All the Way (Hot Jocks #2)(21)

And in the darkened, luxurious interior, it’s easy not to—overthink, that is—because I’m surrounded by Owen’s masculine scent and his bulky presence. Nervousness washes over me, mainly because I have no idea what’s going to happen next.

“How was New York?” I ask, doing my best not to look at his lips.

The entire time he was out of town, I wasn’t able to stop thinking about kissing him, about the way his warm breath ghosted over my lips and made my toes curl. I haven’t been kissed like that in approximately an eternity. I guess his mouth is good at something other than talking shit on the rink.

And admittedly, I’ve been wondering what other skills that mouth might have. It’s definitely a new development for me, and I’m still trying to adjust.

“New York was solid,” he says, stretching his legs across the limo until they’re resting by the seat next to me. “That win felt damn good. I’m going to be riding the high of that block against Christoff for a long time.”

“A well-deserved high. The whole office was buzzing about it. You should’ve seen the marketing department go nuts making GIFs of you blocking that shot.”

Owen throws his head back in a laugh. “Oh, so I’m a GIF now, huh? That’s fuckin’ legendary.”

“Don’t let it go to your head. You’re already cocky enough.” I purse my lips, fighting off a smile.

The corner of his mouth quirks up as he gives me a devilish look. “Yeah, I’ve been told I got a lot to be cocky about.”

When he lifts one eyebrow in a look that’s almost a challenge, I’m torn between A) melting into a puddle in the back of this limo, or B) knocking him upside the head. Instead, I opt for option C) try to hide the redness spreading across my cheeks with an exaggerated eye roll.

Why am I suddenly bashful around him? The sex jokes never used to do anything but annoy me before.

“Save the dirty jokes for the guys, you jackass,” I say with a laugh. Only I know he’s not joking. The man has quite an impressive reputation.

When we reach my place, I try to read the look in his eyes, which have shifted to a sultry shade of smoky blue. His eyes have always changed color to reflect his mood—bright blue when he’s happy or excited, closer to gray when he’s serious. But this in-between hue is rare, and I’m hoping it means he wants to come inside with me.

Feeling a little bold, I think I’m ready to take the next step in conquering my fears. If I can figure out how to initiate that step, or what exactly it might entail. And Owen looks so goddamn delicious in that tux.

“You want to join me for a bit?” I ask, hoping he’ll read between the lines at what I’m suggesting. Luckily, my vague offer gets the response I want.

“If that’s what you want.” A smile tugs at Owen’s mouth as the door swings open. “We’ll both be getting out here,” he tells the driver as he helps me out, then slides a fifty out of his wallet and into the driver’s hand before following me up the front steps.

Inside, I take off my heels and head straight for the fridge to grab a couple of waters. There had to be at least three servers with champagne trays for every one person at that gala, but finding a glass of water was borderline impossible. And I need to flush out some of the sugar from the sweet drink I had.

“Want something to eat?” I ask, tossing a water bottle Owen’s way.

He catches it and shakes his head. “I’m good with water. I think I ate enough of that . . . what do you call them? The little tiny toasts with the tomato on it?” His face twists as he tries to come up with the term. He looks like he’s trying to solve the world’s hardest math problem. It’s oddly adorable.

“You mean bruschetta?” I manage to say through a muffled giggle.

He snaps his fingers. “Bingo. Bruschetta. I had, like, fifty of those things. I’m good.”

After twisting open the seal on his water bottle, Owen glugs the whole thing in two giant swallows, then shoots the empty bottle like it’s a three-pointer right into the recycling bin. Not bad aim for a man who’s made a career out of blocking shots, not making them.

“Impressive,” I say between sips. “Maybe you’ve got a basketball career ahead of you if you ever get sick of hockey.”

Owen chuckles. “Yeah. Like I’d ever get sick of hockey.”

I recap my water, holding up a finger in protest. “Or if you ever decide that the impending doom of a concussion isn’t appealing to you.”

Owen groans as he joins me in leaning against the counter. “Let’s skip the safety lecture tonight, Becs. I get it . . . I play a dangerous sport.”

I scoff. He’s such a typical guy. Testy about the stupidest things. “You know I love hockey as much as you do. But I can enjoy something and still acknowledge that it’s dangerous.”

A smirk crosses his lips as he weaves one hand around my waist, pulling me against him until my hip is pressed into his thigh. “Kinda like you in that dress,” he murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Equal parts enjoyable and dangerous.”

Goose bumps go racing up my spine at record speed. Did my best friend just use a line on me? And did I kind of like it? Based on the way my heart hammers against my ribs, that’s a giant yes.

Before I can form a coherent response, Owen tugs me a little closer against him. My lips part as I gaze up at him, lost in those hazy blue eyes.