Right Man, Right Time (The Vancouver Agitators, #3)(57)

“Do it more?” I ask with a charming smile.

“No. Do it less.”

We move away from the camels and head down the path toward the moose. “You can’t tell me no one called you Tater Tot growing up.”

“People did, and I shut them down too.”

“Like who?”

He sticks his hands in his pockets and says, “My grandpa.”

“Stop, you did not shut your grandpa down.”

He smirks. “In my head, I did.”

“Uh-huh, and how did that work out for you?”

“Not great.”

“Can’t imagine why.” We move in front of the moose exhibit and take in the sturdy beast. “Why would you hate that your grandpa called you that? I think it’s adorable.”

“Because I’m a hockey player and back then, I was scrawny when all I wanted was to be big. The nickname Tater Tot wasn’t exactly what I was looking for when all I wanted to be was a big, burly hockey player.”

“Aw, you were scrawny?”

“Very,” he answers.

“For how long?”

He thinks about it for a second, then answers, “When I was a senior in high school, I started to gain some weight, and college helped me pack on the muscle. I was super fast. That was how I got around the ice without getting hurt as much.”

“Are you still the fastest?”

“Sadly, no,” he answers. “Holmes is the fastest on the team. I’m second. That dude floats on the ice. Not sure how he does it.”

“Probably his good looks carrying him around the ice.”

Silas gives me a side-eye that makes me laugh. “What about you? Any nicknames?”

“Just Ollie, which quickly became my regular name. I guess Oliana would be my nickname now, one that you shouldn’t use.” I lift my brow at him.

“You like that I use it, don’t even lie.” He drapes his arm over my shoulder, pulling me in tight and, for a moment, I relish it.

Silas is all kinds of tight-lipped and earnest. He takes things very seriously, holds his cards close to his chest, and never shows weakness, but it’s times like this, when he’s loose and doesn’t mind showing platonic affection, that I truly enjoy. Because I can see his true self, the man he is past the high walls he’s erected over the years to protect his heart.

“I might like it a little.”

He chuckles. “I fucking knew it.”





“Here we are,” I say as I walk up to the most prestigious domestic donkey I’ve ever seen. “Thought you could use this.” I hand him a small cardboard tray of chicken tenders. “I even made the special sauce you like.”

He doesn’t take the tray. Instead, he just stares at it, and with one brow lifted, he looks up at me. “Is that what you were doing when I was going to the restroom?”

“You should never leave me unattended. You never know what I’ll get up to.” I gesture to the donkey and add, “Isn’t it perfect, though? You, me, donkeys, and chicken tenders. Now if only your fly was . . .”

My voice fades as I glance down at his crotch.

My eyes widen right before I let out an ugly, uproarious laughter that shakes the very ground we stand on.

“What?” he says as he looks down, only to find his fly undone. “Motherfucker,” he swears under his breath as I laugh so hard, I lean against the fence for support.

“Oh my God.” I wave my hand in front of my face as tears tickle my eyes. “You really are the donkey pervert.”

“Can you not? People are fucking looking.”

“Not my fault.” I shake my head, tears now streaming down my cheeks. “Oh shit, I think I’m going to pee myself.” I clench my legs together.

“I did not do that on purpose,” he says through clenched teeth, trying to block me from the onlooking crowd.

“Which makes it even better. Your subconscious knew. Donkey time meant dong out.”

“My . . . my dong was not out,” he whispers.

“But it felt a breeze, didn’t it?” I cough out a peal of laughter, my cheeks hurting.

“You’re real mature. You know that?” He snags the chicken tenders from me and takes a bite of one.

“I’m really not.” I laugh some more, now starting to hee-haw like my friend behind me. “I just . . . cannot believe you had your fly down.” I dab at my eyes. “It’s just such poetic beauty.”

“Glad you’re entertained.”

He moves away from me, and I push off the fence and catch up to him, looping my arm through his again. “Don’t be salty.”

“Easy for you to say, you aren’t the donkey pervert.”

My lip trembles.

I attempt to choke down my laughter, but it’s no use, and I burst out once again. After a few seconds, I say, “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” he replies, but this time, there’s a smile in his voice, and I know I have free range to laugh as much as I want now.





“I bet your fans think you’re this cool guy, a real hockey hero with enough swagger to bag every woman in Vancouver, when, in reality, you’re kind of a dork.”