Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
No. Nope. That’s one notch too far. A door too far open. A truth too exposed. I don’t want to hear it, and I most certainly don’t want this conversation anymore.
So I do the only thing I know how to do when the walls start cracking and I shut her up with my mouth.
I lean forward and kiss her. Hard. The kind of kiss that swallows words and steals breath and replaces all the vulnerability with heat.
My glass hits the carpet and she melts into me instantly, hands finding my jaw, pulling me deeper. I shift, dragging her across the couch, her legs sliding over mine as her chest presses into me.
Her breath catches, and I take that moment—that tiny surrender—and break the kiss just enough to murmur against her lips, “No more talking.”
She exhales, shaky. “Yeah… okay.”
I kiss her again, harder. She grips my shoulders, nails biting into my skin.
The wine, the confessions, the emotions still vibrating under my ribs—all of it funnels into one need, all consuming.
I scoop her up with one hand behind her thighs and stand. She gasps softly against my neck as her arms wrap around me. I carry her down the hall into my bedroom without breaking stride.
Into the dark. Into anything that isn’t talking.
Chapter 17
Daisy
The arena vibrates with a palpable energy. Skates carve deep grooves into the ice as bodies collide along the boards, the crack of shoulder pads and the boom of the crowd syncing into primal territory. The Nashville Badgers are exactly what everyone said they’d be—big and bruising… and annoyingly proud of it. The game’s only twelve minutes old and already it’s a dog fight.
I watch Grizz absorb a heavy hit—his body slamming into the glass hard enough to make the entire lower bowl wince—but he barely blinks.
Then, with this impossible mixture of power and finesse, he makes a pass through two Badgers’ defenders straight onto Coen Highsmith’s tape.
Coen flies down the wing, fakes a shot that makes the Nashville defenseman bite so hard he nearly trips over his own skates. Then, without even looking, Coen dishes the puck across the slot.
Deacon barrels in, a human missile, stick coiled for a one-timer, timing perfect.
Crack.
The puck fires into the back of the net.
The arena erupts into a deafening roar.
“YES!” Elias shouts beside me, raising his arms skyward like he’s single-handedly responsible for the goal. “That’s how you convert a power play!”
I laugh, adrenaline buzzing, heart still somewhere on the ice. “I don’t even know what that means, but I know it’s good.”
“It’s very good,” he confirms, beaming.
Below us, players swarm Deacon, the horn blaring, lights flashing. Grizz skates by Coen and taps his helmet—a small gesture, but it feels intimate. A flash of connection. Trust. Brotherhood.
God, he looks good out there. I mean… I always thought he was gorgeous and magnetic, but now that we have carnal knowledge of each other, he looks good in a different way. I appreciate the total package because now I’ve been allowed on the inside.
The final seconds of the period tick down. Another scrum forms near the Vipers net, more shoving, more chirping, but no whistles. When the buzzer finally sounds, the Zamboni doors swing open, and the ice crew floods the rink.
The noise drops into an anticipatory hum. Phones come out. Fans stretch and stand and rush for concessions.
Inside Julian Langley’s suite, everything feels a little insulated, like we’re floating above it all, watching from a world in rarefied air. I’m still not used to being here.
Elias swipes a handful of chocolate-dipped pretzels from a tray and offers me one. “Best first period I’ve seen out of them in a while,” he declares, mouth half-full.
I grin, accepting one. “Honestly? That was the most exciting twenty minutes of sports I’ve ever seen.”
He leans against a leather couch in the suite, watching Grizz glide off the ice. “Your boy’s on fire tonight.”
I elbow him, quickly glancing to my left and right to ensure no one is within earshot. “For the ten-thousandth time, he’s not—”
“Relax,” he drawls. “I meant professionally. Mostly.”
I roll my eyes, but my cheeks warm anyway.
He points his pretzel at me. “And speaking of unexpectedly excellent things… explain to me again how you ended up in this suite?”
I let my gaze sweep the space—gold accents, a fully stocked bar, velvet seating, impeccably dressed staff floating about. “I’m still trying to figure that out,” I admit. “Julian emailed me this morning, totally out of the blue. ‘Join me in the suite tonight.’” I mimic his clipped, perfectly controlled tone.
Elias snorts. “Classic Julian. Wants to sound casual but comes off the complete opposite.”
“I was surprised,” I say honestly.
“Julian doesn’t waste invitations. If he wants you here, there’s a reason,” says Elias.
I try to shrug it off. “Maybe he just wants my PR eyes on the atmosphere.”
“Anyway,” Elias says, brushing crumbs from his shirt, “Julian didn’t even invite me tonight. I’m just lucky enough to be your plus one. Honestly, I’ve only been up here once, and I’m his nephew. Meanwhile”—he gestures to me—“you’re the VIP.”