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

I took a few moments to text with my best friend Jasper who lived in San Francisco. He was my childhood friend that I texted with almost daily.

Me: How’s San Fran?

Jasper: Gorgeous as ever. What’s new?

Me: Dropping off a tux at a hotel for a player.

Jasper: Which one?

Me: Mica.

Jasper: The Savage?

He used my pet name for Mica.

Me: The one and only.

Jasper: LOL. You know for someone who professes to despise the guy, you sure do text about him a lot.

Me: Do not.

Jasper. Do too.

Me: He gets on my nerves.

Jasper: So, you keep protesting.

Me: Call me tonight?

Jasper: Yes, you can fill me in on all the juicy gossip.

Me: Miss you.

Jasper: Back at you.

I saw Mica before he saw me. He was a head taller than everyone and I took that quick moment to drink in the sight of his sculpted cheekbones—and that mouth. God, I loved his mouth. The man drove me crazy, but his mouth mesmerized me.

As if he could sense me, he turned and looked directly at me.

I flushed and lifted his tuxedo. He strode towards me. His five o’clock shadow was more of a ten o’clock shadow. He wore dark jeans and an untucked, navy blue button-down shirt. His hair was a mess, and he looked annoyingly hot.

“Rough night?” I worked to fill my voice with cold disdain.

Those lips twitched in amusement. “I need to change.”

“My cue to leave.”

His big hand easily wrapped around my wrist. He tugged against my reluctance. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“I need to find a place to change.”

I dragged my feet. “You don’t need me for that.”

He ignored me and started opening doors.

“I don’t think we should do this.” I tried to hand him his tuxedo bag, which he ignored. He stepped into a small private boardroom and tugged me in after him.

“Watch the door.” He took his tuxedo bag from my hands.

I crossed my arms and turned my back on him. A few moments ticked by in silence before he asked, “Do you know how to tie a bowtie?”

I looked over my shoulder to give him a dirty look, but my traitorous eyes could only focus on his bare chest. Sweet baby Jesus. My eyes drank in broad shoulders and a strong chest with mouthwatering pectoral muscles. All of that tapered down to a six-pack that belonged on a billboard. My eyes got drawn back to the beautiful tattoo on the left side of his chest. I forced myself, with mind-blowing willpower, to lift my eyes to his face. For the life of me, I had no idea what he had asked me.

“What did you say?”

He winked at me. Carelessly flirting with my heart.

I turned around and stared at the door. “You can tie your own damn bowtie.”

“There’s no mirror in here.”

I willed myself to harden against his charm.

He’s a hockey player. I hate hockey players.

“You can turn around now.”

“Are you decent?”

I heard laughter in his voice. “Yes.”

With reluctance, I turned around. His black jacket was on but unbuttoned, and his bowtie hung around his neck.

He flipped up the collar of his shirt. “Help me tie this.”

With dread in each step, I stepped up to him, standing closer than I ever had before. Reaching up, I grabbed the bowtie and concentrated on the task at hand. I could feel his eyes on my face as I worked. It felt too intimate, standing so close to him. His warm masculine scent tickled my senses. I refrained from breathing in deep, but I wanted to.

I growled, “Stop looking at me.”

“You have freckles on your nose.”

It alarmed me that he was studying me.

I threw him another dirty look before finishing up. I stepped back, feeling light-headed. “You’re done.”

He reached up and tugged at it. “Thanks.”

I turned away from him, feeling the need to escape. He had neatly hung his clothes in the bag and zipped it shut. “I’ll bring this bag to the office tomorrow.”

“How do I look?”

I gave him a cursory glance. His tuxedo looked tailored for his body. It probably had been. The contrast with his messy hair and dark stubble added to his devil-may-care attitude, which made his whole look even more intoxicating. I avoided looking at his mouth.

You look like a million bucks. “You’re fine.”

“You’re not coming to the gala?”

“At five hundred dollars a plate, it’s above my pay grade.” I lifted the clothing bag and folded it over my arm. “I’ll be invoicing you for the gas it took to drive over to your place.”

I sounded petty and churlish, but I didn’t care. I needed to create some distance from the intimacy we had shared, and nothing created a barrier faster than reminding someone you worked for them.

A smile tugged at his face. No matter how much spite I threw at the guy, he seemed to find it amusing. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

“You should get in there.”

“I will.” But he didn’t move. Instead, he stood there, looking at me. “You don’t like me.”

“Don’t take it personally.”

“Why not?”