“No place is perfect,” I tease.
“Oh no, Kala is perfect. I’m sure if there were any interest in playing hockey, they’d find a way to make it happen.”
“Ah. So you play softball then?”
His eyebrows knit together. “No. Why do you ask?”
I glance down at the softball in his hand. “You thinking of taking up a sporty hobby?”
Dylan follows my gaze. “Oh.” It’s cute the way he’s examining the ball as if it’s the first time seeing it. I’m guessing he picked it up on his way by since they’re just inside the door. “No. If I chose a sport, it’d be one where I don’t perspire or get dirty. Or have to run. And I can choose what I wear.”
I laugh. “So… chess.” His face scrunches, and I continue to laugh. Why is he so damn cute?
“I don’t think I could throw this. But I’m always looking for new props. I have very few sports props.”
“Equipment,” I correct, grinning. “Get some hockey stuff. Guys and girlslovehockey players.”
“I hear they smell bad,” Dylan says, his adorable nose scrunching.
“Do I smell bad?”
Dylan takes a step closer. Then closer. Almost sensually, he walks into my personal space and puts his face to my pecs. He doesn’t touch me, but he very clearly inhales deeply. His eyes flicker up to mine. “No,” he says. “You smell good enough to eat.”
My dick jumps and heat flares. Blood rushes south so abruptly that I think I might sway at his words.
“Larson?”
I jerk backwards and look over the racks to find Tomy standing just inside the door. He’s looking around, giving me enough time to back away from Dylan.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, feeling my cheeks flush. “I-I have to go.”
Dylan nods, eyes shimmering. He looks like a damn prince or something.
I walk away from him and toward Tomy. Tomy smiles, and it makes my chest tight. “Was that Dylan from the studio? He’s into sports, too?”
“He’s shopping for props,” I repeat and urge him out of the store.
Fuck.
Chapter Three
DYLAN
My turnaround timefor a photo shoot is usually four or five days until I get the complete set ready for printing. Less than twenty-four hours after Larson and Tomy were in here, I have their photos on my screens. All four of my screens.
To be clear, I don’t have LarsonandTomy on my screens. I have my five favorite photos of Larson all alone. One screen has two of them.
I’m trying to convince myself to get over this man I don’t know, and who’s very clearly in a relationship with someone else. He’s just a guy. There are millions—billions—of guys in the world. This one is nothing special.
That doesn’t mean I didn’t go home last night and turn on Sports Spot looking for hockey coverage or that I spent several hours tracking this man down and learning everything I can about him. Fortunately, he’s a public figure and the only Larson who plays professional hockey in the US currently, though there are two in the AHL and one in the ECHL.
Once I found him, I spent hours scrolling through his profile, and everywhere he was tagged. Heisgood. Everything I read about him says as much and supports his statement that he’s getting better every year.
I stopped in the sports place on my way to work to ask them to order me some hockey gear. One of everything hockey-related. Imagine my surprise when they emailed me a quote this morning, and it’s fucking ridiculously expensive. Are these pads lined with diamonds?
No wonder they get paid so much money. It’s expensive just to own the correct pads and all the other things that come along with playing.
I ordered the stuff anyway. I already have a sexy shoot in mind as both a hockey player and maybe their lover, with all sorts of different creative uses for the things I bought.
