jed doesn’t have all day and you need to get this show on the road.” Neve stepped in, saving her from more self-inflicted humiliation.
The next twenty-five minutes passed in a blur. The crowd who’d braved the terrible weather had murmured with disappointment when Breezy stepped to the podium and announced that Coach Tor wasn’t going to make the event after all. But the grumbles transformed into cries of delight as she announced the presence of Jed West. A mother in the back row praised, “Sweet Baby Jesus.”