by Avery Flynn
“What?”
“That the shape of my face hasn’t changed.”
“What’s spatial intelligence and how do you know I have it?”
“Because I was your tutor—it was my job to know your strengths and weaknesses. Of course there were a few areas I didn’t have the opportunity to assess, but—”
“Whoa—back up.”
She huffed out a breath, something else he remembered. She always had the tendency to think he knew a hell of a lot more than he did, so he’d have to make her back up until he could understand any part of what she was trying to teach him. Sometimes she’d have to back up so far he suspected she thought he was pulling one over on her. He hadn’t been. He wasn’t sure why anyone would try to look more stupid than they were—he definitely hadn’t.
“Fine.”
She spread her feet apart slightly, her right hip jutted out and her right hand slid from her waist to her hip. The skirt of the dress was a little tight and showed the curve of her hip and thigh.
“Basically, there are nine kinds of intelligence, everyone excels in different ways—your strengths, as I saw them, have always been in spatial intelligence.”
The thumb of her right hand rose and bent back in what he thought of as a hitchhiker’s thumb. He knew it was a recessive genetic trait—she’d taught him that, then he remembered she could also curl her tongue—another recessive genetic trait he’d found fascinating—especially now.
“You’re picture smart which means you have the ability to think in three dimensions—mental imagery, spatial reasoning, that kind of thing. You were also extremely high in bodily-kinesthetic intelligence.”
Her pointer finger shot out and she looked like she was playing cops and robbers, imaginary gun at the ready.
“You have the ability to manipulate objects using physical skills, timing, and perfecting the mind-body union which makes you good at sports. Especially with the addition of your high spatial intelligence—the two together make you amazing at hockey, football, soccer, probably skiing and even driving I’d assume. You know, anything physical, involving hand-eye coordination, timing, body movement, and muscle memory.”
Mind body union—God that sounded hot. It meant he was good at sex. Whoa, where’d that come from? Okay, he knew where it came from, but with Trish? His tutor? His gaze traveled over her and he slammed on the mental brakes and cleared his throat. “What other kinds of intelligence are there?”
Her middle finger killed the whole gun thing and slid further down the skirt of her dress.
“Naturalistic intelligence—nature smarts;”
She added another finger, counting them off like a kid doing her nine-times tables.
“Musical intelligence which is self-explanatory; logical, mathematical intelligence—number and reasoning smart; existential intelligence—the ability to tackle deep questions about human existence; interpersonal intelligence—people smarts; intrapersonal intelligence—the capacity to know oneself; and linguistic intelligence—word smarts.”
Once she had all her fingers spread out against both upper thighs, he took a mental snap shot—she was hot in a way he never imagined she could be. Trish Reynolds had the body of a Playboy Bunny and the mind of a freakin’ computer. “You rock all of the above, I’m sure.”
That shocked look stole over her features again. And those eyes of hers seemed to widen and then shine. “No, not at all. I’m actually quite lacking in several.”
“Really? Name them.” He wasn’t trying to be mean, although she looked as if she doubted it, he honestly wanted to know.
“Musical Intelligence, for instance, although, to be truthful, I’ve never really tried to play an instrument, so I guess that part of it is a bit of a question mark. I know I don’t have a good singing voice.”
“Who told you that?”
“Our fourth grade chorus teacher.”
“Seriously? You’re going to take the word of some uneducated music hack who taught us gym and elementary music?”
“You remember Mrs. Southern?”
“Hell yes. That old bat sent me to the office more than any other teacher we ever had.”
“By the time we had music, you were always bouncing off the walls. You couldn’t keep still.”
“True—I was a hyper kid.”
“I have no hand-eye coordination—tennis, volleyball, squash, anything like that is the bane of my existence. If you throw a ball to me, I’ll hold up my hands—not to catch it, but to protect my face.”
He tried to hold back a laugh but failed. “I’ll remember that.”
“I’m sure you will. But when it comes to balance—skiing, skating, and skateboarding I’m pretty good.”
“Not to mention number and word smarts—you’re over the top in those.”
She shrugged.
“You are. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met.”
“Thanks, but that’s probably not true. If you were to quantify the nine different kinds of intelligence, I’d score so low in some, it would throw off my average. And you would score so high in others—it would make up for your lack in the few you score low on. Don’t you see? Intelligence—real intelligence—isn’t all about reading, writing and arithmetic. You happen to have great interpersonal skills too. Everyone likes you—you’ve always been popular. You excel in teamwork, people follow you.”
He never thought about smarts like that—all he knew was how badly he did in school. But then she knew that too, so maybe this new and improved Trish was still being Trish his tutor, who always tried to make him feel smarter than he actually was.
“Well,” she stepped toward the doors, “We should probably go. We have a lot to review before the morning. It’s going to be a full week—I have a copy of the itinerary and I want to make sure you have everything you need before I leave you at the apartment tonight.”
“Yeah, I was thinking, maybe I should rent a car.”
“Oh there’s no need for that. I’ll drive you everywhere you need to go.”
He stopped on the sidewalk in front of the parking garage. “You don’t have to do that.”
She gave him a look that he had a hard time deciphering—it was one part pissed, one part resigned, and one part… excited maybe? Or that could be just wishful thinking. He definitely wouldn’t mind seeing more of Trish Reynolds, even if she did make him feel like the mental midget he was.
“I’m afraid we don’t have much choice in the matter. I’ve been appointed your handler for the week.”
Okay, his mind went right to the nearest gutter and the first thought that popped into his totally male horn-dog mind was that she could handle him any way she wanted—as long as he got to handle her too. And that thought was quickly followed by a very specific list of all the ways he’d like to handle Trish Reynolds—beginning with pulling that string holding up the top of her dress. Of course, he thought all this before he reined in his overactive libido. He wasn’t usually such a pig—and he was almost one hundred percent sure she hadn’t said the word handler with the sexual undertones he’d heard, which sucked for him in a big way. He had a pretty good idea that Trish Reynolds was not a puck bunny—not even close. Besides, as a rule, he didn’t consort with puck bunnies. He’d heard too many horror stories about guys ending up having to marry them, or pay palimony. No, he made sure when he did hook up with a woman, the woman had no idea he played professional hockey. But after the season the Rajuns just had, any hope of anonymity was pretty much a pipe dream, which was the major reason he was in his longest dry spell since he was fifteen.
“I know. I’m sorry. Believe me when I tell you that being your handler was not my idea. It was Karma’s. I just haven’t been able to figure out how to get out of it. You know Karma, formidable and stubborn.”
Great, Trish didn’t want to be his handler? Not even in a platonic way? “Look, I don’t care either way, but since you obviously do, let me just go rent a car and I’ll make sure I get wherever I have to be on tim
e. I don’t need a handler, so consider yourself officially off the hook.”
“You can’t do that.”
He stopped and gave her his are you fuckin’ kidding me look. “Oh yes I can. I told Karma I’d do whatever she wanted me to do within reason. I’m more than capable of taking on Karma Kincaid if it comes down to it. She might be a little intense, but I’ve handled bigger, badder dudes every night of the week.”
Trish just shook her head ruefully. “You might not be afraid of wrestling with Karma, although I really doubt you could take her. The girl fights dirty and even her brothers know better than to challenge her. But it’s different for me, I’m her best friend and her business partner. You’re here for a week, I’m in this long term, and I know Karma well enough to know there’s a reason for every single thing she does. So if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather play it her way—it will be much easier spending a week with you than it would be to find someone to replace me, which Karma would insist on, and then dealing with the fallout.”
“Why do you and Mary Claire put up with Karma’s bull?”
Trish smiled for the first time since they left the terminal—her whole face lit up. Damn, she was breathtaking.
“Because I love her, and I know she’d give her life for me and Mary Claire. Karma might be a bit demanding, but when it comes to friendship, she’s more demanding of herself than of anyone else. In her own way, she’s the most generous person I know, it’s just that her ways are… um, a bit unorthodox.”
“What if I don’t think I need a babysitter or handler, or whatever the hell it is Karma’s calling this.”
“Then I suppose you can take it up with her. But until I hear differently, it looks like you’re stuck with me.”
Stryker shouldered his messenger bag and duffel and thought of all the ways he’d like to be stuck with Trish Reynolds. Maybe Karma’s version of Hell Week wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Trish walked toward her car and did her best not to look any more like a fool than she felt. “I’m on the first floor of the parking garage. If I’d had your number, I would have told you to text me and just waited in the cell phone lot.”
“I really am sorry you got stuck with me for the week. If you change your mind about doing it, just let me know and I’ll have a talk with Karma. I’ll tell her it was all my idea. But you never know—maybe it won’t be as bad as you think.”
“Stryker, I hope you know it’s nothing personal. It’s just that work has been busy and already I’m behind. Taking a week off, however enjoyable it might be, means I’m going to be so far in the weeds when it comes to work, I won’t have time to breathe for the next month.”
“What exactly do you do?”
Trish walked up to her car and engaged the door locks. “You can toss your bags in the trunk.”
He stopped and stared at her navy blue Prius. “You drive a Prius? Really?”
Seriously? He was actually going there? “It’s deceptively large. I managed to fit a queen-size headboard in it without even having to leave the hatch open. Plus, it gets amazing gas mileage.”
“It looks like a toy car.”
“And what do you drive?”
“A Range Rover Defender.”
“Oh, and I suppose you need its four-wheel drive and off-road capabilities living in New Orleans?”
“Touché, but I always pictured myself driving it here, in the mountains. I thought I’d take a trip to the Sawtooths or the Owyhees—take it off-roading and go places normal vehicles can’t go.”
“Since Mary Claire, Karma, and I own a shop in Hyde Park, and I do most of the buying and hauling. It’s good to have a car that can carry things I find unexpectedly. We have a van to haul other stuff around, but then I never know when I’ll find a treasure.”
“You own a shop? That’s what you do for a living?”
“Yes, didn’t Karma tell you?”
“Oh, that’s right. Karma mentioned something about that.”
“Our shop is called The Three French Hens. It’s kind of an antique shop with a twist. We sell the usual antiques but then Mary Claire is a wonder at repurposing furniture and other household items. She paints, upholsters, and reimagines the crazy stuff I find and gives it a whole new purpose and life. I do the buying, the accounting, and most of the running of the shop. Karma’s the not-so-silent partner—she’s busy with the bar so she doesn’t take part in the day-to-day operations.”
The look on his face was… hmm… incredulous—or as close to it as Trish had ever seen.
“What’s that look for?”
He seemed to shake himself out of it. “I just figured you’d be well on your way to running some Fortune 500 company or, I don’t know, working your way up the ladder to becoming the dean a highfalutin Ivy League University.”
“Wow, I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment or a cut.”
“Not a cut. I suppose neither of those things is what you want to do. If they were, you’d be doing them, that’s for sure.”
“I love it here in Boise, and it’s great working with Mary Claire and Karma—for the most part. We’re a good team and we’ve been talking about franchising the shop, so it might grow into something bigger than I ever imagined.”
Trish looked over the roof of the car to the man standing on the other side. She’d thought he was gorgeous before, but now… God help her. His blonde hair was longer than she remembered, all wavy, and messy like some woman just ran her fingers through it. The ends curled up at the collar, and the shagginess of it reminded her of the rebellious kid she used to know, with a few big differences. This Stryker was bigger—like he’d packed on even more muscle than he’d had in college, and there was no lack of it then. His features looked as if they’d been sharpened, honed, refined, changing what had once been a gorgeous guy into probably the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. His blue eyes caught hers and held. There was something different in his gaze. It too had sharpened, seemed more predatory or maybe determined. He no longer had the look of a guy going through the motions, no, this Stryker reminded her of a cop or a soldier, someone who always scanned the area for threats or danger. His gaze held more depth, and questions. He studied her the way he used to study algebra problems: completely confused but trying to make some sense of it. The sun caught the golden hair of his five o’clock shadow, making him almost glow.
She swallowed and slid into the hot car. He was more… well, everything. More present. He seemed to be more aware—of her, which was definitely a new blip on the radar, and then there was something more in his gaze, instead of seeing the guy who thought all was good as long as he got above a 2.0, she could swear she caught a hint of something else—and not anything good either. Suspicion? Maybe she’d imagined that flash or simply misinterpreted it.
He sank into the seat beside her, and what she’d always thought of as a roomy car seemed to shrink. His shoulder touched hers, and he fumbled getting his legs in—having to stop to move the seat all the way back. “I suppose I shouldn’t talk, I certainly never imagined doing what I’m doing now—being at Karma’s beck and call. But then, it’s good to be back in Boise. Who knows, this could be fun.”
“It’s doubtful you’ll think so once you see the schedule that Karma’s put together for you—especially with your history of avoiding the press.”
Stryker hadn’t been back to Boise in almost four years, but it seemed like a decade. He’d been home a short time between college and try-outs for the Rajuns, but then he’d been training and trying out for AA minor hockey teams—he’d never expected to get on an NHL team, but he did. During the short time he’d spent in Boise, he was so preoccupied he didn’t take the time to just hang out and take in all the changes in his hometown. The drive from the airport to Hyde Park, where their shop was located, didn’t take long, probably fifteen minutes, and Trish spent the entire time filling him in on what was happening downtown. “Sounds like there’s been quite a boom around here.”
�
�There has, but it’s been well planned. I didn’t think the downtown could get any better, but it has. I’ll have to show you around if Karma gives you any time off.”
“You should know, you’re the one with the schedule.”
Trish looked even more uncomfortable than she did when she’d warned him that he wouldn’t be too happy with it. “There are quite a few tentative agenda items that Karma’s put in. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
The burning sensation in his stomach hadn’t let up since he received the call from Karma two days after the team’s Cup win. Now, instead of feeling more comfortable with Trish as his handler, his mind spun in an entirely different direction. He might be slow to pick up certain things, but his mind eventually hit on the big problems—and this was a very big problem. And unfortunately, Trish, whom, he had to admit, had matured into quite the temptress, was probably the worst person to be with him when he was dealing with what he was sure would be a shit storm of media.
“Something wrong?”
He’d been staring blankly out the window. “No, why would you think that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the scowl you’re wearing, or it could be the groan that sounded like a half growl.”
“I just remembered that I forgot to pack something.” Yeah, he knew it was a pretty poor excuse, but he could hardly tell her the truth.
She shot him a smile then, one that nearly blew the doors off the little wind-up car they were driving through the North End of Boise. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I thought we’d drop off your things, let you take a look around the apartment, and then head out to the store to buy groceries. I know we’ll be eating out most of the time, but I thought you’d like to have a few things in the kitchen, the makings for coffee, protein smoothies if that’s something you’re into, whatever you need. I have strict instructions to make sure you have whatever you need to feel comfortable and at home.”
He swallowed the groan that threatened, and dragged his mind away from the image of Trish tied to a four-poster bed—not the sexual speedway down which his mind usually traveled—especially with a woman like Trish. Stryker had no idea where the whole bondage thing came from because his tastes didn’t run that way. Although, when he thought about it, tying Trish to his bed would probably be the only way he could get her into it.
