Puck Money

by Raine Miller

  “A few, but nothing serious.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend now?”

  Talia’s responding grin is flirtatious. “Nope.”

  “That’s good,” I say as our eyes meet. There’s a bit of a nervous flop in my stomach jarring me back to reality. I look away and ask her another question instead. “Is pizza your favorite food?”

  “All food is my favorite food,” she says. “Pizza ranks pretty high, though. You?”

  “I like it a lot, too.”

  “Well, we have that in common, then.”

  “I was worried you were not going to come out of the club earlier,” I admit. “I thought maybe I’d gone too far. That I’d crossed a line.” Please say no. Please tell me I didn’t.

  “I was the one humping your leg. I’m pretty sure I should be apologizing to you.”

  I try to hide the grin threatening to split my face. Talia Wentworth is so interesting to me. Awkward and shy, yet such a mouth on her. She’s so direct sometimes. It’s refreshing and frightening at the same time.

  “I didn’t mind at all. I liked it. Probably too much.”

  Talia bites her lip then turns away, hiding her face with her hair. When she turns back to me, the subject changes. “So, how are things with Ally?”

  “We haven’t had time to meet yet.”

  “Boris, what the hell? How are you supposed to get organized if you don’t utilize the person you hired to help you get organized?” Talia is even more beautiful when she’s annoyed.

  “Well, I’m not used to the idea of having an assistant. But I promise you, I’ll call her tomorrow and find time, though.”

  “You’d better,” Talia says, pointing her finger at me. “If you want me to manage her tasks, I can do that.”

  “No, you’ve done enough. More than is probably normal. Thank you. I promise to call.”

  Thankfully the pizza arrives and interrupts the Ally conversation.

  Thank God. Because I can’t tell Talia that despite feeling nothing but uncomfortable when Ally hugged me, I felt desperate for more of Talia in that club. As if I was starving for her touch. Starving for time with her.

  And now I get to watch Talia eat, which is entertainment in and of itself as she takes big bites of pizza and goes to town on her small pepperoni. I’m utterly fascinated. Because the pizza is sizzling hot—to which she appears oblivious as she shovels bites in. Also, where does all that food go? She’s thin—her body is perfect, from what I can tell. I just don’t know where the calories go.

  After eating two slices in the time it takes mine to cool to a reasonable temperature, Talia takes a long drink of her soda. She covers her mouth and burps into her hand, audible enough that I can clearly hear it.

  “Sorry, my bad.” She giggles and blushes at the same time.

  “That was kind of epic though. Almost as good as one of my hockey teammates could do.”

  “I feel very accomplished, then,” she answers, grinning sexily.

  I’m transfixed.

  Also fucked…

  The night air is crisp, and the brief break in temperature is appreciated as we walk. I insisted on walking Talia home, since it’s now very late, and the people still out and about on the sidewalks are probably very drunk.

  “I forgot to tell you, I tried calling your investment guys in Russia,” she says.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, some guy named Tolya? Vlad was his usual weird and cryptic self when he called to give me his name and number. Then when I got this Tolya guy on the line, he told me to keep my nose where it belongs. I’m pretty sure he was really telling me to fuck off in so many words.”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. There was some Russian interlaced into the context of his short conversation with me that definitely didn’t sound like pleasantries so, connecting the dots…” she trails off with a wave of her hand in my direction.

  I cringe inwardly at the thought of Talia being insulted by Tolya, even if she didn’t understand his use of Russian words. Fucker is on my shit list now. “I’ll be calling him tomorrow to say I want my accounts moved immediately. That is unacceptable behavior on his part, and he owes you an apology to make this right.”

  Talia brightens at this. “Oh, I don’t care about that asshole. I’m just happy for you. This is very exciting, Boris, you won’t regret it.”

  “I know I won’t.”

  We talk a little about her strategy for building my investments back up. There are some decisions for me to make, but I mostly defer to her judgment because I know she knows what she’s doing. She chatters on and on until finally saying, “This is me.”

  I look up and realize we’re at my apartment building. I can’t help laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I live here, too.”

  “No way.”

  I nod, my lips in a tight smile, eyebrows raised.

  “Prove it.” Talia puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head at me in a challenge. “There’s no way we’ve lived in the same apartment building and not known it all this time.”

  “I filled out the forms for my new accounts,” I tell her, chuckling. “You didn’t recognize the address?”

  “Give me a break. I just moved here. I barely know my own address yet,” she laughs, still shaking her head in disbelief.

  We walk inside, saying hello to Jimmy, one of the doormen for the building, and take the elevator to the eighth floor. I walk her to my door, pull out my key and make a big show of unlocking the door.

  “No frigging way,” she says, stepping inside. “What a funny coincidence. And why is your apartment so much bigger than mine?”

  I show her around my tidy space. It’s pretty sparsely decorated, with mostly hockey memorabilia on the shelves. I have a living room with a large, comfortable couch and a flat-screen television on one wall, my game systems stashed on a shelving unit below. My kitchen has an eat-in island, and then there’s my bedroom, with a king-sized bed and dresser, a large attached master bathroom decked out in marble. It should feel strange having someone here, reminding me how often I am alone. Yet, this is Talia. I want her in this space, to enjoy the spa bath in the bathroom, to eat a huge meal in the kitchen...to sleep in my bed.

  “This place is huge,” Talia marvels. “Seriously.”

  “It’s not really that big,” I say, looking around. “Smaller than my place in Austin, actually. But it’s fine. It’s just me so I don’t need a lot.”

  “It’s a total dude space, though. Like, you need someone to come in and make this feel more like home,” Talia says with a cute nod.

  “I have moved a lot in my life, so I tend to pack light. Maybe someday, if I settle down or have a wife or whatever.”

  Our eyes meet and Talia’s face settles into a weird expression that I find very hard to read. Have I made her upset I wonder?

  “What about your place? It can’t be much smaller?”

  “Follow me,” she answers.

  We walk back out into the hallway and I lock the door quickly before stepping back onto the elevator with her. At the fifth floor, we get back out and head to her door. She opens it and steps aside, her arm out wide. “Voila! Home sweet home.”

  First, I’m totally overwhelmed. There are books and pictures and papers all over. Tall shelves lined with books. A yoga mat and exercise ball in one corner. It’s just the one room, that I can surmise, plus a small bathroom and kitchenette with a counter and two tall high-backed stools. The only other big furniture items besides the bookshelves is a massive blue velvet chaise with a soft-looking blanket thrown messily over a stack of books at one end. There’s no television, only a laptop charging on the floor, haphazard like the rest of the place. There’s also a floor lamp and a big basket with what looks like a lot of yarn balls inside it.

  “This is you?” I ask.

  “This is me.”

  “It’s kind of—” I clear my throat. “It’s messy. Like your office.”

 
; “Hey!” She play-punches me in the arm. “I have my own unique organization system. You want something to drink?”

  “I could use some water. Thanks.”

  Talia steps into the kitchenette and announces that she needs some tea. As she embarks on the effort to make it, I look more closely at the rows and rows of books. I run my fingertips over the spines, thinking I should probably go.

  But I don’t want to. It feels like a home, yet she’s only been here for a short time. Maybe it’s just her.

  I realize this whole place smells like Talia. A mixture of coffee and cake and something slightly fruity. It’s an utterly intoxicating smell that I want to breathe in for just a little while longer.

  I’m into some deep trouble now with Talia Wentworth. I know it. I wonder if she knows it, too. There’s no use trying to deny what I’m feeling every time I’m around her.

  I like her. A lot. If only touching her wasn’t taboo. If only kissing her wasn’t forbidden.

  If only she could be mine.

  Eighteen

  Read to Me

  Talia

  “Have you read any of those?” I ask when I realize Boris is touching my most prized possessions on this earth. Other than LuLu, of course. But LuLu is not really a possession. She’s my beloved fur-child, rescued from a dirty alley in San Francisco when I stepped back there to empty the office trash into the bin. This filthy little ball of fluff came flying out from behind the bin when the trash lid banged closed and scared her. Obviously starving, she came right up to me when I returned a few minutes later with a can of cat food purchased from the market around the corner. Thank goodness for pop-top lids. I opened the can, set it down at my feet, and fell into instalove with the little street urchin while watching her devour her first real food in lord knows how long. I fed her for three days before I caved and brought her home with me. I gave her a bath in my kitchen sink the first night. I discovered her fur was pure white once all the filth was washed away, and that she was a female. Poor baby was very underweight from living on the streets, but otherwise healthy. The vet told me it was a miracle she wasn’t pregnant when I found her. He estimated her age to be less than a year old, around six to nine months or so. The two of us never looked back. LuLu was my cat and I was her mother from that day forward. And she is also currently hiding from the very handsome Russian in her home.

  It would normally bother me what Boris is doing right now. I don’t like people touching my books. Like seriously, that’s a thing with me. Still, he’s looking at them with something akin to awe, so it softens my inclination to be protective of my prized collection of tomes.

  “What do you think?” I don’t miss the heavy sarcasm in his tone.

  Right. His dyslexia must make it hard to get through a novel. I mean, heck, he can’t get through a contract or an electric bill. It makes me sad for him, though I try not to let it show in my face. I wouldn’t want people pitying me if I were in his position.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without books in my life,” I reply from the kitchen where I’m busy filling a cup with ice and filtered water for him and putting the kettle on for my tea. When I return to the main space and hand Boris his glass, he’s totally focused on me, studying me intently as he thanks me for the water.

  “You look sad,” he says softly.

  “I do? I’m sorry.” No use denying it. He’s caught me fair and square.

  “Please don’t be sad for me. I have dyslexia, but otherwise my life is pretty sweet.” He gifts me with one of his perfected half-smiles; just a small quirk of his pretty lips that contain the power to melt me into a puddle of goo instantaneously.

  “I know that,” I blurt out, hoping to smooth over my gaffe. “God, I do know. You’re an Olympic athlete, for crying out loud. You’re an eight-figure superstar playing at the very top ranks of the NHL. I’d say that’s more than sweet, Boris. It’s pretty freaking rare and amazing. Still, I just really love to read. I love immersing myself into other worlds. It brings me peace, you know? My mind just goes and goes most of the time, and reading helps me control all the random and crazy flitting through my head on any given day. I can’t imagine not having it in my life.”

  Boris sips his water and continues his examination of my very-crowded bookshelves. I take the moment to surreptitiously admire his backside, then give myself a mental smack-down for it. You can’t do this with him, fool! You shouldn’t have been dry-humping him at the club either, but here we are...

  “There are so many here,” he comments in his light accent. It’s probably a mixture of Czech and Russian with some American thrown in. I can tell he’s lived a lot of places and been around a lot of different people.

  “Well, I read a lot.” I feel kind of embarrassed explaining my life but somehow it doesn’t bother me explaining to Boris. “I’m a bit of an introvert. I’d rather hang with fictional people than real people most of the time.”

  “Oh,” he says, straightening to his full height and turning toward me. “I can go if you—“

  “No!” I put up my hands, then laugh at the way I just yelled at him. I swear I have no social skills. “I didn’t mean it like that. Not that you should go or whatever. I just—“

  “It’s okay, Talia. I get it. I like my alone time, too. I’m not much for partying like the place we were at tonight. I just went along with a few of the guys since they invited me to join them, and because we’re still building our team cohesion. Remember I told you about it?”

  “I remember.” I nod in agreement before blurting, “You should know I don’t go out clubbing either. My best friend Parker came in from San Francisco and she made me go. She put me in these clothes.” I flop my hands helplessly to indicate the super sexy outfit she forced me to wear. “I would have chosen something a lot less…slutty.”

  “No. Not at all. You look lovely tonight, but I’m sure you would have looked just as stunning in anything else you chose to wear.”

  I feel my cheeks flush with heat at his compliment. I’m not used to attention and compliments from men, and certainly not from men who look like him. He’s downright dangerous when he’s throwing out phrases like “you look lovely tonight” in my direction. Jesus.

  Boris turns back to the books and asks, “Which one is your favorite?”

  “Ha! That’s like asking which kid is someone’s favorite. There’s no way to choose just one. I have a long list of favorites. I love classics and fantasy and young adult and romance and contemporary and poetry—“

  “Okay, okay, I get it,” Boris says, cutting me off with a laugh. He grabs a random book from the shelf and hands it over. “Read to me?”

  Is he for real? He wants me to read to him right now.

  I’m about to protest or make a dumb joke or something when the tea kettle screams. This gives me a minute to process his request. I turn off the burner, remove the outer wrapper from my teabag, and put everything into a mug, spending too much time fussing with the sugar and the milk probably. But the whole time, I’m going over this strange request in my head. Yes, Boris is my client. Furthermore, it would be kind of strange to do story time with a client. Wouldn’t it? But then if I’m being totally honest, there is something brewing between us, or we’d never have done all that sexy grinding together on the dance floor.

  We wouldn’t be here together right now. And I wouldn’t know what the touch of his hands on my skin would feel like either.

  And then there’s the part where I feel bad for him. He doesn’t know the magic of books because his disability has kept him from experiencing it. That, more than anything, makes me comfortable with this whole deal. I can read him part of a book, even a whole book, because it might be a life changing realization for him to discover the awesomeness of the literary world.

  Finally, I take a deep breath and turn, my steaming cup of tea in hand. But Boris is right there. And I’m me so…my hot cup of tea spills. This time not on me, but on Boris’s nice white shirt.

  He yelps—because,
you know, it’s freaking hot—and immediately pulls his shirt up over his head. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I yell, dashing for the kitchen, grabbing a dishcloth and running it under cool water. Racing back over, I reach out and dab the cool cloth onto his chest and abs where the hot tea made contact. It takes a second or two for me to realize I’m touching the bare skin of his well-defined chest and abs.

  I back away, the cloth still in my hand, my hand still halfway between him and me, and apologize again, feeling helpless. “Shit. I’m such a klutz. I am so damn sorry for hurting you.”

  Boris takes the hand with the cloth in it and catches my gaze. I look away, licking my lips. But looking away from the intensity in his eyes means taking in the rest of him. Powerful shoulders, washboard abs, bulging biceps. There’s a patch of dark hair on his chest, a thin happy trail that leads down underneath his jeans. And that big, beautiful dragon tattoo snaking up one arm. He looks sexy and fit, with just the right amount of naughty and nice.

  Christ. I might pass out. This guy is…he can’t be real.

  “It’s okay,” he says quietly. “Accidents happen and I shouldn’t have startled you like that.”

  I gulp, giving him a weak nod in response. He lets go my hand and returns the dishcloth to me.

  “Well, now I have to read you that book, I suppose.” I make a half-hearted attempt at a joke.

  “Thank you.” That’s all he says before we wander over to the chaise. I sit in my favorite spot, my feet curled under me as I pull my favorite chenille blanket up over my lap. This is a cue for LuLu, who’s been hiding who-knows-where, to jump up on my lap with a loud greeting.

  “Hello, my sweet girl.” I focus all my attention on petting her fluffy, white fur. She purrs and rubs on me, happy to have me at home.

  “Who is this?” Boris asks.

  “This is LuLu, my spoiled fur-child.”

  He reaches over to offer his hand for her to sniff. “Hello LuLu. You are as beautiful as your mother.”

  Captivated yet again by another one of his compliments, I feel myself blushing. “You’re quite good for our ego, sir. Maybe we’ll invite you over more often.”