Her breath comes out in a sharp rush. "This cannot happen."
Her voice wobbles, anger laced through every word. She steps out of my hands like my touch burns.
My heart is pounding against my ribs. "Too late."
Her eyes flash. "You are impossible."
"You kissed me back," I say quietly.
Color floods her cheeks. "That was a reflex."
"Good reflex. You must be an athlete, or were one," I say.
She glares at me like she would like to staple my mouth shut.
Inside, the crowd erupts in applause for the next performer. Out here, there is only the sound of her breathing hard and my pulse thudding in my ears.
She smooths her dress with shaking hands. "We are going back in there. We are going to sit down. You are going to behave. And we are going to pretend this did not happen."
"You really think I can pretend I did not just kiss you?" I ask.
"You will," she says. "Or I will personally ask my father to trade you to a team in Alaska."
I huff out something that is almost a laugh. "There's no team in Alaska."
"Try me."
She turns and walks back toward the door, spine straight, head high. To anyone inside, she will look composed again. Untouched. Untouchable.
I stay where I am for a few seconds longer, hands still tingling, mouth still remembering the feel of hers.
I came out here to make sure she was alright.
Instead, I kissed my boss’s daughter.
And now I can’t think about anything else.
Chapter five
Annabelle
“Idid not kiss Bryce Blackhorn. That was wind. Or physics. Or a neurological event.”
That is the sentence I whisper to myself as I speed-walk back into the charity venue with all the grace of a woman fleeing a crime scene. My face is on fire. My heart is sprinting. My brain is somewhere in the parking lot throwing itself against a wall.
I snag the first drink from a server's tray. It's something pink, fizzy, and absolutely disgusting but it gives my hands a job, so I cling to it like it’s emotional support champagne.
What. The. Hell. Was. That.
Why did I let that happen? Why did HE let that happen? Why did my spine turn to noodles the second his stupid perfect mouth touched mine? I am a grown woman. A professional.I have a clipboard. People with clipboards do not melt under hockey players on balconies.
He’s trouble. He’s my assignment. He’s my dad’s player. He’s literally the worst possible choice in the entire building. And God help me, he smells good. And his hands were warm. And I swear the universe must hate me.
I refuse to look toward the door in case he walks back in.
So naturally, I immediately look toward the door.
The guys see us return from the balcony one after the other, and the way their heads swivel makes it obvious they sense drama. Hockey players can detect chaos like sharks detect blood.
