Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Hustling, I hunt for my phone so I can text him. I spot the device, then quickly dictate a note.
Hi, Max! There’s been a little mix-up, and I have—
A loud knock on my door startles me, then a deep, masculine voice calls out: “Room service. We have the Veuve Clicquot you ordered and the birthday cake in bed.”
What?
I didn’t order that. Or anything. Plus, that’s way over my per diem. My boss would reprimand me with a cool smile, and I hate reprimands, especially ones I don’t deserve.
“Coming,” I say, before I can close the suitcase. Once I cross to the door and peer through the hole I gasp, then drop down even though he, obviously, can’t see through the peephole.
It’s Max Lambert, the wearer of the cocky cologne. The owner of the bag I snooped through. The man who’s hated me since before I worked for this team.
Think fast.
Several feet away from me, his suitcase is wide open. He might hear if I head back over there. I slip off my heels as quietly as a mouse. “One sec,” I call out in a muffled voice, like I’m far away from the door, then pad back to the bag and zip it up, but the zipper snags.
Fuck a duck. It’s stuck on a pair of his boxer briefs.
Kill. Me. Now.
“Coming,” I say, hastily.
“No worries, Miss Rosewood,” he says in his fake room service voice. “Happy to wait all night with your special cake.”
I barely have the time to roll my eyes, but I manage even as I shout brightly, “I know it’s you, Max.”
“And your champagne. Don’t forget I have your champagne,” he says as I yank harder and harder.
“I still know it’s you,” I say, trying to stay cheery as I tug the damn zipper. But I just. Can’t. Get it. Squatting in front of the suitcase, I put everything I have into pulling on it, but then I land on my ass.
“You busy rooting through my things?”
I cringe, mortified. Actually, what is worse than mortification? Because that’s what I’m feeling right now. Exponential mortification.
But I am a problem solver by nature. I didn’t land this plum gig handling press for the NHL team because I can’t handle problems. I can so handle them. I wiggle the zipper a little to the left, a little to the right, using a soft touch, and voila.
It’s closed.
I take a breath, smooth out my navy blue blouse, run a hand down my ponytail, then head to the door, chin up, smile on, never let them see you sweat. Max won’t know I was a bad girl. I swing it open and paste on a smile as I meet the face of the man who’s made an art form of vexing me. Ice blue eyes, fair complexion, a chiseled jaw covered in a trim beard, and dark brown hair that’s a little wild, a little wavy, a little too long. The net effect? All you want to do is run your fingers through it. A scar cuts through his right eyebrow, unfairly making him even sexier, and also a bit scary. He’s six-foot-four, and when he’s on the ice he looms over the net like some kind of Arctic monster guarding his frozen cave. He’s a fearsome goalie, and he’s big everywhere—with thick thighs, strong arms, a broad chest, and a hockey butt. This sport does unholy things to players’ backsides. Right now though, he’s resting one forearm against the doorframe, the other is out of view, and he’s smirking.
I’d like to say it’s a welcome change from his scowl. But I’m not so sure. Still, I like to fight fire with fire, so I smile wider. “How’s it going? Do you need anything? Like a debrief on all the fabulous things we can discuss with the media tomorrow? If memory serves, Seattle is where you started out.” I splay out my hands like I’m creating a headline. “The hometown boy makes good.”
It’s a story the press would eat up, even though he plays for the visiting team. Still, there’s little the media likes more than a returning sports hero.
Well, a scandal. They like a scandal more. Which is exactly what I don’t want him to ever face again, though the last one was no fault of his own—at least as far as I know. I don’t have all the details. Max is notoriously tight-lipped.
But he isn’t now, as he scoff-laughs at my request. Jackass.
“Let’s take a raincheck on that feel-good story,” he says, then tips his chin behind me. “By the way, the zipper’s a little wonky on that. But you probably already know.”
My cheeks flame, but I ignore the splash of heat, holding my chin up high. “Thanks for the heads-up,” I say.
Looming in the doorway, he hoists up my suitcase and I try to grab it, but the jerk is too tall, too strong, and too tricky. “And I believe you left this with me. But you probably figured that out when you opened mine.”