Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
They stare at me like they’re salivating.
Everyone’s quiet for several sultry seconds. Hayes has a naturally quiet side, an introspective aspect to him. But this might be the first time I’ve seen Stefan speechless. He’s like a cartoon character who got the wind knocked out of him.
By Hayes.
And maybe by me surprising him too, so I add, “And who said girls who dye their hair pink—it was magenta streaks, thank you very much—can’t be cheerleaders?”
Hayes gives a you’ve got me there nod. “Nice,” he says.
Stefan recovers the power of speech. “Multitudes, Ivy.” It comes out thoroughly seductive.
And with my name on his tongue, the power shifts once again. I drop my gaze and focus on the last kale plant and not on this cat-and-mouse flirtation. Hayes works on his, pulling the leaf, grunting slightly. The sound has me thinking of him in bed. “Did I do it right?”
“You did.”
He’s doing everything too right. But so is his teammate. I’m confused, completely off-kilter.
Until yesterday, Hayes Armstrong was the most sensual man I’d ever met. In all our brief encounters, he’s radiated sex. Every instant with him has been charged with electricity. We’ve barely touched, and Hayes has ignited a spark in me, a desire to explore my own fantasies.
The trouble is those fantasies are now intertwining with thoughts of his team captain. I feel trapped in a spell they’re weaving.
They’re both unfairly handsome and tremendous listeners, and they’re both looking at me like I’m some kind of answer.
I don’t know what the question is though.
But I know this—I really shouldn’t be asking it.
I stop, brush one palm against the other, and say, “And that’s how you tend to a garden. Now I have to go…write and answer emails.”
With that excuse, I scoop up my dog and hustle off the roof.
A day ago, I only had to resist one guy at work. Now, I have to resist two.
12
NO GENTLEMEN
Ivy
I successfully avoid both guys at the next home game.
It’s not hard. I don’t need to go into the locker room, or the media room, or the workout rooms. I don’t need to get my hammies stretched, or my sore muscles worked on with an athletic trainer.
And I’m never on the ice at the same time as the players.
I avoid them both in the building too. Stealth Ivy is in the house. I keep busy writing for my newsletter and posting on social, including a piece on the best finds in secondhand fashion, and another about clothes that make you feel strong. I’ll need an outfit to do that when I have to face Simone again soon. She emailed asking me to meet about her wedding coverage, so that date at the end of the month looms on my calendar.
Planning my clothing armor helps, so I use my new idea pen to write down possible outfits of the day in my notebook with the woman in the old-timey red evening dress on the cover.
I plan to avoid the guys on the plane to Vegas, too. Books are truly a girl’s best friend, and I’ve brought a paperback, a Kindle, and the aforementioned notebook. A triumvirate of Do Not Fucking Disturb signs.
At the airport, I keep busy, chatting with Oliver at the gate. He tells me about the plan to test out new names for the team soon after we return to San Francisco. Marketing has selected two new options for the Avengers and is working on a third. I sincerely hope the costume for the mascot is better than the ink splotch I wore in the first two home games.
We board together, and I don’t gawk at the size of the seats or the legroom. I’m cool Ivy too. But damn, those seats are big. There are three in each row, and Oliver points to the first of them. “Grab a seat by the front. The guys take freaking forever to deplane. You don’t want to deal with their shenanigans.”
“I’ll consider myself warned.” I claim a seat in the second row. The window seat.
Ha. Men don’t like middle seats, so no one will sit next to me.
Just try, motherfuckers. Try.
“And mum’s the word on the new names,” Oliver whispers from the aisle.
I mime zipping my lips. “I’m a vault,” I say as I toss my imaginary key away.
As he grabs a spot in the third row, I settle in, busying myself with my phone and the latest pick for Trina’s book club that we’ll discuss when I return. It’s a small-town romance set at a lavender farm, and the blurb promises the couple will bang in the bushes. Bring it on, bangathon.
I’m no less than ten seconds into the heroine learning the handyman she’s been daydreaming of is actually the farm owner when a big man is parking his ass next to me.
I groan privately. But when I look up, I give a genuine smile. “Hi, Dev.”