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)
“I did not leave it with you,” I say, momentarily exasperated. Does he think I wanted him to look through my luggage? Oh, crap. Did he give it the same examination I gave his? I really hope not. The last thing I want is Max knowing a single detail about me outside of work.
“Fine, fine. It was just a mix-up. But I have one question.”
I groan privately, but smile publicly even though it’s just the two of us here in the hallway of the Luxe Hotel late at night. “Yes?” It’s asked sweetly, with sunshine, like how I usually try to behave around him. Around everyone.
He motions to my room. I sigh but open the door the rest of the way, and he strides inside like he owns the hotel. That’s how he walks. Oozing confidence. Radiating sex appeal. Looking like sin. I hate how sexy he is, and he can never know.
As the door shuts with an ominous click, he sets down the luggage on the carpet and raises his other hand. My eyes widen in shock as he asks, “What is this called? Out of curiosity?”
I gasp.
One of my favorite little lacy things is dangling from his finger. And I was dead wrong about him spying. He’s as bad as I am. I snatch it from his big hand. “It’s a bralette,” I say defensively as the sunshine in me starts to fade, clouds rolling in. “Why did you go through my things?”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “How else would I know if the bag was mine?” Max bats his ice blue eyes so innocently. But of course he’s not innocent.
Then again, neither am I. “You take one quick look, then shut it when you don’t see a thousand and one pairs of gray sweatpants,” I explain in my best helpful tone.
But as I say that a voice in my head tsks me. You didn’t take one quick look. You scratched and sniffed.
“Please, Everly. I travel with a thousand and two.”
“Appreciate the correction.” I stare him down, not giving an inch. “Though I presume once you saw it wasn’t full of your things, you would’ve just returned it.”
Instead of taunting me. But I keep that to myself. I don’t need to give him more ammunition.
His gaze drifts pointedly to his suitcase behind him. “Right. I probably should have done that. It would be wrong to go through someone’s stuff. To discover their, say, black boxer briefs, raspberry-flavored lip balm, noise-cancelling headphones, secret journal that they keep every night listing all the good things that happened that day or could happen one day, and their expensive moisturizer because God only gave them one face, and it’s a fucking great face so they treat it well?”
Is he an evil wizard? Or just the biggest pain in my ass? “I’m sure you don’t keep a secret journal,” I say brightly.
But I remind myself that the season just started and I can’t let difficult people irritate me. My boss told me a few days ago there’s a promotion available this year, so I’m going to have to keep my eye on that prize, and not on the prickly problems.
“Are you, Everly?” With one dubious brow arched, he stares at me, like he’s a lie detector test. “You sticking to that?”
I cross my arms. “Yes. And you?”
He waves a muscular arm at the suitcase he’s returned. “Oh, I already admitted I looked through it. I was damn curious. And I asked what that piece of lace was. A bralette, if you recall. I’m just wondering if you did the same. It’s a simple question really.”
I swallow and school my expression. “Of course I didn’t.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“If you say so,” he says, smiling, leaning an inch closer. “But I think you’re a terrible liar.”
I burn, but I’m not a team publicist so I can fight with players. I’m a team publicist so I can fight for them. I swallow down my ire, and say, “It’s a good thing you stopped by actually. I’ve been meaning to connect with you. I’m thinking about putting together a promo event with a local animal rescue once we’re back in San Francisco. And I thought, how adorable would it be if we had the big, bad goalie posing with a little kitten?”
Max will hate that for ruining his icy image. He loves it when the other teams think he’s an unapproachable dick. Well, guess what? He is.
“Does that work for you?” I ask.
He steps closer. So close I catch another hint of the Midnight Flame. Only this time, it’s mixed with his skin. It’s muskier, darker, sexier. More virile, and it sends a rush of heat down my belly as he drawls out my last name. “Rosewood.” He says it like he’s playing with me, ready to pounce. “Good thing I love kittens.”