The Penalty Box (Vancouver Wolves Hockey #3)(15)

She spread her hands. “That is the brilliant part of this plan. You don’t need to hide your lust if you’re fake-married to him, right?”

Which brought me to my second fear. “But he’s not into me. No one will buy this.”

A smile played on her lips. “Don’t worry about that.”

It was stupid to think about something so inconsequential, but I couldn’t handle the idea of walking around for a year while getting pitying looks from people. “He won’t convince anyone.”

“That’s his issue. You’re getting a one-hundred-thousand-dollar payday, free rent, and you’ll be helping me out.”

It was so much money. I could pay off Yazimoto and get him off my back. I would be stupid not to take this opportunity. “Can I think about it?”

She nodded. “Take the rest of the day off. But I’m hoping you’ll do this, Charlie. I know it’s a lot to ask, but Mica could really use your help. You are his last chance.”





*



The bar was mostly empty thanks to the heavy rain that sheeted down in the wild gusting wind. There were a few diehards huddled in their booths, nursing their drinks, probably reluctant to face the weather, but they weren’t my tables. I stood at one of the back high-top tables, filling up the salt and pepper shakers, my eye on the clock. I was getting cut in 15 minutes, and I could not wait to get out of here.

The thump of the door drew my gaze. I saw Mica before he saw me. I took in his dark jeans and a red hooded jacket that was slicked with rain. A navy baseball cap shadowed his eyes, accenting the perfect angles of his face. I was a sucker for men who wore baseball caps, and he was no exception.

I pretended to ignore him as he stalked across the room towards me. He stopped in front of me but didn’t speak. He watched, and I ignored, carefully pouring salt into another shaker. His scrutiny unnerved me, needled me, forcing me to speak so he didn’t notice the slight tremor in my hands.

“What do you want?”

“We need to talk.”

I had spent most of my afternoon convincing myself that for a hundred grand, I could marry this man. Five seconds in his vicinity and I had the urge to run in the opposite direction of all that raw, masculine energy. He radiated hotness in big, manly, alpha waves that threatened to knock me over. I couldn’t marry this man. He was way more than I could handle.

I screwed on the lid of the last salt shaker, dusting my hands off. “So talk.”

“Not here.”

Ignoring him, I lifted the tray of shakers and walked to the back. I took my sweet-ass time, organizing the shelf and wiping down the staff table in the back before returning to the front. My traitorous eyes noticed that he was leaning against the wall, staring up at the televisions above the bar.

“Charlie, you’re cut,” the night manager told me.

I returned to the back to cash out before pulling on my jacket. I walked out to the front. I knew we needed to talk. This afternoon, my boss had fake-proposed on his behalf while he stood by, not speaking. The situation couldn’t get any weirder. I needed the money, and he needed a wife. On paper, it seemed like a simple solution. person, it seemed impossible.

I stopped in front of him.

He didn’t even take his eyes off the television. “You ready?”

“You want to talk? Let’s talk.”

He glanced down at me, probably wondering why I sounded like such a bitch. “Not here.”

“There’s an all-night diner nearby,” I said, unable to look him in the eyes. Droplets of water slowly ran in rivulets down the front of his coat.

“Let’s go to your place.” He pushed off the wall. “Come on.”

I trailed after him, uncomfortable with him coming into my space. He held the door open for me, and the wind stole my breath.

“I’ll follow you,” he said before moving towards his ridiculously expensive Porsche.

I ran across the parking lot, gasping as the cold rain hit my face. I got into my ancient car and looked over my shoulder. I saw the headlights of his vehicle as he waited for me to drive.

I turned the key and groaned when the damn thing didn’t turn over. Not a sputter, not even a whimper. Just the dashboard lights turned on.

“Come on,” I complained, turning the key repeatedly, hoping for a different outcome each time.

A knock sounded on my window. My damn window didn’t even roll down, forcing me to open the door a crack. Water streamed off the end of his baseball cap and the darkness of the night shadowed his eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think my battery is dead.”

“I’ll give you a lift.”

“I can’t leave my car here,” I protested.

He responded by opening my door wider. I sighed and grabbed my bag. He watched me lock my vehicle before leading me to his low-riding sports car.

I felt awkward as I got in beside him. The interior of the car was pure luxury, with comfortable, butter-soft leather seats.

I didn’t want to notice how much this car suited him, or how masculine he looked as he easily shifted through the gears. The car literally growled in response. I had a new appreciation for why guys bought cars like this, because watching him drive was like witnessing pure testosterone. How many women’s panties accidentally fell off after watching Mica drive his car? I looked out the window, not wanting to admit that the thought annoyed me. The fact that it annoyed me, annoyed me even more.