Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
She tilts her head, her brows fighting their Botox to furrow as she stares at me.
“What?”
“I’ll give you that Dom is your brother. But Honey? He doesn’t look at you like any brother I know. He looks at you like he wants to devour you. Did you hear that grunt he let out when you called him Griffin?” Her eyes roll back, her lashes fluttering. “God, I bet that man is a beast in bed.”
“La la la la la,” I intone, covering my ears with my poms. “Seriously, I wouldn’t know. Now or ever. And if you find out, please don’t tell me. I don’t want to sit across the table from him at Pro-Bowl and pretend I don’t know that he sweats like a wildebeest when he has sex.”
She purses her lips like she’s imagining that. And totally unprompted and unwanted, a vision pops into my mind—of Griffin hovering over me, his teeth gritted, his neck muscles popping out, and his eyes locked onto mine as he thrusts into me deep and hard. There’s not a bead of sweat in sight, just pure, raw sex appeal. I shake my head, wishing I could unsee that image because it is dangerous . . . and stupid . . . and pointless.
We’re barely becoming friends, like on the tippy-tappy fine line between forced acquaintanceship and friendship. So there’s zero need, like negative need, for me to have even one little dirty thought about Griffin.
“Of the two of us, I think you’re the one more likely to get that answer.”
“Huh?” I almost missed what Layla said, but in the time it takes me to question her, what she’s implying registers, and I act quickly to correct her. “Don’t. Be. Ridiculous.”
“Okay. If you say so.” There’s a glint in her eyes that says her words and her thoughts on this don’t match up at all.
I’m not the one who’d get that answer. Griffin is barely starting to tolerate me. The last few days are probably like an allergy shot, exposing him to the thing that irritates him the most in the hopes that he’ll start to be a little less reactive to it. That’s all. What Layla has mistaken for a desire to devour me is merely not outright loathing.
There was that moment at the door where you thought he might kiss you.
The whisper in my mind sounds like the devil trying to confuse me. I did think that. For one blink of an eye. And then I remembered who he is and who I am, and how much he hates me. Add in the way he virtually bolted down the hall like he couldn’t get away from me fast enough, and I was obviously misreading all the signs. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. Just the worst person to have it happen with.
Oh God! What if he thought I wanted him to kiss me?
Maybe I was unintentionally sending signals, and that’s why he skedaddled? That’d be just my bad luck. Hell, he probably told Dom that I threw myself at him like a standard-issue puck bunny and he had to let me down easy since me and him are an absolute no-way-not-happening thing. I bet they laughed and laughed at pitiful Penny.
Belated embarrassment at what’s a much more likely possibility than what I’d considered last night runs through me, instantly making me hot and sweaty even though the arena is chilly.
As we get to the stage area that sits a level above the Hawks’ goal, Layla and I split the middle line, the rest of the team falling into place around us. We prep for the next few hours of action. I start by fanning myself with my poms, plastering a fake smile on my face while my mind races.
The game begins with action from the first puck drop and never slows. It’s like the Vortex and the Hawks are out for blood, a chance at the playoffs, or maybe both. Whereas the Beavers game was primarily played on their goal’s end, tonight both teams are everywhere, looking for openings and dashing through them with precision. Each rotation is vicious, each opening exploited hard. Howe has blocked two shots on goal before we even hit the first media break.
The media breaks are when the fans watching at home will see a commercial or two. And while the game might not be continuous, in the arena, the activity never stops. Teams rotate players on and off the ice, making sure a fresh line is out, and coaches bark orders to their teams. The cheerleaders on the stage do short routines to the music pumped through the arena, hyping the crowd to keep the energy up, and the ice crew quickly shovels the ice’s surface, clearing it of loose shavings.
Tonight, I’m thankful to be dancing because being too close to Griffin seems like a really bad idea. What if he reads into my casual use of his name the way Layla did? God, he is never going to let me live it down if he truly thinks I’ve suddenly gone all ooey-gooey, googly-eyed for him the way the puck bunnies do.