He Has MVP: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Boston Brawlers Hockey Romance)

by Stephanie Queen

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you do it, Pink? Why did you leave your job to start a business? It’s ruining your life.”

  I heave a sigh. “What are you talking about? It’s not ruining my life. It’s a dream come true. You worked hard to get to where you are, didn’t you?” I stop and lean against the end of the kitchen island, petting Curly’s abundant soft fur. Why I’m indulging this man’s questions, I have no idea. I should ignore him and get on with onboarding my new client. I promised a full financial and tax prospective by Monday.

  He scoffs. “I love my so-called work. I’d play hockey every day even if they didn’t pay me.”

  “Ah. But they do pay you. You’re a freaking millionaire. So what’s wrong with me wanting to join the millionaire club?”

  “That’s why you do it? For the money?”

  “Duh-uh?”

  “I never pegged you for the mercenary type, Pink.” His forehead pinches together like he’s really disturbed and I can’t help laughing.

  “What the fuck, Aiden? I’m an accountant—of course I’m in it for the money. It’s all about the money.”

  “Didn’t you ever want to be something else? Didn’t you dream of being a ballerina when you were a girl?”

  Shock hits me and it shows on my face before I can hide it. He didn’t know. He was only talking little girl dream stereotypes. He has no way of knowing I once wanted to be a ballerina. But he’s far too observant and the insufferable grin tells me he caught me.

  “You did want to be a ballerina. You took lessons. How long?”

  I lift my chin, refusing to be shamed, I own my ballerina dreams. “Eight years. There’s nothing wrong with girlhood aspirations and I worked my ass off.”

  “I’ll bet you did,” he says, sounding real, admiration peppering his voice. He leans into me, too close. Close enough to smell the mint of his toothpaste and the spice of his aftershave and the heady male sweat of his stupidly muscled body.

  “Why didn’t you pursue it?”

  I wave a hand and back away. “Understudy ballerinas don’t earn enough money to pay the bills let alone become millionaires.”

  “Money. Why don’t you just find yourself some rich—”

  I throw my hands up though I’d rather smack him. “That’s it. I’m through with this conversation.” I turn away fuming and mutter, “Male chauvinist.”

  “What’s that?” He follows me.

  Stopping abruptly, I turn. “You’re a male chauvinist. Did it occur to you that I might want to earn my own money?” Unlike my mother. Not that she isn’t worth her weight in gold. Guilt explodes in me. My skin heats up and the creep of blushing warmth rises up my neck. Fuck.

  “Weren’t you earning a good living at that big accounting firm you worked at?”

  “Not millionaire money.” Why am I bothering with this conversation? Why is he?

  “So is it worth it to give up all the fun in your life to—”

  “Did Chelsea and Maggs put you up to this?” Curly squeaks in my arms and I realize I’m squeezing the poor puppy. I take a big breath and release her to the floor, holding onto my computer. I need to get to work to meet my deadline.

  “No,” he says. “I figured it all out on my own. One good look at your pale skin and I know you haven’t been out all summer.”

  “Is that right? Well so what. I’ve been inside my new office with my executive assistant and two accountants at 60 State Street in Boston.” Did I just say that? As if I’m trying to compete like a kid on the playground bragging that my bike is better than his?

  He grins. Of course he does.

  “Never mind. Go have your lunch.” I turn.

  “I’ll wait till you’re hungry. The pups and I will take a walk while we’re waiting.”

  He whistles and they follow him to the back door. Even Curly runs after him. I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s an overgrown kid and a natural playmate for the pups. I wonder if he really needs my help. Watching him rush out the door, leaving it open running with the dogs, I shake my head. Walking back to the door, I close it. The pups definitely need my help. Having fun with them isn’t the same thing as taking care of them. They need to be fed properly and be given their worm medicine. They need to be walked in the early morning.

  Working at the kitchen island where I can see the water—or I could if I looked up—I finish the first of the spreadsheets needed for the wealth analysis to optimize my client’s tax position. The wind whips the trees, loud and strong. Glancing at the sky, I notice dark clouds moving in along with booming waves. I haven’t checked the weather report all day, but I did hear the pilot of the small plane I took to the island earlier saying he was in a hurry to get back to the mainland due to a big storm coming.

  Aiden crashes inside the patio door with the pups on a whirl of cool air and raw energy. My heartbeat ramps up and my alertness spikes as if I’m anticipating danger. Or, based on the warm rumble at my core, maybe I’m anticipating a tantalizing appetizer for my session with Bixby.

  “You ready for lunch?” He’s talking to the pups, who race to their dishes. He promptly fills their dishes with food and water. My eyes follow him, riveted, all muscle and smooth motion. His graceful movements are not too unlike a ballet—albeit a raw and gritty version.

  What the hell am I thinking? Snap yourself out of it, Pink. He’s a hockey player. Furthest thing from graceful. Furthest thing from what I’m into. Except to look at. From afar.

  Finished with what he’s doing, he turns to me, aiming dark-fringed eyes and playful grin full throttle in my direction.

  “Now that Moe, Larry, and Curly are fed, what about you?”

  His messed hair, tight shirt and that stupid, not quite goofy but definitely boyish look that should be clownish except for his exceptional eyes, have me mesmerized. An uncomfortable feeling of attraction creeps in, but that’s ridiculous. He’s all raw animal sexy, sure, but that’s so not my type. My hormones must be starved and in need of serious attention. I definitely need to take care of that problem because the last thing I need is for Aiden’s raw manliness to distract me from work.

  “Okay. You make lunch. I’ll take my computer into the bedroom. I have a few emails to send.” And a few balance sheets to review and update. Plus I need to look at the files Brady Mack transferred over from his soon-to-be-prior accountant. A smile curves my lips as I pick up my laptop, ready to head to the master bedroom. I love it when I get new clients.

  “You got it,” he says, keeping his eyes on me.

  I turn away and walk down the short hall into the bedroom. When I glance around the room, the smile I was wearing disappears, turns past a frown, and heads straight to a scowl.

  “Aiden!” His stuff—an open Boston Brawlers duffel bag—is sprawled on the bed. My bags are neatly piled near the closet and his shaving things are spread on the desk near the patio door. What the hell is he thinking? That we’re going to sleep together?

  The door bangs open and he comes in accompanied by all three pups as if he’s playing Pied Piper.

  “What the hell? Get your stuff out of my room,” I say. My hands are on my hips and I feel like someone’s bitchy maiden aunt, but I don’t care.

  Okay, I care a little. He’s not a bad guy even if he isn’t my type, so I back off my scowl and drop my hands.

  “I need this room so I can work at the desk. You can stay in the guest room.” I don’t bother questioning his intention to stay with me in the same room because the notion is preposterous.

  “No can do.” He grins and passes close by me, then throws himself onto the bed with innate recklessness as if he’s flying into a corner after a loose puck. I shiver. The picture he makes with his arms up behind his head, his chest heaving with muscles and his biceps bulging from his shirtsleeves make a drool-worthy picture.

  “You posing for a condom commercial?” I ask. What the hell happened to my self-discipline? I’m not one to spit out the first words that pop into my mind, but that’s what I ju
st did. His smiles goes from goofy grin to sexy come-on and I’m reminded that I’m playing with fire here. Aiden is a pro at more than hockey. He’s used to women drooling and knows what to do with flirtatious innuendo.

  My eyes dart automatically to his crotch. Damn. Am I this desperate? No. I’m only curious. I need to gauge his level of intent. He’s . . . bulging, but not too bad, not too hard. Not yet. My warped sex-starved mind whispers the challenge. But I feel it like a smack in the butt, spurring me on. Maybe bullying me on. My neglected pussy is a bully.

  “There’s no mattress in the guest room,” he says. “The pups ate it, I think. We’re all sleeping in here with you.” The dogs jump up onto the bed with him on cue and he scratches them each in return as a reward. “Is my fly open, Pink? You keep staring at my crotch.”

  The blush of heat blooms furiously on my cheeks and I resist touching them. Barely. I roll my eyes and look away. “You’re so ridiculous.” My words lack the intended punch.

  “You never explained—why do you need a million dollars?”

  “Why do you care anyway?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know. You fascinate me. You’re different than other women I know.”

  I snort. “I’ll bet.”

  His grin widens. “You’re complicated. You have layers like—”

  “Don’t say an onion.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s too cliché.”

  “Right. Nothing like you. Your layers are more like a wedding cake.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “I bet you taste sweet and creamy.”

  Containing the heat that’s now bursting between my legs, I manage to keep my cool. “You’re wrong. I’m more like the onion because I’ll make you cry.”

  We lock eyes and I realize the truth of my statement with a stab of regret. His grin is gone and I squirm under the Full Monty stare of the serious Aiden. Eyes blazing and intense like he wants to eat me up right now, like he’d enjoy it. Immensely. My eyes flicker away from his. They go straight to his crotch again. There’s no doubt about that fiery intent in his eyes and the now bigger, harder bulge in his pants makes me suck in a quick breath as my heart jumps into that aroused gear it hasn’t tried for a while.

  I think of Bixby, but all of a sudden, with this male specimen staring me down like I’m his next meal, Bixby is out the window and nothing but real flesh and pulsing blood will do.

  Fuck. Stop the fantasy, Pink. He’s not your type. You’re not interested in a one-night stand. You don’t really want to make him cry.

  I don’t. But then, what makes me think he’s the crying type? He’s a big boy. He’s had lots of women. What makes me think I could make him cry? I’m nothing but a flirtation to him, just like every other woman. He’s not interested in any more than a hot fling like always, right?

  I don’t do hot flings. I have standards. Being a notch on a player’s belt isn’t me. I’m better than that.

  But my angry, weeping pussy yells back at me that no, I’m not better than that because right now I’m literally starving for what he has to offer. One night of passion will do nicely, thank you very much.

  No, no, no. I’d have to face him in the morning and ultimately reject him because work comes first. I don’t think I could stand that. I’d have to face him again and again every time I got together with my friends because he’s part of the group as much as I am.

  “You’re wrong.” When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse and he clears his throat.

  “You’ll never know,” I say, because that’s the way it has to be. My pussy, the bully, protests with a sharp pain of longing and more juice than my panties can handle right now. I sit down on the desk chair and squirm. Oh God, please don’t let him see my discomfort. But he’s not blind.

  His eyebrows fly up and that grin that I want to slap from his face returns. Before he can throw a wise-ass remark at me, I speak up sharply.

  “Please leave—and take the dogs with you—so I can get some work done.” Then I turn to the desk to put my computer there and find I need to push his things aside, his shaving cream and such, the kinds of intimate male things that belong in the bathroom. The kinds of things I haven’t seen in a long while. My pussy sends another pang of suffering shuddering through me.

  “If you say so, Pink,” he says from behind me and I don’t turn. But I hear the bed sound relieved as he gets up, and the scratches of the puppies’ paws as they jump to the floor, and the gentle click of the door as he closes it behind him. Then I’m left in blessed silence so I can concentrate on my work.

  The only problem is, as I stare at my computer screen, that I can’t concentrate for shit now. I could be looking at War and Peace written in Chinese backwards and upside down and I’d have an easier time deciphering it.

  Or you could be looking at porn, my evil little pussy whispers.

  Chapter 3

  Aiden

  I ought to be ashamed of myself for playing games with Pink. But damn it, she’s hot, and more than that she fucking provokes me with all that deep, complicated passion she has going on underneath her buttoned-up suit. Like she’s hiding something magical and precious.

  Plus I know she’s interested. Even if she’s the hands-off type and Chelsea’d kill me if I laid a hand on her. But damn.

  What if she laid a hand on me first? If she starts it—and there’s a distinct possibility she’s game—I’d be in the clear.

  The need to explore the depths of Pink overwhelms me. Physically, sure, that goes without saying. But the rest of that shit? What has me so intrigued? She’s so damn compelling. It’s like I’m stuck on her and it’s Lucy from tenth grade all over again. Pink is a puzzle I need to solve. I want to be her solution so bad I almost burn lunch.

  I manage to finish grilling up the burgers, feeding the burnt ones to the puppies. It’s really late for lunch and I’m starving. Eating outside would be a challenge with the wind whipping off the ocean. Instead we sit at the table inside and watch the waves through the window while we eat. We don’t talk much because I’m busy demolishing three burgers and Pink’s trying hard to be as unfriendly as possible. I think she’s still resentful that I’m riding her about all work and no play. Or maybe she’s resentful about the wild attraction between us. But she’ll get over it. I’ll see to it. She hardly eats a thing, but that’s okay because me and the pups share her leftovers.

  She wants to run back into the bedroom to work, but I insist it’s her turn to walk the dogs and the fresh air will do her good. It’s already late afternoon. Of course, I go with her.

  “I thought you said it was my turn?” she says over her shoulder as I jog to reach her side. She’s taken the pups out front to walk in the street and handling the three of them with no problem.

  “I don’t mind coming with.” I take the two leashes for Larry and Moe from her and let her keep Curly. Larry and Moe are all mine, big and tough and manly for a couple of fluffy puppies.

  She rolls her eyes at me but doesn’t stop walking or protest. The wind gusts and her hair flies up. I wish her skirt would fly up, but the damn thing is too tight.

  She’s overdressed, still wearing her buttoned-up white blouse and heels.

  “Interesting outfit for dog walking,” I say. I love getting a rise out of her, seeing that frustration heat up into that pretty pink blush she’s named for—because I’m convinced that’s the true root of her nickname. She’s so damn easy.

  “Oh, so now you’re a fashion expert?” She eyes my T-shirt with a meaningful glint under an arched brow. She probably doesn’t realize how adorable her suppressed grin looks, the dimple almost showing.

  Her blond hair flies into her face and she swipes at it. “Damn wind.”

  A branch blows into the street in front of us and Moe and Larry charge after it. I let go of the leash to give them some space, confident they’ll come back to me.

  “Are you crazy? Don’t let go of them. We’ll never catch them.”

  �
�They’re fine.” I watch them play tug-of-war over the small branch as we catch up to them. I turn to her and she glares.

  “Oh no, don’t run away puppies,” I say, heavy on the sarcasm as I stand over them. She swats my arm. I grin. She’s still swiping at her hair blowing around, making her look wild in spite of the tailored shirt. Maybe more so.

  “Don’t you dare say I told you so.” She waves her hand. “This proves nothing.”

  “It proves something.” She tries to swat me again, a smile escaping. I love teasing her. Love her sass, her refusal to bend.

  I lean over and join in the puppies’ fight over the branch, grabbing the leashes and pulling the animals back to the curb as a police car drives slowly up the street in our direction.

  The wind whips up around us in a gust as the police car stops along side us. I stand at Pink’s side, feeling protective, like I should block the assaulting gust.

  “You two live in this neighborhood?” the officer asks, a grim line to his mouth, his radio frantic with static inside the cruiser.

  “Yeah, a couple of doors down,” I say before Pink can correct him on the irrelevant detail that we’re only here for the weekend. Because I totally know she’s a stickler for details no matter what. I wonder how that applies in the bedroom, but I dismiss the untimely thought to concentrate on what the officer is saying.

  “Make sure you’re prepared for the storm to hit in a few hours. Power outages are possible. If you’re close to the ocean, you’ll need sandbags because the surge is expected to hit tomorrow morning. Ten to twelve feet. There’s a shelter at the high school inland if you need it.” He nods, gives us each a look to make sure we understand, and adds, “Finish your walk and then stay inside and have a safe night.” Then he drives on like he’s trolling the neighborhood for trouble.

  “Shit,” Pink says. “I hope he’s wrong about the power outage. I can’t afford to lose work time. I better make sure my phone and computer are charged. Does the house have a generator?” she asks me as if I should know. And I wish I could give her the right answer.