Charlotte leans against the driver’s side of a black Range Rover, scrolling through her phone, wearingoveralls.
I didn’t realize I had classy farmer’s daughter fantasies, but I’m having plenty of them now. The dark indigo denim clings like it was tailored to her long, lean frame. Underneath, she’s wearing a nearly transparent white button-up with the sleeves rolled to her elbows.
My mouth goes dry.
How does she get sexier every time I see her? And how am I going to keep my gaze from dropping to the deep V of her unbuttoned shirt?
I have no idea, but this is my first chance to start rehabbing my image, and I need to make the most of it. Coach still didn’t look happy with me today, not happy at all, and no amount of effort on the ice seemed to put a dent in his frosty disposition.
So, I adjust myself through my jeans and force my wobbly legs to move.
Charlotte glances up as I approach, her pale green eyes tracking up and down my body, the same way I tracked hers. Apparently, she likes a man in battered, clingy jeans nearly as much as I like her in overalls.
Her gaze lingers on my thighs for a beat too long before dragging up to the slight bulge behind my fly and darting guiltily to my face. “You’re late.”
“Sorry.” I drop my gym bag at our feet. “I couldn’t help it. Coach kept us drilling. I promise, I’d never keep a lady waiting of my own free will.”
Her lips quirk as she pops the back hatch. “Smooth.”
I tip my head. “I try.”
“You succeed. Throw it in, and let’s hit the trail.”
I comply and swing into the passenger’s seat.
The interior smells like leather and her citrus-and-floral perfume, the one that’s been living rent-free in my lizard brain since June. I settle in, trying to ignore the way the enclosed space heightens my awareness of her. The soft sigh she makes as she shifts into gear. The way her fingers curl around the steering wheel. The fact that she’s close enough to rest a hand on her thigh, but I’m not allowed to.
I only get to touch her when there’s someone around to watch us “faking it.” But at least my suffering has an expiration date since we’re headed somewhere with an audience.
At least, I’m assuming we are…
“So, where are we headed?” I ask as she pulls out of the lot, heading west.
“You’ll see.”
“I think it’s time to end the suspense, don’t you?” I ask, starting to sweat the “surprise” even more than I was before. “Gotta give a guy at least a few minutes to wrap his head around what comes next.”
She shoots me a sideways glance, her lips curving. “Do I? Who made that rule? More importantly, did I agree to it? Because I don’t remember agreeing.”
I sigh. “I admire your commitment to questioning the premise, but I’m seriously stressed, woman. If you don’t give me a hint, you’re going to give me gas.”
She laughs, clearly thinking I’m kidding.
I’m not, but rather than double down on my stress-induced irritable bowel tendencies, I turn to stare out the window, watching as the city gives way to sprawling oaks and open fields.
I can do this. Deep breaths in, deep breaths out, and remember, no matter what waits at the end of this drive, I can’t fly off the handle.
That wasn’t something I worried much about before, but recent events have proven I’m not as in control of myself as I would like to believe. Especially when it comes to assholes who think it’s okay to treat women like shit. I know that has a lot to do with my sister, and the asshole who’s currently making a fool out of her in all the music industry press, but knowing doesn’t seem to make it any easier to keep my punching hand in check.
“You’re really nervous, aren’t you?” Charlotte asks after a few minutes.
I shrug. “I’m not good with suspense.”
She hums thoughtfully. “But you play a sport where the entire outcome is suspense, right up until the final buzzer. Do you get nervous before you hit the ice?”
“No, not really,” I say, glancing her way. “I get amped up, but it’s not the same thing. It’s a good kind of nervous.”
She nods. “I get that. So why don’t you do that when it comes to other things?”
