Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 22733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
“You’re insane,” I mutter, shaking my head as I glide toward the gate to step off the ice. Once I unclip my helmet, the cool air hits my damp hair and I walk on my guards to where she’s standing. My muscles are sore, my shoulder is unimpressed, and I’m ready to call it a day, grab some food, and crash. “Ready for the next stop?” I ask, fully expecting her to tell me she’ll see me tomorrow and head back to her hotel to do whatever she needs to manage this bullshit.
“Lead the way.” Jett adjusts the strap of her bag over her shoulder, smokey eyes looking up at me with a steady, unshakeable focus that makes my cock throb.
“You’re not done?” I blink, stopping in my tracks.
“Bouchard, it’s barely one in the afternoon. I still want to do a ten-second clip of you answering fan questions for the team’s Instabook page. I told you, I don’t waste time.” I’m dripping sweat, holding my helmet, and completely taken aback.
Apparently, this woman is a workhorse, and I’m going to be stuck with her for the foreseeable future. I notice the way her chest rises and falls, pushing her tits up, showing me more of the tantalizing curves of her cleavage. She isn’t just managing my image. She’s invading my space and all of my senses. I growl under my breath and turn to move in beside her, trying like hell to ignore the way my body responds to her. I’m stuck with her, alright—and my cock doesn’t seem to mind one damn bit.
“Fine,” I grunt, licking my lips, keeping my eyes fixed on hers. The pads and gear are the only thing hiding the way I’m responding to the fiery vixen. “Try to keep up, sunshine.”
“Don’t worry about me, Rowdy.” Her voice trails behind me as I walk back to the locker room. She’s cool, confident, and too fucking close. “Try not to pull a muscle trying to impress me.” Fuck, this woman is going to be hell on my balls, busting them and turning them blue.
FOUR
JETT
When I first spoke with Mitch before taking over Rowdy’s social media and changing his image, I knew this would be a job like no other. Then today, before he left the arena, he made it abundantly clear in his final instruction. I’m to be Rowdy Bouchard’s shadow—wherever he goes, I go, until the franchise feels confident enough he isn’t going to set his career on fire again.
This level of proximity is usually fine with me. I’m used to high-strung clients and chaotic schedules. What I was and still am not prepared for is the sheer gravity of being in Rowdy’s personal space once we left the arena. Being inside his black SUV, sitting in the passenger seat, listening to his music, and watching as he handled the machine with perfect ease.
“Make yourself at home,” Rowdy grunts once we make our way into his home. He tosses the keys onto the kitchen counter before heading straight up the stairs. “I’m taking a shower. I reek of ice and sweat.”
“Take your time,” I call after him, slipping my bag off my back and setting it on an empty barstool at the kitchen island. “I’ll start logging footage.” He doesn’t hear me. His retreating back is already at the second-floor landing and turning the corner. I go through the process of pulling out my camera, laptop, and phone. A quick plugging in the cord from the camera to my laptop starts the transfer. Hundreds of stills, short video clips, and even the longer ones that I’ll more than likely break down or delete all together. And this was only from a couple of hours that I captured this morning. There’s no telling how much more footage I’ll get through the day.
I pop in my earbuds, lean over the screen as I scrub through the timeline as I stand like a flamingo, one foot flat on the ground, the other in a triangle at my thigh. The raw footage is great, but the clip of him coming off the ice is even better. Rowdy has sweat dripping down his neck, jaw set, eyes intense and brooding, it’s going to outperform the other videos Rowdy has posted of him.
My head is popping, my lips are moving, and I’m humming along to the song streaming, so deep into trimming, cutting, and editing them into smaller clips, that I don’t see or hear Rowdy, but I feel him. The shift in the air and the sudden, subtle scent of cedar and bergamot make me look up.
My breath hitches in my throat. Rowdy’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing a pair of dark blue athletic shorts.
And that’s it. Just shorts.
His thick, dark hair is slicked back, still wet from the shower, and drops of water glide slowly down his chest, tracing the sharp, carved lines of each dip of his sculpted abdomen. I stare, my god, do I stare. It’s impossible not to. The professionalism I’ve always strived for fades into the background for five long seconds while my brain scrambles to process the number of muscles in front of me. My eyes involuntarily track a bead of water as it slithers down his abs, dipping into the soft ridge where his shorts rest on his hips.