CHAPTER 1
HANNAH
Finding driver…
I glare at my phone, at the driver location tracker, mocking me as it spins endlessly on the screen. Throwing my head back on a groan, I stomp my foot against the pavement. I’m fully aware I’m acting like a toddler, but this is the third driver who has cancelled on me. I’m cold and tired, my champagne buzz has almost entirely worn off, and I want to go home. Hell, I’d walk if I wasn’t currently dressed asPlayboy BunnyElle WoodsfromLegally Blonde.
How the hell, in a city of more than eight million people, can I not find one Uber at midnight on a Saturday. This is New York, for Chrissake.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Baby Draper…”
I grimace at the familiar voice coming from just over my shoulder. Gritting my teeth, I spin on my four-inch heels to glare at the owner of said voice. The bane of my, and probably every other woman’s, existence, Happy Slater, stands there, shirtless, wearing nothing but a low-slung pair of leather pants and a long blond wig secured by an American flag bandana. Apparently, he’s Axl Rose from Guns N’ Roses, but in my opinion, he sharesan uncanny resemblance to Christina Aguilera from her “Dirrty” phase.
Happy’s dark eyes dip downward, openly appraising my breasts that are, in his defense, propped up to within an inch of their life, and at least two cup sizes bigger than they actually are thanks to my costume. I offer him a withering glare that he ignores with a cocky smirk, allowing his gaze to drag all the way down my body and back up again before finally meeting my eyes.
“Need a ride?” he asks, arching a suggestive brow.
But before I can tell him to fuck right off, we’re interrupted by the valet attendant calling his name, and I glance sideways to see his gaudy chromed-out G Wagon idling at the curb. And sure, getting into a car with Happy Slater is probably top three on the long list of things I’d rather shave my eyebrows off than do, but it’s starting to rain.
“Haven’t you been drinking?”
“I wouldneverdrive drunk,” Happy says, his tone uncharacteristically sharp.
I rear back, momentarily shocked by his sudden shift in character. As if he’s noticed too, he offers me his trademark, panty-dropping grin as he says, “I have a strict one-drink policy during the season.”
Huh. Come to think of it, I can’t remember a time I’ve ever seen Happy drink more than one drink. Probably because he’s usually too busy with his tongue shoved down some poor puck bunny’s throat. But of all the players on my father’s ice hockey team, who knew Happy Slater was the responsible one?
“C’mon, Baby Draper.” He waves a hand for me to follow. “Let me take you home.”
I don’t miss the way he says it so finitely, like I can’t possibly resist. But, with one last glance at my phone, at the unsuccessful search for a driver, I huff a frustrated breath and close out of the Uber app, reluctantly following Happy to his fugly-ass truck.
We’ve been driving in one of those awkward silences for a few minutes, Happy casually drumming his fingers against the steering wheel to a non-existent beat. When we stop at a red light, I see him glance over at me from my periphery, and I can already tell he’s going to talk to me, causing my teeth to grit in anticipation of whatever chauvinistic words are about to roll right off his tongue.
“Have fun tonight?”
Great. Small talk. I think I’d rather he said something gross.
Crossing one fishnet clad thigh over the other, I roll my eyes with a muttered, “Yes.”
Tonight was our mutual friend, Fran’s, birthday party. And in typical Fran Keller style, she went all out, throwing a costume party at her favorite rooftop bar in Midtown. It was fun. And I really tried to have fun. But unfortunately, fun has been the farthest thing from my mind lately.
“Did you see that guy dressed as the dude fromAmerican Pie?” Happy chortles, clearly not picking up on my aversion to talking right now. “He was wearing a thong with a plastic pie covering his di?—”
I spear him with a warning glare, and he snaps his mouth shut, chuckling to himself as he focuses straight ahead. The traffic lights turn green and we continue in silence, yet again, while I count the blocks to my apartment, desperate to get the hell out of this truck.
Don’t get me wrong. Happy’s fine. A total man whore, of course, but name me a single, twenty-something-year-old professional ice hockey player who isn’t a ho. He’s relatively harmless. Kind of clueless. He’s basically an excitable puppy dog that hasn’t been neutered yet, pissing everywhere, humping anything that moves, with zero regard for personal space, and a penchant for sniffing crotches. But, unfortunately for him, Happy is also just a man. And my man tolerance is at an all-timelow. To put it bluntly, men are fucked. I’m so done with them. In fact, I’m one shitty man from running away to Vatican City and becoming the Pope, I swear to God.
It’s only as we slow to a roll that I realize we’ve turned onto my tree-lined Greenwich Village street, and I release the breath I’ve been holding for longer than I even know, unclicking my seatbelt.
“It’s just up ahead,” I say, opening my tiny purse and digging inside for my keys. “The pink one with the—” My words are cut short when I look out the window to see the pink store front of the gluten-free bakery I live above, the one that currently has the asshole who broke my heart standing outside of it.
“Hannah?”
Closing my eyes at Happy’s suddenly serious, gravelly tone, at his use of my name and not the nickname he bestowed upon me when we first met almost three years ago, I exhale a shuddering breath, forcing myself to face him, finding him staring out my window, dark eyes narrowed, eyebrows pinched together.
“Why is the GM of the New York Thunder standing outside your apartment building?” His gaze slides to mine as he grits, “At fucking midnight?”
Shit.
