Mister Hockey (Hellions Angels #1)(9)

More muffled swearing. He chewed at the corner of his top lip, eyebrows raised. This sweet-faced children’s librarian knew curses that could shame a locker room of disgruntled hockey players.

“Uh, hello?” He leaned closer. “Breezy? Everything okay?”

Two summers ago, he’d taken a trip to South Africa, went cage-diving with great whites. The tour operator had chummed the water and the sea turned red with bloody fish guts. It hadn’t taken long for the great beasts to emerge from the deep gloom and attack the cage in a mindless frenzy. The sounds emitting from inside the cottage were almost as wild. Furniture getting dragged. A distant door slammed again and again.

What the hell was she doing in there, hiding bodies?

After a long minute, he raised his hand to knock for a third time, but this time the door swung open as if on cue. His throat throbbed like he’d been cross-checked in the trachea.

No sign of the destroyed costume. Instead the librarian had replaced her ruined superhero suit with a tight T-shirt that read I Still Believe in 398.2, a cardigan and black skull and crossbones leggings that accentuated her heart-pounding waist-to-hip ratio. All that thick, glossy hair was tied up with a red polka-dot scarf like that vintage World War II mascot. Don’t forget the thick black-framed glasses. The whole effect was classic housewife meets naughty nerd, and it worked like a fucking treat.

Blood rerouted to his cock. Oh yeah, he liked this.

He liked it a lot.

“You.” The tip of her pink tongue darted out, flicking across the small indentation in her top lip. “You’re here.”

“Yeah.” He glanced down to his rain-splattered sneakers and back to her stunned face. “Looks like I am.”

A long silence ensued. As he stood there, an unexpected feeling of rightness settled over him as if standing on Breezy Angel’s porch wasn’t the culmination of a series of unfortunate events, but part of a grand and mysterious plan.

He chuckled, but the sound was hollow in his ears—his dumb ass better wise up real fast. He wasn’t some regular Joe Blow swinging by to grab a missing jacket from a pretty girl. He was Jed West, Hellions captain.

Wasn’t that all people ever saw?

The name.

The fame.

Not that celebrity went to his head all that much—a thousand fans cheering could go to a thousand fans booing in a single play. On shitty nights, that’s exactly what happened.

But he didn’t need to dash off invitations to a pity party. After all, he made a great living playing an even greater game. The lack of privacy, the critics, the curious fans and even the recent self-chosen celibacy went part and parcel with the territory. If he wanted to play, he had to pay the piper somewhere.

He jerked his head toward where the rain was doing its level best to erode the sidewalk. “I loaned you my Gore-Tex and—”

“Sorry, yes. Oh God. You’re right. I’m sorry.” She stared, horrified. “What an idiot. Me, I mean. I’m the idiot. Not you. You are definitely not an idiot.”

Amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth, his lips slowly spreading into another wide smile. She was funny.

He liked it.

He liked her.

“I normally keep my wallet in my back pocket but . . .” He made a vague gesture toward his sweatpants-clad ass, privately cursing his own awkwardness. “No pockets,” he concluded lamely.

“Of course. And come in, please. It’s so wet.” Her brows wrinkled in panic. “I’m totally making you stand there. Sorry. Sorry.”

Her gorgeous round, silver-blue eyes were nearly at his level. Damn she was tall. “You know something? You apologize a lot,” he observed wryly.

“Bad habit. Sorry.” She smashed her lips, wincing. “See? I finally quit biting my nails, but making random apologies? Forget about it. I’ll be on my deathbed asking for forgiveness from the nurses.”

She backed away and he stepped over the threshold. The yellow-walled interior smelled like fresh paint. “Nice place.” And it was. Warm and cozy. A lot like its owner.

“I thought so too, until I got home today.” She plucked his jacket from the back of her love seat. “Now it’s being a jerk. My stupid roof has sprung a leak.”

The living room was lined with cardboard boxes, as if she’d recently moved in. Framed museum posters were stacked in the corner. The only things set up in here were her four bookshelves. “Can I be of any help?”

“How?” Her lips parted in apparent surprise. “You do home repairs?”

He shrugged, a knot loosening the too-tight muscles between his shoulders. “Once upon a time I worked summers as a handyman for a Sunnyvale contractor, an old football buddy of my brother’s. Let’s see the problem.”

“Um . . . well.” She fiddled with a string dangling off the wrist of her cardigan, and broke it with a sharp twist. “It’s in my bedroom.”

The silence lasted several awkward beats before a deep-set dimple made an appearance in her left cheek. He swallowed back an impulse to lick it. Was she fucking with him?

She must have noticed his hesitation because she made the sign of the cross over her heart. “Promise this isn’t a set up for a cheesy seventies porno. You might want to stick on that raincoat though. Fair warning.”

While he laughed, her gaze darted from his head to his toes, a quick appraisal, but an appraisal nevertheless. He didn’t quite know how to read her. Her demeanor wasn’t forwardly flirtatious, but that pink in her cheeks hinted that she didn’t mind what she saw.