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 crankNebraskaorThe Riverand 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 shewantedto 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 shewasopen 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.
“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.
