by Aven Ellis
“To a social media agency,” I explain. And despite the shitty start to the morning, I find myself getting excited about this interview again. “I’m interviewing for a social media coordinator position.”
Beckett backs out of the spot and turns on his radio, which I notice is set to an urban-style music station. Drake fills the car, and he takes a second to turn it down.
“So what does that mean?” he asks.
“Abridged version?”
Beckett smiles as he keeps his eyes straight ahead. “Are you capable of abridged? You seem to prefer long sentences that are said very quickly.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I’m ignoring you. A social media coordinator helps create awareness for a company by use of social media platforms.” I pause for a moment as he turns his huge SUV out onto Lake Shore Drive. Huge, fat snowflakes drift down from the early January sky, hitting his windshield. “It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. I love social media and engaging people. It’s my ideal job.”
“I’d hate that job.”
I turn to him, intrigued. “Really?”
“For sure. I’m supposed to be ‘utilizing social media to maximize my brand,’ or at least that’s what my agent says, but I hate it. I only want to focus on hockey, you know? But he’s checking into firms to handle a website for me, all that crap.”
I can see that. Beckett is soft-spoken and seems like he’d be shy. So probably going out to tweet something about himself is torture, but for me it’s another way to talk to people.
“While I think it sounds awful, it sounds right for you. People can’t see you kick walls on Instagram.”
Then I see the cute smile on his face.
“I don’t always go around kicking walls,” I declare.
“Hey, I’m not going to judge that,” Beckett says. “I punch people playing hockey. So if you have a condo full of scuff marks, that’s cool.”
“I do not have walls full of scuff marks, thank you very much.”
The light changes, and we head onto Michigan Avenue. “Oh, right. It’s not your condo. The owner would be pissed if you did that.”
“Oh, aren’t you a smart ass?” I ask, grinning at him.
“Am I?” Beckett asks, cocking an eyebrow.
Whoa. What is this? Flirting? With me?
No. No way. Impossible.
He’s Beckett Riley.
Professional hockey player.
Super cute professional hockey player.
He would date girls who are smokin’ hot. Size two. Perfect boobs. You know, models.
I can safely say that’s not me.
In all departments.
I clear my throat. “Yes. I think you are a smart ass, Captain.”
He laughs, and it’s a deep-from-within laugh. “You do, eh?”
“You are so Canadian,” I blurt out.
“Yes, I so am,” he teases.
That does it. I burst out laughing, and he bursts out laughing, and I can’t help but think he’s fun.
Beckett clears his throat. “Um, what building on Michigan Avenue?”
“Down toward Wacker,” I say, rattling off the address.
“Okay.”
“It’s not too much farther,” I assure him.
“Any need to use the emergency exit plan yet?” Beckett deadpans.
“Your new name is Captain Smart Ass,” I blurt out.
And now he roars with laughter.
“Aubrey?”
“What?”
“You’re the only person who has ever called me a smart ass.”
I grin. I kind of like that.
Beckett stops in front of the high-rise. “You’re on time. I’ll go park, and I see a Starbucks there,” he says, inclining his head toward the building. “I’ll grab a coffee and wait for you.”
Wait. What? Is Beckett going to wait for me?
“Beckett, no,” I say, shaking my head. “You’ve been above and beyond nice to me today, despite the fact I’m a lunatic. I’ll grab a cab home.”
“Nah, it’s no problem. I don’t have practice today. I was going out to get a Starbucks anyway. I’ll wait for you. Unless you don’t want me to.”
“No, that’s not it, I do—”
A car behind us slams on his horn.
“Would you use the emergency exit already? You have an interview. Don’t be late because you’re arguing with me.”
I open the door. “Okay, Starbucks afterward.”
I jump out, and as I’m about to close the door, Beckett leans forward.
“Good luck,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say, smiling. Then I shut the door. I hurry toward the office building, the snow swirling around me, and I draw an excited breath as I do. Not only for this interview, which is going to be the most important one I’ve ever had, but for another reason.
For Beckett Riley.
Chapter 3
The Aubrey Rules To Live By, Rule #3: There are three types of men I’d never date. Okay, so the possibility of me meeting one of these kinds of men, let alone dating one, has the same probability as me contracting the bubonic plague, but I would never, ever date a rock star, actor, or professional athlete. They’re on the road. With women throwing themselves at them. So much temptation and opportunity to cheat. I don’t need that stress or worry in a relationship.
**Note** Besides, my best friend Livy dated a football player at UW. He fit the bill of cheating womanizer athlete to a T. I don’t ever want my heart broken like that.
I enter the Starbucks and search for Beckett. Maybe he got tired of waiting, I muse, scanning the seats. And he’s not my chauffeur, so if he wanted to leave he co—
And then I spot him. He’s in the back, head down, reading his phone. I see he has a coffee parked next to him. His overcoat is off, and once again I see his massive chest in full view.
Damn. Beckett is seriously huge.
In a very sexy, muscular way.
I head over to him. “Hey,” I say.
Beckett immediately looks up. “Hey, how did it go?”
“Good, I think.” I absently push a lock of my red hair back. “They had good poker faces, so it was hard to tell if they liked me or not, you know? But I had to sit around a whole conference table full of people which is intimidating as hell, then they took turns asking me—”
“Um, do I need to get another espresso macchiato so you can finish this story?” Beckett asks, grinning at me.
My hand flies up to my mouth. “I’m so sorry. Here I am babbling and you’re probably dying to get the hell out of here, aren’t you?”
“No, no, I’m teasing. But do you wanna grab a drink?”
I glance over at the counter, and I’m starving. I didn’t have time to eat this morning, and I want a pastry.
“I’m kind of hungry, actually,” I say aloud. I turn back to him. “And I should be good and get the oatmeal, or yogurt and fruit, but I want a s‘mores latte and a chocolate croissant after this morning.” I shimmy out of my black trench coat and drape it over the back of the chair across from him.
I turn and find Beckett’s eyes appraising me. Oh, crap. I’m in a DVF gray sweater wrap dress, one that hugs my curves, and I’m sure Beckett isn’t used to seeing a female body that isn’t size zero.
“I’m going to work it off later,” I blurt out.
“Huh?” Beckett asks, his eyes immediately coming back up to my face.
“Okay, I know I shouldn’t eat all that crap, but I eat crap when I’m stressed. I know I probably appear huge but I’m a girl and I get bloated, so keep that in mind before you judge.”
Beckett’s eyes widen.
I bite down on my tongue.
Oh for the love of God
, I told him I was bloated.
Really, Aubrey?
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Um . . . I’ll be right back,” I say quickly. I hurry over to the counter, desperate to escape him. I pretend to be studying all my options, but instead I feel this weird sick, nervous combination attacking my stomach. Why do I have no filter around Beckett, why? I’m rambling and rambling and saying things to him that are beyond hideous.
Maybe it’s because I know he’d never date a girl like me. Professional athletes land supermodels. So my brain must have sorted that out so I say whatever the hell I want.
Besides, not that I need to even think about this, but let’s pretend that all the planets in the solar system aligned and lightning struck the core of the earth seven times in a row, and Beckett happened to think I’m cute or interesting and wanted to go out with me, I’d run the other direction. He’s a professional athlete. They’re notorious womanizers. I don’t need that in my life.
And it’s a rule.
“Miss?” the barista says. “Are you ready?”
I nod, confirming my logic, and place my order. Soon I’m back at the table.
Beckett studies me as I put down my croissant and drink. I clear my throat and slip into the seat across from him.
“Um, Aubrey?” Beckett asks softly.
I tear off a piece of croissant and pop it into my mouth. “Hmmm?”
“I was going to tell you that you look nice.”
I freeze. “What?” I mumble, my mouth popping open.
“You look nice.”
Then Beckett shifts his gaze out to the window where the snow continues to fall and blanket Michigan Avenue in pure whiteness.
Oh. I glance down at my dress, my cherished DVF with the blocks of color at the top, the black tights I have on, my tall black boots.
I feel my cheeks grow warm. “Oh. Well, thank you.”
Beckett picks up his coffee and takes a sip. “This is half-full. Is that enough for you to finish the interview story?”
Then he flashes me that crooked smile, and my heart flips.
Which is completely acceptable because that is not written in my rules. Going out with an athlete? Trouble. Heart flip at an athlete’s smile? Permissible.
“I can edit.”
“Not necessary. I don’t have anything today.” Beckett pushes back his sweater and glances at his watch. “But you’ll be done before closing, right?”
“Shut up,” I say, laughing. I pause to take a sip of my latte. “Okay. It was a first-round panel interview. So they bring me into the conference room, and six people are there, all staring at me.”
“Ewe,” Beckett says.
I cock an eyebrow at him. “Shouldn’t that be ‘eh’?”
“And you say I’m Captain Smart Ass.”
I grin. “Anyway, I enter the room and I’m super- nervous. I mean, I know my abilities, I know I had great internships at firms in Seattle, all that stuff, but it’s so competitive. And something as stupid as a scuffed boot can knock you out so I’ve already got a negative. So I take my seat and we do the business questions, I tick off all my skill sets that fit in harmony with the job and I—”
“Fit in harmony with the job? They’ll give you the job for that BS line alone.”
“What?”
“Come on,” Beckett says, taking another sip of his coffee. “That’s just as bullshit as the answers I come up with in post-game interviews when we’ve had a crap game. But you should have an edge being able to come up with that kind of answer on the fly.”
I chew my lip. “Um, thanks. I guess.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt. Go on.”
“So we go through all those and then come the personality questions,” I say, continuing. “And I was asked what my hobbies are.”
“What are your hobbies?”
“Are you interviewing me?”
“Come on, I’m always the one being interviewed. Let me ask a question,” Beckett says, his eyes dancing at me.
“Hmmm. And you say I’m odd.”
He grins, and once again I feel that weird flutter thing in my chest.
“Fair point. But come on, answer one question. I won’t ask you anything else.”
I laugh. “Okay. I love to go out for dinner and drinks with friends. I love being on social media—obviously—and chatting with people and commenting on things. Shopping. Traveling. Going to flea markets on a lazy Sunday. But I also love a good TV show and comfy clothes for a night in, too.”
Beckett leans back in his chair and casually stretches. “Interesting answers. So I take it you’re not a sports fan?”
“No,” I say, popping another piece of croissant in my mouth. I chew and then say, “At UW I loved tailgating for football because we did it on a boat. The rest of it you can keep.”
He grins, and I wince.
“I mean, I’m not into it,” I say. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. So what happened after you listed your hobbies?”
“Oh! Right. So I say all of this, talk to them about it, and then this woman looks up from her phone and says, ‘So what are your hobbies?’ and I was, like, ‘Oh, crap, did she hate my real ones?’”
Beckett laughs. “So how did you respond?”
“I asked her if she didn’t approve of my previous hobbies.”
“You did?”
“Well, what could I do? Everyone else knew I answered the question, and I’d seem meek if I didn’t point out she was wrong. So I did.”
“Wow. Good for you.”
“Hockey players aren’t the only ones who have moxie.”
He laughs, and I laugh with him. We chat for a bit longer about the interview and my hopes for getting the job, and before I know it, I’ve finished my croissant and pushed my plate aside.
And I realize that I’m not ready to leave yet.
Beckett is funny. I like the way he teases me, and there’s something so genuine about his interest in me—I truly believe he wants to know what is going on in my crazy head, even if I speak too fast and the words come out in a long jumble. He somehow takes in stride the fact that you never know what is going to fly out of my mouth because apparently I don’t have a working mental filter.
“Ready?” Beckett asks, nodding at my empty plate.
No, I think with surprise. I’m not.
“Sure,” I lie, getting up.
We slip into our coats, and as we step out, Beckett is approached by a fan in the lobby.
“Becks,” the woman says, rushing up to him. “I’m the biggest hockey fan, can I please get a selfie with you?”
He glances at me, and I nod.
“Sure,” he says.
The twenty-something woman grins and happily slides next to him. They lean in together and she snaps the pic.
“You’ve made my life. Thank you so much!”
“You’re welcome,” Beckett says quietly. “Thank you for your support.”
She disappears, no doubt to post that picture on Instagram the first second she’s alone.
“So, Becks,” I say, teasing him, “how many of those will I find on Google if I key in your name?”
“That’s Captain Smart Ass to you.”
I giggle. “So are there millions of girls swooning over you on social media?”
“How would I know? I don’t go on it.”
“Beckett,” I say as I follow him to the parking garage, “how can you not be on social media? Even my mom is on Twitter and Instagram!”
Whoa, that’s weird. I haven’t checked my phone the whole time I talked to Beckett, and normally I’d already be updating my Instagram and Connectivity social media accounts by this point in the day. Checking in with friends from
UW, or posting a pic of my Starbucks breakfast.
Which shows me how much I’ve enjoyed talking to Beckett this morning, as social media didn’t even pop up on my radar screen the whole time I was at the table with him.
“You’d have to care to be on it.” He flashes me a smile. “Sorry.”
Oh, I can’t resist this. I love this banter, I love his kindness, and I’m—hello—attracted to this hot hockey player and his sweet smile.
No professional athletes.
I blink. What am I thinking? Beckett can be nice to me because he’s not attracted to me. Like he’d ever go out with a crazy redhead who fell in an elevator in front of him, kicked a wall, accused him of being a serial killer, and told him she was bloated?
Um, yeah, no. He’ll go out with his supermodel girlfriend tonight, while I’ll hope there’s no showing at the condo so I can stay in, order a pizza, and watch some reality show on TV in my yoga pants.
We head back to the luxury building on Lake Shore Drive that we both call home, or at least he does while I pretend to call it home, and as soon as we get there, I go to retrieve my keys. They were waiting for me—thank God—but now my time with Beckett is over.
We walk together toward the elevator and step inside, and this time we’re both quiet. Finally it stops on the 14th floor, where I live. For now.
The doors open, and I know this is the last time I’ll see him.
Well, unless I pay to go to a hockey game. Of course I’d have to buy cheap tickets so I’d be sitting so high he’d be ant sized, which wouldn’t be the point.
“Beckett,” I say, “thank you so much for everything. I would have been lost today without you, and I truly mean that. I don’t know how I can pay you back.”
