Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
She leans against the door, sizing me up, then shifts her stance so her hip sticks out just enough that I notice. Arms crossed now, box cutter resting in the crook of her elbow. The look on her face is pure skepticism.
Her eyes dart from me to the stack of boxes, then back again. Like she’s daring me to put my money where my mouth is.
“Have at it,” she says finally.
Game on.
I pull off my watch and set it on top of the nearest crate. Roll up my sleeves, square up. No time to think about how ridiculous this is. My body is already burning from two goddamn intense workouts, but I’m ready to do whatever it takes to convince her to give me the time of day.
I grab the top box and shoulder through the doorway. She steps back, not actually making space for me but not blocking, either. That’s as much of a win as I’m going to get.
Inside, the hallway is cool and dim, barely big enough for two people to move by without touching.
She points at the loading nook behind the bar. “Everything goes there. Don’t drop anything,” she adds, not even glancing back.
I grin because I can’t help it. “I played junior hockey in Saskatchewan. I’ve carried drunk guys twice my size through blizzards. I think I can handle the boxes.”
She just shrugs and disappears around the corner, arms still crossed, ponytail swinging. If she’s impressed, she keeps it to herself.
With the first box down, I double back for the next, getting a rhythm going. I see Daisy at the end of the bar, back turned, doing some kind of restocking, but also keeping an eye on me.
After three trips, the sweat starts up. The collar of my shirt sticks, my palms get gritty. Not sure what the hell is in some of these cases, but a few weigh as much as a grown man. I don’t slow down.
There’s a weird satisfaction in it. I’m not used to earning things like this, not since I was fifteen and fighting for a spot on the travel team. On the ice, it’s all skill, anticipation, outthinking the other guy. This is just brute force and hunger and a stupid need to prove I’m not full of shit.
Four more rounds and the alley is finally empty. My arms are noodles, and I’m sweating like I just played overtime. I catch her watching the dark patch spreading between my shoulders as I set the last box down.
“Is this all?” I ask, straightening up slowly.
“That’s it.” Daisy leans her elbows on the bar, face unreadable. She’s still holding the box cutter, spinning it absently between her fingers before looking down at her watch. “Now, you have your five minutes.”
Fucking hell. My mind goes blank. I open my mouth and blurt out the first thing I can think of. “Last night didn’t go the way I wanted. At all. I was a dick. You called me out, and I deserved it.”
That pulls a faint smile out of her, just a flicker. Progress. “All of that is true, but you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. “I want to get to know you.”
“You’re wasting your time.” She holds my gaze, and I can see the truth behind her words. “I don’t hop into bed with athletes.”
Fuck. My chest is doing something I don’t have a name for. “Look, I’m not going to stand here and pretend I don’t want you.” I push off the bar and take one step toward her, close enough that I have to keep my voice low. “But that’s not why I’m here. I’ve never felt anything like this before. Whatever it is scares the fuck out of me, but I can’t fight it.” I hold her gaze and don’t let go. “I don’t know how else to say it.”
I’m already mentally kicking my own ass when she glances at the clock over the register. “The bar doesn’t open for three hours. We have enough time for a quick lunch if you’re game.”
If I’m game? Holy fuck. I feel like I’ve just scored the winning goal in the Stanley Cup playoffs.
CHAPTER FOUR
DAISY
He doesn’t even blink when I insist on driving. In fact, it’s pretty freaking funny watching him fold his six-and a-half-foot-frame into my tiny Fiat.
Harrison Stafford ducks his head and swings one long leg in, knees up around his ears, and for a second, I think he’s physically incapable of fitting. There’s a grunt, a shoulder, a massive bicep flexing against the door frame. I bite my lip so I don’t laugh out loud.
“Make sure to keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times,” I tease, putting the key in the ignition.
He glances over at me and groans. “I can’t make any promises.”