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)
“They went crazy for it. Before long, he started getting a flood of messages and emails—not just from his fans, but from brands and high-profile galleries. Everyone wanted to know the same thing: who’s running his account and filming it all?” I stand up and walk around the island. “Do you mind if I get a glass of water?”
“Help yourself. Bottles of water are in the fridge.” I once again scrunch up my nose. Water in plastic, the same plastic being recycled, except I’ve been to landfills, and it all lands in the exact same place. So, tell me, do they really recycle?
“Glasses?” I ask.
“To the right of the fridge.” I go about my task fridge while Rowdy plates his food, sets his plate next to my laptop, and grabs a fork. Meanwhile, I fill my glass with ice and water and return to my seat where he’s sitting right next to me.
“So, you took the hint.” Rowdy takes a bite of his food. There are six inches between us, too bad his effortless, commanding presence makes the space feel smaller.
“I created a business right then and there.” I nod, meeting his gaze while taking a sip of my water. “I bought a better camera, registered an LLC, and I’ve been doing it ever since. I took on independent clients, built a reputation for crisis management, and now it seems I’m into sports franchises. Like the Lonestars calling my cell when their star player needs some help.”
“Clearly, I’m not a project to you.” He chews slowly, his gaze locked on mine. There’s no sarcasm in his expression, no defensive edge. Only a calculating respect that makes me think maybe we’ll be on the same page after all. “I’m just the latest fire you’re setting out to extinguish,” he muses, propping his forearms on the counter, which brings his thick arm closer to mine.
“You’re a high-stakes client, Rowdy,” I correct, holding my ground despite the reckless desire crackling between us. “And I don’t fail my clients.”
“Is that right?” It seems Bouchard has a favorite phrase when it comes to me. He leans in a fraction of an inch closer, his eyes dropping briefly to my lips before rising back to meet my gaze. “And what happens when the project gets complicated, sunshine?”
“I handle the complications. I always do,” I whisper, licking my lips, and he watches as I do so. Rowdy stares at me for a long, silent beat, the quiet hum of the fridge and air conditioner the only sound in the kitchen. For a second, I think he’s going to close the remaining few inches between us. Every instinct in my body screams at me to pull back, to remember my rules, to maintaining the professional boundary I’ve never broken.
Instead, I hold my breath, waiting to see what he’ll do next. Rowdy lets out a rough breath, a slow grin spreading across his sharp jaw, and pulls back just enough to break the spell.
“Alright, Jett.” He picks up his fork again. “Hit me with those interview questions. Let’s see what we’re working with and what the fans want.” I blink, taking a moment as I tap on my laptop screen to open the list.
“Question one.” My fingers tremble slightly, but my voice remains steady. “How do you feel about telling the world that Rowdy Bouchard has a soft side?” I begin, my eyes darting up to meet his.
“Tell them whatever you want, Jett. As long as it makes me sound and look good.” When he chuckles, the sound vibrates through the room.
“Every side is your good side, Bouchard,” I murmur under my breath before I can stop myself. Rowdy freezes. His eyes go molten-lava hot as they snap back to mine, ablaze with an intensity that makes me realize I’m already way too far down a slippery slope. And as I sit here in his kitchen, watching him eat, I know one thing for certain: keeping this purely business is going to be the hardest fight of my life.
FIVE
ROWDY
The hum of the engine is the only sound filling the cab of my SUV as we drive back to the arena. But inside my chest? Fuck, everything is roaring. My skin feels too damn tight, my muscles won’t relax for shit, and my body has been thrumming with a relentless craving for the last six hours.
I grip the leather of the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white, and right beside me in the passenger seat is the woman who’s the cause of it: Jett. She’s leaning into the glow of her laptop, dark hair framing her face, small gold chains swaying, and every time she fidgets in her seat, my blood surges south, straight to my cock.
I’ve gone through more questions today than I have my entire hockey career, high school, college, and pro combined. Jett drilled me on everything: my pre-game routines, my favorite meals, my childhood, my rehab progression. Every question was calculated and aimed at peeling back another layer of the armor I’ve spent years holding up. And every time her chocolate eyes locked on mine to gauge my reaction, my cock hardened another notch. I’d chosen the wrong shorts to wear—the thin fabric did nothing to hide the strain beneath them. That’s when I excused myself, went back upstairs, and changed into jeans. Though, it didn’t help my cock any. Now I’m paying the price with the heavy denim pressing against my length.