by Sarina Bowen
“BWAHAHAHAHA!!” The twins break out in laughter, pointing their chubby fingers at me. “Daddy! You’re all purple!” June exclaims in delight.
“Don’t laugh at your father, you little monsters.” Groaning, I strip off the soaking wet, purple-stained hoodie and toss it on the back of one of the counter stools. I’m pretty sure some of the juice seeped through the fabric, because my chest feels wet. I glance down. Yup, there are purple splotches on my left pec. Double awesome.
I grab a dishrag and quickly wipe up the liquid that spilled on the floor and counter. Then I pour two glasses, plant the girls’ butts on two stools, and watch as they happily sip their juice.
Man, it’s easy to please my children. Give them some fruit punch and they’re smiling like it’s Christmas morning. Though once their little tummies start growling and they realize their waffles still aren’t ready, I doubt they’ll be smiling anymore.
I get out the waffle iron, and a skillet to fry up some breakfast sausage. Hopefully Hottie comes through for me on short notice. I swear, the woman is a saint for all the miracles she busts out.
And she doesn’t disappoint—less than fifteen minutes after I sent my SOS, the lobby buzzes to inform me I have a delivery from Fetch.
“Hey, Tommy?” I ask my doorman. “Is there any chance that the delivery was brought by the same woman who walked my dog?”
“Yeah, it’s her.”
“Do me a favor? Ask her name for me.”
I wait while Tommy confers with her, and I feel goose bumps rise up on my neck.
“Her name is Hailey Taylor Emery,” Tommy says a moment later.
Hailey Taylor Emery? As in, H…T…E? Hottie is downstairs in my lobby?
“Send her up,” I blurt into the receiver.
“Actually, she’s requested that the desk clerk take it up to—”
“No,” I interrupt. “Tell her I won’t accept the package unless she delivers it herself.” Jesus, what is wrong with me? Why am I badgering this poor woman to come upstairs to see me?
There’s a short delay before Tommy speaks again.
“She’ll be right up.”
Five
Just Play it Cool
Hailey
“Miss Emery?”
“Yes?” I don’t understand this holdup. Especially since I’d been headed for the exit faster than you can say my-friend-embarrassed-the-crap-out-of-me-last-night. But I turn around again at the doorman’s prompt.
His eyes gleam with amusement. “Mr. Eriksson requests that you drop off the package yourself. He won’t accept delivery, otherwise.”
I groan aloud. Why now? The November wind whipped my hair into the shape of a large shrubbery on the way over here.
The doorman holds out the bag and I take it. As I stomp toward the gleaming bank of elevators I hear him say, “She’ll be right up.”
You know how an elevator tugs on your belly when the car begins to rise? Today the tug is followed by a wave of full-on panic. My palms start to sweat, and the plastic bag from Whole Foods grows slick in my hand.
I’m about to come face-to-face with Matt Eriksson, the man I’ve secretly crushed on since I watched his first NHL game in college.
The ding of the elevator arriving on his floor sends a spark of nerves shooting throughout my body. I step out and walk a few paces to his door. I hear voices inside—the high pitch of a little girl’s giggle, and then Rufus’s friendly woof.
Okay, Hailey. Just play it cool.
I raise my hand to knock, but the door jerks open and I miss. My arm falls clumsily down to my side as a little girl throws the door wide open. “Hi! Did you bring waffles? Daddy always orders stuff.”
“That is not true!” a male voice argues, and the rough timbre of it sends tingles down my spine. “Who makes the best sausage in the world?”
“Mommy says sausage has too much sodium,” another little voice says from inside. “What’s sodium?”
“It’s... Libby? Did you open the door?”
I’m just standing there like a mannequin, trying to make sense of the chaos. And then the doorway is filled by another body.
A big body. Specifically a broad, bare chest with rippling muscles all over it. I mean, they are actively rippling. It’s fascinating. I didn’t know anyone had pecs that well defined in real life. And abs like my great-grandma’s antique washboard. Holy shit.
Now the abs are shaking a little bit.
“Hottie?” someone says with a chuckle.
“Mmm?” I finally wrest my gaze away from that glorious tummy and look up. But then I’m blindsided by those cool, searching eyes. Mr. Freeze gets me again, and I’m solidified into a statue of a delivery girl.
“Did I get it right? Does HTE stand for hottie?”
The weird question penetrates my stupor, but only halfway. “N-no,” I stammer. “Hailey Taylor Emery,” I rattle off like an automaton.
“Nice to meet you, Hailey Taylor Emery.” He thrusts out a hand to shake, and I manage to grasp it. But the dry warmth of his hand against mine is kind of mind blowing. Matt Eriksson is holding my hand. He made thirty-two goals last year with this hand. And it’s attached to the body that stars in all my dirtiest fantasies.
And now I realize I’m clutching his hand awkwardly. So I drop it they way you’d let go of an electric fence you’d accidentally grabbed—suddenly and with great force.
That’s when Rufus spots me. First there’s a great woof of joy, then the scrambling of toenails on polished wood. He takes out the four-year-old in his way like an eager bowling ball knocking aside a pin. He pushes into the hallway, his whole body shaking with excitement.
My brain is still sludgy with lust, so I don’t immediately give Rufus the love he demands. The dog is forced to take matters into his own paws. He rears up, setting his paws on my hips. His considerable bulk catches me off balance. Or maybe I’m still reeling from the proximity to Matt Eriksson. But I lose my balance and go down in a heap on the plush carpeting of the hallway.
“Oof,” I manage before Rufus licks my face.
“Jesus,” Matt breathes. “Off, Ruf. Let the poor girl alone.” He shoves the dog aside. “Are you okay?”
I make a garbled noise of assent. Something like “yrrm,” because now he’s looming over me, godlike, and that fine chest is all I can see. He has a dusting of dark hair that thickens to a happy trail as it enters his low-slung sweatpants.
And I’m staring again.
I slam my eyes shut and roll to the side, scrambling to my feet while my cheeks burn with discomfort. Rufus has run off again, most likely in search of his leash.
“Daddy?” says the little girl who’d opened the door. “Are we having waffles now? I’m hungry.” She tugs on his hand.
“Here,” I say, grabbing the bag with the waffle mix off the floor where it’s fallen, thrusting it toward him. I’ve got to get out of here and regroup for a minute or maybe a year. And after that I’ll probably look for another job somewhere else. A good distance from Matt Eriksson, probably. Like, Tahiti would almost be far enough away.
He slips the bag over his wrist. Then he leans down and scoops his preschool-aged daughter onto his hip. She slides her arms around his neck and lays one soft cheek on his bare shoulder.
Pop, pop! That sound you’re hearing is both my ovaries exploding.
“Thank you,” he rumbles. “Sorry it’s such chaos here.” Then he smiles and my IQ drops another five points. “What did you think of the game last night?”
“It was awesome,” I say truthfully. It’s my first successful sentence since I stepped onto his floor. “Great offensive communication during the second period. Really generated some nice chances.”
When his eyes widen with amusement, I realize that my inner hockey wonk has found a brand-new way to embarrass me. “Anyway. I’ll run along unless there’s anything you need.” Like my naked body in your bed, for example. Something about standing near this man makes me think very un-Hailey-like thoughts.
<
br /> “There’s another overnighter coming up,” he says, his big hand patting his daughter’s back. “I’ll send Rufus to the doggy ranch for the long road trips. But if you could walk him Sunday evening and Monday late morning, that would be great.”
“Okay.” I’d do anything he asked of me. Sad but true. “Sunday I should be available…” I try to gather a couple of brain cells together, but his scruffy jaw makes it difficult. My hand itches to reach out and touch those bristly hairs and test their texture under my fingers. “...around sex thirty or seven.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners, so, in my brain, I rewind what I’ve just said.
“Six thirty or seven,” I correct. Abort, abort! I need to get the hell out of here. This man has hungry children to feed, and I’m practically drooling on his doormat. I’m worse than Rufus. “Gotta go. Nice chat,” I stammer, backing away.
“Later, Hailey,” he calls as I turn to leap for the elevator button.
“G-bye!” I manage before I hear the beautiful sound of an apartment door finally closing. I’m sweaty and almost panting from the difficulty of keeping it together in front of the world’s hottest hockey player. As I step into the elevator, my phone buzzes with a text.
I’m afraid to look, but when I do, it’s only Jenny. WELL? she demands. Did you bring the man his gluten free waffles? Did you invite yourself in for breakfast and a quickie?
You’re hilarious, I reply. Could you please Google job openings in Tahiti?
The next two days pass slowly. I spend them trying not to relive my mortifying encounter with the hunky God of Hockey. So much for playing it cool. Clearly my divorce messed with my head and did a number on my confidence—the old Hailey had no trouble flirting with cute men, although any flirting I’d ever done was harmless since I was married for half my life.
Jenny’s advice that I should get out there again and start dating isn’t wrong. But I need to start small, with a guy who doesn’t turn me into a babbling idiot.
Putting our awkward encounter aside isn’t going to be easy because I have to return to the scene of the crime. When I go to walk Rufus on Sunday night, I feel a little sweaty just stepping off the elevator on the third floor.
Of course, there’s nobody home except one dog. And he still loves me. I scratch his ears and try not to think of anything I said the other day when I stood in the hallway losing my mind.
Ugh.
We have a nice time together before I take him home again. One more walk is probably all I have, too. Matt had said something about sending him to the doggy ranch when the team goes on road trips.
When Monday comes, I have to face up to the other awkwardness in my life. I’ve been avoiding Jackson at work, but my luck runs out eventually.
“Got a minute?” he calls as I’m darting for the door midmorning.
Crap.
“Sure,” I say, although it really isn’t true. I’m supposed to walk Rufus, but since I don’t want Jackson to know that, I follow him into his office and sit across from him.
“How’ve you been?” he asks, a smile on his narrow face. I can’t help comparing him to my hockey idol, and it really isn’t a fair fight. Jackson is a little geeky, but he’s a great guy. I feel guilty noticing how scrawny his neck looks poking from above the tidy collar of his dress shirt.
“I’m well,” I lie. “You?”
He smiles again, and I glimpse a little flash of why I’ll always love him. Kindness radiates from him like sunshine at high noon. “Can’t complain. How’s the mobile app upgrade coming along?”
“Not bad at all. Should have it ready for beta before Christmas. Giving our subcontractor an ultimatum finally did the trick.”
Jackson winces. “I’m glad they didn’t walk.”
“I knew they wouldn’t.” This is why I deal with the programmers. Jax is smart as hell, but he can’t play hardball. I fill him in on our progress, and he asks a few questions that I’ll need to follow up on.
“Thanks for handling all this,” he says, adjusting the position of his pencil so that it aligns perfectly with the blotter on his desktop. “We’ll need a few favorite customers to beta this version. Do you have anyone in mind?”
He’s right, and I haven’t gotten around to figuring that part out yet. Probably because I only have one specific client in mind at all times. “Good point. I’ll get right on that.” It’s a struggle not to check my watch. But I can’t tell Jackson where I’m off to, because it violates company policy.
Next, he shows me some photographs he’s taken of holiday promotional items. “I think I’ve got the giftwrap concept right,” he says, pointing at a lovely photo of a box wrapped in white paper with silver stripes. “We’ll let the clients choose the color of the ribbon that’s appropriate to the holiday they’re celebrating. I ordered blue, red, and silver.”
“That’s beautiful,” I tell him. “So I’ll add those ribbon colors to the giftwrap menu.” I grab my phone out of my pocket and tap a note to myself. Jackson is the artistic half of this endeavor. While I run the technical aspects of the business, he’s the one who designs our website, our branding, and all our communications with clients.
He’s also the one who put my picture on the web portal. We took that shot five years ago when we couldn’t even afford a photographer to help us. It was his idea to put that red pencil in my teeth, the one that matches the text in our logo.
“Anything else?” I ask, hoping he’ll say no.
My ex tips his head to the side, looking thoughtful. “My dad had me look at a piece of real estate in the Bridle Path neighborhood. With expansion in mind.”
Just like that, my stomach tightens.
“But I’m not sure we’re ready for that, right?” Jackson asks. “Not before our new app launches.”
“Right…” I say slowly, trying to read between the lines. “But, uh, I know you want to expand.”
He frowns just slightly. “Expansion is a pretty crucial way to grow the bottom line. But we need to be fully prepared to take that on. Right now we’re finally in a place where we can almost take a breath. Expansion will put us right back in scramble mode.”
“Hmm,” I say, trying to guess at the subtext of this conversation. “If you need scramble, I can scramble.” I will show no weakness! If he wants me to leave the company, he’s going to have to come out and say it.
“I’m going to mull it over,” he says instead.
“Okay,” I answer, springing out of my chair. “Is there anything else?”
Slowly, he shakes his head.
“Later!” I say with false cheer, then sprint for the exit. And even though I know Jackson’s not chasing me down the street, I keep it at a jog all the way to Matt’s apartment building. (Is it weird that in my head we’re on a first-name basis?)
Rufus is as happy to see me this morning as he was last night. I take him to the nearby park where there’s a dog run and let him off the leash. He knows me well enough now that he’ll come when I call, so I’m not worried that I’ll end up chasing him around the place when it’s time to go.
Plus I bought him a gourmet doggy treat on my way into the office this morning, just in case this is our last time together.
While he sniffs butts and socializes in the dog enclosure, I spend time solving a couple of problems in the office by texting instructions to Dion. Before long my hands are freezing and I’ve lost track of time. “Come on, Ruf!” I call. “Time to go! Want a cookie?”
He comes running when he sees the treat, and I clip on his collar while he’s bolting it down. We walk back to Yorkville Avenue at a nice clip, and I’m humming to myself when I beep into Matt’s apartment.
“Sit,” I tell Rufus when we get inside. “Good boy.” I drop down to my knees, and he wags his tail when we make eye contact. “Yes, you’re a very handsome boy.” I give him a kiss on the nose. I unclip him, and he wags some more, probably wondering whether I have any more of those treats. My hands undoubtedly smell like doggy biscuit. “Sorr
y, pal. I gave up all the goods already.”
“Did you, now?” a low voice asks, and I nearly leap out of my skin.
My heart spasms with surprise as I whip around to see Matt Eriksson standing in front of his kitchen island grinning at me.
Six
Poker Night
Matt
Hottie nearly topples over with surprise, and I feel bad for startling her. She seems to have a poor sense of balance for some reason. But even wobbly, she’s the best sight I’ve seen in days. She's wearing skinny jeans and a blue winter coat the same shade as her eyes. The tip of her nose is red from the cold, and I have the dumbest urge to plant a kiss on it. She's got a really cute nose, and the tiny jewel in it is strangely hot. I've never really been attracted to punky chicks, but I'm definitely attracted to this one.
Rufus recovers first. He bounds over to say hello, but then runs right back to Hottie. That traitor. He’s already one up on me. He’s been on the receiving end of a couple of Hottie’s kisses.
I’ve got nothing. It’s the first time I’ve ever been jealous of my dog.
“You’re home early,” Hottie says, rising carefully to her feet.
“True story,” I agree. “Our charity luncheon was cancelled, and we flew home two hours ahead of schedule.”
“Right. Well…” She makes a break for the door.
“Whoa. Not so fast,” I complain. “I just put a pot of coffee on. Will you have a cup with me?”
Her eyes look a little wild, and I try not to smile. My hottie is a hockey fan, apparently. It’s obvious that I weird her out. This happens sometimes. A perfectly functional human being can get a little loopy when it comes to hockey players. I know this firsthand because I misspelled my own name once when asking Wayne Gretzky to sign that jersey hanging on my wall.
