by Lia Riley
Their chemistry was undeniable. Hell yes he wanted to take advantage. He wanted to take her every which way and twice on Sunday.
“What’s the game plan? We drive down this weekend?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “It’ll take seven hours. The valley is an out-of-the-way pain in the ass to get to. But believe me, the San Juan Mountains are something to see.”
“I’m Colorado born and raised and have never spent much time in the ski towns. It was too expensive for my family when I was a kid, and now my winters are too busy for vacations.”
He sighed, smile fading. “Mine too.”
“What have you been doing since the lockout?”
“Watching tapes.” His mouth flattened. “Reviewing plays. Climbing the walls. You?”
“Yesterday I wrote yet another lockout think piece, blech. Then I tried learning to knit off YouTube. I’m making a pot holder . . . I think. Or a lap blanket for a guinea pig.”
“Pot holder.” He tried and failed to picture her in the kitchen, being domestic. “You cook?”
“No. Ew. I barely toast bread.” She gave a short self-deprecating laugh. “But circle back to the lockout for a second. Are there any rumors floating around about negotiations—please say we’re close to a deal?”
He stiffened. “No.” The easiness from a moment ago disappeared, the question a reminder that she wasn’t NeverL8, a woman he’d flirted harmlessly with online. This was Neve Angel and any slip of the tongue could have real and lasting career consequences. He couldn’t forget she was a journalist, and he was playing with fire.
“I’m not fishing,” she said testily. “I didn’t call you at three in the morning to try and trick you out of insider NHL information, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I wasn’t.” He massaged an ache spreading across his forehead. “I’m not.”
“You’re a good kisser, but a terrible liar, Tor Gunnar. But it doesn’t matter because whatever game you’re playing, I’m going to win.” And that was when she did hang up.
Tor groaned and dropped his phone off the side of the bed before bracing his face in his hands. How were they going to spend the entire weekend together and not commit murder?
And out of all the women in the entire fucking world, why was she the one who made him come alive?
Since his divorce, he’d been frozen. He didn’t miss feeling that he was always disappointing someone, that he was never enough. Maddy used to cry in the shower, where she thought he couldn’t hear. But each and every time he’d go stand by the door, put his hand on the knob and tell himself to open it, to go inside and see what was eating at her.
But he’d been too chicken shit.
At work he’d he always had a game plan and the right answer. Coaching made sense. He was good at it in a way he’d never been as a spouse.
Yeah, he might have been a better husband than his Pop. He didn’t yell or get drunk, and he’d hack off his arm before raising it against a woman. But that didn’t mean he knew the first thing about how to be a significant other, as that disastrous phone call just confirmed.
He knew how to be a father. He knew how to be a friend. He knew how to be a coach. But he was clueless how to prevent himself from driving a lover away, giving them no chance but to end things on their own. His reticence wasn’t about a fear of commitment. He wanted someone to nestle beside in the darkest nights, to know what they ate for breakfast, how they took their coffee, to give and receive love.
He rolled over in his empty bed and flung an arm across his forehead. But it had always been easier to push women away, so he didn’t know what the hell to do about this strange pull toward Neve.
Or if he could do better this time and not screw everything up.
“Need help?” the shop assistant chirped.
Talk about a loaded question. Because yes, Neve needed help. Lots of help on multiple levels. But she’d rather freeze her tongue to a flagpole before admitting as much. “No.” She issued one of her tight “back away slowly” smiles. “I’m fine.”
“Are you looking for any particular occasion?” This redheaded assistant wasn’t giving up easily.
“A wedding.” Her curt tone disinvited further questions but the girl still seemed undeterred. Neve tucked her chin and walked self-consciously toward a little black dress on a center rack. That could work. Timeless elegance. A little Audrey Hepburn. And after all, black was her color.
“Aw, love a wedding!” The woman sounded like she meant it too. “Who is the happy couple? Friend? Sister? Brother?”
“The ex-wife to my date,” she answered crisply, leaving out the part where she was also going to commit espionage and root out her archenemy’s secrets and win whatever secret game he played.
“Ohhhhhh.” The assistant’s eyes rounded just a bit. “This is a challenge. You have to look gooood.”
Neve stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Your date is taking you to his ex-wife’s wedding. Wow. That means he’s showing you off.”
Neve pressed a hand to her chest. “Me?”
Her confusion was met with a sage nod. “You’re a statement. The evidence he’s got a chance at his own happy ending. And you need a dress that’s going to make a splash.”
“Yeah, about that.” Neve’s shoulders curled in as she took in the assistant’s tiger-print heels. “I’m not really a statement kind of a gal.”
“Let’s see.” The woman gave her a critical appraisal. “I know just the thing. Follow me.”
Neve trailed after, too flustered to argue. Tor wasn’t bringing her to show her off or out of interest. He probably wanted to make a fool out of her.
“Yes, this. This is perfect.” The assistant pulled out a short, intricate scalloped-lace dress in a rich greenish-blue hue.
“But . . . it’s so feminine.” Neve was scared to even touch it. The color was beautiful, vibrant and lush but classy. If she wore a dress like that she’d be noticed, not as a tough-as-nails reporter but as a sexy woman.
And that thought terrified her.
But another powerful thought took root. She’d like to see Tor try not be tempted by her in this dress.
“With your dark hair and those eyes, and that mouth. Dear lord, your poor date. It’s just not fair. He won’t be able to take his eyes off you.” The assistant swung the dress beneath Neve’s chin and tittered.
Neve stared at herself in the mirror, taking in the unforced compliments and imagining herself wearing it. Misgivings waged a final last stand. “This isn’t my usual style.”
“It should be,” the assistant responded firmly. “You have such bold, classic features. You can pull it off.”
There was no doubt the color suited her. Neve would never have thought in a million years to pick something so bright.
“And remember, you want to keep the makeup simple. With your complexion, that shouldn’t be a problem. You have lashes to die for . . . Are they natural? And can we talk about your eyebrows? Because yes. So much yes.”
“You mean bushy.” She hated to give voice to her deeply private insecurities. It was so much easier to march around life pretending to be ultra-confident. But what the hell, sometimes honesty was the best policy.
“Those brows are fierce. We’re talking Vogue eyebrows; people pay good money trying to get them. I’m not kidding. There are Facebook ads for eyebrow wigs on my timeline at least once a week. Wear the dress, let your hair down and do loose finger curls, and then treat yourself to a really killer shade of lipstick.”
“Lipstick?”
“Oh, honey.” The assistant’s wince didn’t hurt as much when she rolled her head to one side and gave a kind smile. “I’m going to hit you with some real talk. You’re getting this dress aaaand a few lacey things in our undergarment area. Then I want you to head across the street to that shop over there.” She pointed out the window at a makeup boutique. “Ask for Sally. She’s a friend of mine Tell her that Kendall sent you and she’s to hook
you up with Inner Diva.”
“Inner what?”
“Trust me, it’s a lipstick that is bright red with a blue undertone. Perfect for your alabaster skin.”
“I think you mean pasty.”
“Hun, no, no, no. Stop this all right now. This is a No Negative Self-Talk Zone. You’ve got to be unapologetically your own gorgeous self,” she chided.
What a unique idea.
“Remember that you are perfect in every imperfection. Now come take a look at these garter belts.”
The muscles in her throat constricted. “Garter belts?” Well, then. It looked as if she was well and truly crawling out of her rut. If she took away her limits, there was no telling how far she could go.
At least one thing was certain: She’d go into this weekend guns blazing.
Tor Gunnar better hang on to his hat.
Chapter Nine
Life could be one fickle bitch. For months Tor had dreaded attending Maddy’s wedding, but ever since Neve agreed to be his plus-one, the days had crept by at the pace of a narcoleptic snail. No cure existed for this level of restless agitation, except work. With the lockout showing no signs of letting up, he resorted to taking long, punishing runs along the High Line Canal, but even that lung-busting exercise brought limited relief. Same went for the trips to the racquetball court. His sanity—and body—were taking one hell of a beating.
Speaking of beating—best to ignore the fact that his morning shower routine now included a mandatory jack-off session . . . with a certain dark-eyed sports journalist serving as muse during the grand finale.
But the day had finally arrived. In seven hours, he’d be pulling into Telluride Valley with Neve Angel sitting shotgun.
His head rocked back as he swallowed a groan. This was how Superman must feel when staring down a pile of kryptonite. When it came to trying to squelch his attraction for that woman, he was fucking powerless.
He mulled over the upcoming day’s game plan while finishing packing. Not much space would separate them inside his Porsche—a foot at best. And she’d smell damn good. Fresh-cut grapefruit sprinkled with a pinch of sugar. During those stolen moments back at The Watering Hole last week, he’d breathed in her shampoo’s crisp citrus zest. The memory of that scent still clung to him, tangy and addictive. He had to be strong, ready to brace for that sweet assault and the “getting to know you” small talk that rubbed his mind like sandpaper.
Strange how this woman had orbited in his sphere for years, and yet he hardly knew anything about her apart from the byline.
Hockey. The idea shot into his head with lightning-bolt force. Of course. Yes. Jesus. It was so obvious. They’d discuss hockey. Neve Angel loved her job. That much was never in doubt. And they shared a love for the game. Their strong work ethic could serve as common ground, except—he frowned—that whole part where her life’s work apparently relied on her being a thorn in his side.
Scratch any idea about discussing work and steer to neutral ground. Back to the drawing board. Music made for a good Switzerland, and he owned a shit ton of music. If she was a Springsteen fan, they’d be in business. He owned every track The Boss had ever laid down.
He could crank Nebraska or The River and hope for the best. Not the wiliest strategy ever devised, but it might cloak the fact he was uncertain on his positioning and plays.
Striding into his walk-in closet, he selected two dress shirts off the hangers, the light blue and a darker navy one. After folding and packing both, he shut the lid to his suitcase. Fuck it, no point stewing. Besides, the drive into the mountains was just the beginning of the adventure. On Sunday afternoon, they’d have to make the return journey, and then there was the matter of the hours between . . . and the two nights in the same hotel.
Although not the same room. He’d share a double-bed suite with his daughter, Olive, while Neve was safely sequestered down the hall. Out of reach. Out of trouble.
He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. Separate rooms. Safe. Yes, good. It wasn’t like they were going to get naked.
The image of naked Neve appeared unbidden in his mind’s eye. Her small body, lithe and sleek, shining like pale moonlight while a feline smile curled the corners of her mouth. It didn’t take much brainpower to imagine all the things that might make her purr.
The air in his lungs went as shallow as the water in a kiddie pool. Getting a deep breath was nothing but an exercise in wishful thinking. Rocked by a wave of dizziness, he snapped the suitcase locks shut and braced his hands on top of the lid, taking a moment to regroup.
Note to self: Do not picture Neve Angel naked unless wishing to invite a full-scale panic attack.
This lust-filled distraction was unfamiliar territory. He wasn’t a guy who lost his shit over a woman. He’d seen this kind of thing happen to other guys but had never gone there in real life. Not even with Maddy.
If he was going to survive the weekend with his sanity intact, he’d need to start using the head located on top of his neck, not just his buddy south of the border.
Although—he chewed his lower lip, pondering—as a purely hypothetical exercise, would the idea of stripping Neve down to her smile send her running for the nearest mountain? He glanced at himself. He wore his usual outfit: polished brown loafers, khakis, navy sweater and a sport jacket. No woman had seen him naked in a long time—years—but all was in working order.
“Working order?” He spat out the thought. “Jesus Christ, Gunnar.” He grabbed his suitcase and stormed out to his garage. He was head coach for a two-time-champion professional hockey team and had no game. What a joke. The world should be his oyster, and here he was, acting allergic to shellfish.
He needed to nut up and calm down. After throwing the suitcase into the Porsche trunk, he climbed behind the wheel and turned on Byways to navigate. Neve had texted him her address this morning without any accompanying “Looking forward to the weekend!” Or even a generic smiley face. Not one single message expressing interest or excitement for the journey ahead.
An auspicious start.
He started the engine and backed out. Sweating about their upcoming proximity was pointless. He’d made his bed, and Neve wouldn’t be lying in it, clothed or otherwise. He had forced her into an awkward situation by insisting she serve as his date to his ex’s wedding. Not exactly the kind of romantic gesture that made a woman swoon. But there was no going back. No way out of the next forty-eight hours but through.
He idled at a red light. A dead leaf swirled through the air and skimmed across the gleaming black hood. A shadow of doubt darkened his mood. This weekend was only happening due to an impulsive game of air hockey. It wasn’t like she wanted to come.
But then . . . he’d never forced Neve to take an oath signed in blood and notarized by the devil. She’d lost a friendly bet, and if she didn’t want to come, she could have refused. So seeing as she was open to coming along for the ride . . . maybe she felt the same spark. Or at least a curious flicker.
Or maybe this was her chance to torment him in some fresh new way. Suspicion gripped him once more.
The ugly truth was that either option was just as likely as the other. He wanted to play with fire, and she was a book of matches. No telling what might burn down between them.
When he reached her town house, she was already waiting outside on the curb, perched on her suitcase beneath a bare oak. Head bent, her face was shielded by an inky curtain of hair. When she raised her head, he sucked in a sharp breath. Here was a face that was impossible to judge at first glance. For too many, a quick glance at Neve might not afford much reward. But for those who made an effort, the payoff was huge.
Her looks weren’t easy, nothing fragile or cute on offer. Each of her features was as strong as a shot of whisky, not unlike the woman herself. Truth be told, part of what intoxicated him about her was that intangible air of toughness.
He wasn’t a soft, easy man. And she didn’t look like she’d break at the first sign of trouble.
&nb
sp; “Hey!” She stood, cheeks pink from the crisp air.
“Hello,” he said after clearing his throat, trying like hell not to focus on the way the autumn sun reflected off her hair. Instead, he got out and went for her bag; more useful and a hell of a lot easier than making continued eye contact.
“Hey, it’s cool. I can get that.” She reached for the bag handle.
“I know,” he said, not releasing his grip. “But there is this new thing that I’m trying.”
She frowned a little, cocking her head. “Which is . . .?”
“Trying to be nicer,” he muttered in a gruff undertone.
That seemed to give her food for thought. “To me or in general?”
Sassy thing. “You, but got to say, Angel, you don’t make it easy.”
She stared boldly as he picked up the suitcase, refusing to blink first. Her hair was different this morning, down and soft around her face. And her white puffy jacket enhanced her dark hair and red lips—making for an arresting combination of Snow White and Lisbeth Salander from The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
“You’re wearing lipstick,” he observed, opening up the passenger door for her.“So?” Her hand flew up as if to hide the evidence.
She was jumpy as a grasshopper in June. “Simmer down. So nothing.” He frowned. What had he said wrong now? “I’m just making a simple observation.”
“Yeah right.” The faintest trace of a snort.
By the time he’d walked around the front of the car, climbed inside and jammed his key into the ignition, nervous anticipation filled him to the brim. He had to play this exactly right or he was going to slosh shit over the side and make a mess of everything. “I said something wrong.” He waited a second. “What was it?”
“Nothing.” She waved one hand before plucking some invisible string from her denim-clad knee, a moment of vulnerability flickering across her face. “At least not technically. I just . . . Gah. It’s stupid. But please don’t tease me about makeup.”
Her surprise admission momentarily stunned him into silence. “I’m not following your train of thought.”
