So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(91)
“So how’d it go?” Jax asked, snagging her attention once more.
“How’d what go?”
“That shot you wanted to take?”
She watched Vadim, the man who loved her too much to bear the thought of a life without her in it. Joking and laughing with the kids, he peeked up and delivered one of his patented Smiles of Destruction.
She fought her own grin—but not too hard—before giving Jax an answer.
“I took it, I scored big, and I won. The whole freakin’ shebang.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To the team at Pocket/Gallery—Molly, Marla, Melissa, Jean Anne, Kristin, Abby, Liz, Faren, and Lauren—thanks for being as excited about the Rebels as I am. Special thanks are due to my editor, Kate Dresser, for her awesome notes and insights. She didn’t balk when I proposed the premise for So Over You: “Um, the hero of this book failed to rock the heroine’s world the first time around. Okay with you?” Maybe she was faking it—ha!—when she said, “I can’t wait to read that!” I’ll never know, but it all worked out in the end—Isobel gets at least three orgasms to every one of Vadim’s. The balance of the universe is restored.
Thanks to Lana Kart for her ongoing support, excitement about Vadim, and help with Russian phrasing. Any mistakes are mine.
Thanks to all the authors who helped me keep my sanity this last year: Gina L. Maxwell, Abby Green, Lauren Layne, Jessica Lemmon, Robin Covington, Sarah MacLean, Sophie Jordan, Kimberly Kincaid, Sonali Dev, Julie Ann Walker, and Avery Flynn, to name a few. Every day, I learn something new from these amazing ladies, and I count myself blessed to be a part of this rocking romance community.
To my agent, Nicole Resciniti, thanks for always having my back.
And to Jimmie, my heart and my home, it’s okay that you don’t care even a little about hockey.
Keep reading for a sneak peek at the sizzling next installment in the Chicago Rebels series
Undone by You
A Chicago Rebels enovella
By Kate Meader
Available in March 2018 from Pocket Star Books!
ONE
Someone must have drugged his drink.
Dante Moretti shot a sharp glance at the Macallan in his hand, wondering if the amber liquid was truly blurring before his eyes or if he was just really fucking tired. A roofie seemed like the most logical conclusion, because the ass he had just been appreciating could not possibly belong to the last guy he’d expect to see here.
Here being a members-only gay club in the wealthy Gold Coast neighborhood on Chicago’s North Side.
If Dante knew anything, it was that Cade “Alamo” Burnett, bulwark defender, All American, and pro hockey’s class clown played for one team and one team only: Chicago’s second-most successful hockey franchise, the Rebels. Dante was the Rebels’ general manager—not to mention the first openly gay managing executive in the NHL—and it was his job to be apprised of these things.
Rebels defenseman or not, the object of Dante’s attention carried himself with devil-may-care swagger, his stride sure, his head held high. If it truly was Burnett, then he clearly had no problem with the eyes of every guy in the place checking him out. Including Dante’s.
It wouldn’t have been the first time Dante had slipped up where Burnett was concerned. Surrounded every day by athletes in tip-top condition, he was fairly immune to the perfect abs, sculpted pecs, and bite-worthy asses. Separating his desires from his work wasn’t just advisable, it was necessary. Ogling the players under his authority was a line he would never cross.
But Burnett? There was something about the amiable Texan that gave Dante gooseflesh every time he visited the locker room for a pregame pep talk or a postgame checkin. God knew why, because the man was a polpetto, a total meatball—a hazel-eyed, syrup-talking, built-like-a-tank meatball. Not Dante’s type at all, although his teammates adored the guy for his ability to cheer a room and make a crapfest game feel like less than the end of the world. He had people skills. And shit, could he play.
“Earth to Hot Stuff.”
Only slightly irritated, Dante turned back to the guy he had been considering fucking. Blond and urbane, he had an ethereal paleness, which Dante usually found contrasted nicely with his own dark Italian skin. Sex was as often about aesthetics as it was about pleasure.
“Sorry. Thought I saw someone I knew.”
“Since you just moved to Chicago four weeks ago, that doesn’t seem likely, now, does it?”
No, it didn’t. This club only allowed entry by recommendation. Hanging out at rowdy gay bars held little interest for Dante. Something quieter and darker suited him, and a discreet, unnamed club in a Gold Coast brownstone fit the bill.
Cade Burnett’s doppelganger had disappeared into the club’s depths, but Dante’s discomfort lingered. Taking another sip of his now suspect drink, he half listened to the guy beside him as he droned on about his job.
“. . . dealing with idiots who think diversification means add penny stocks . . .”
It couldn’t be Burnett. It made no sense.
“. . . portfolio . . . blah-blah . . . global equity funds . . . blah-blah . . .”
Blond ’n’ Boring looked up in surprise—up because Dante had stood suddenly, the itch in his body spreading to his feet. He needed to assure himself that one of his players wasn’t about to blow up his career by being caught in a “compromising” position. Gay chief executives were one thing. The testosterone-soaked NHL wasn’t quite ready for one of the first line to taste the rainbow.