“Erm…” What was I supposed to say tothat? I felt like I’d missed something in his words. No, in the translation of what he’d said in English from his native tongue. Still, it—he—was charming. I pulled my hand away from his touch and tucked my hair behind my ear, wincing as my swollen knuckles shifted under my bruised skin.
“Join us in our private room. It’s just there.” He pointed toward the back of the restaurant where I knew there was a large, private dining area. “We had a good game tonight, and I’d like to celebrate our win with yours. Plus, it’s your birthday.”
He beamed, and the pale blue of his eyes shone against the mood lighting. His cheekbones were prominent, but not in that sculpted, waif-like way of male models. Maxim was thick, solid—like a mountain. He made me feel dainty, feminine. I liked that, too.
“It’s not every day you beat up your ex and turn another year more beautiful.”
The blush swept up my neck and burned my cheeks. I pressed my palm to one side as I dipped my head. Maxim was a smooth talker, all right. He thought I was feisty. I bit back a chuckle because he needed to be set straight. Until today, I would have said I was a peacemaker. I’d waded into too many fights between my brothers to even consider myself one to start an argument.
“It’s not every day I get to hang out with professional athletes,” I said. “The closest I’ve gotten is my brother’s college football teammates.” I wrinkled my nose.
Still, I preened. “Just call me Ida Jane Barlow, badass brawler.”
He chuckled, and I lit up. “Yes, football players leave something to be desired.”
I shook my head even as I giggled. Maxim’s wit was dry and sharp. I liked that. I likedhim.
“I prefer to hang out with you, Fists.” He winked.
I flushed from my neck, pleased with my new nickname. I was neither beautiful nor feisty, but it was my birthday, so I’d play along. This man knew how to grab my attention—and hold it. With his deep rumble of a voice, his large physical presence, and the sincerity in his eyes, I couldn’t help but think Maxim Dolov must be used to charming much more beautiful and accomplished women than me.
“Ida Jane,” Millie called. She hustled toward me as Maxim led us toward the gleaming wooden doors of the private room.
“Millie!”
She hugged me hard before cupping my cheek and whispering fiercely. “Don’t scare me like that again. You were gone for so long, then Stol came in and sat in your chair.” Millie would have known him by sight because she loved sports. She leaned in closer. “He ate your dinner.”
“And paid for it,” Stol said with a shrug. “Good choice, by the way. I love shrimp.”
“Glad you liked it. I hope you enjoyed my glass of wine, too.”
“Sure did. Paired nicely with the cream sauce.” Stol patted his belly.
“You should limit your alcohol consumption during the season.”
“That’s what I said,” Millie said, shoving her dark cat-eye glasses back up into place. The sweet tortoiseshell frames were slightly too big for her narrow cheeks and speckled with purple, her favorite color. She shot Stol a quick glance—one that told me she liked what she saw. More of my concerns about going into the private dining room faded. I’d be with Millie and we’d be in a public-ish place. Plus, I wanted to get to know Maxim better. He fascinated me, held my full attention.
“The glass wasthere. Couldn’t let it go to waste. I’ll just drink water for the rest of the night. You can keep me honest.” Stol winked at Millie, and she blushed.
I shook my head, wondering if this random weeknight was actually my fever-dream. That must be it. I was on my couch, asleep, becauseno wayI’d ended up hanging out with a flirtatious professional hockey player or finally given Dillon a piece of my mind—and my fists—just like he deserved.
Except for the throb in my hands, and the heat pooling low in my abdomen when Maxim brushed his thumb along my rib cage, convinced me otherwise.
Chapter2
Maxim
“Here. Your birthday ice, Ida Jane.” I settled it over her knuckles with a flourish. I liked that better than Fists or Ida. Her name looped through my mind.Ida Jane. Yes, I was partial to that—it was so American, but also unique, feminine, pretty. Like her.
But she was strong; I’d seen the fire in her expression as she faced the much larger man. Nadia never showed such spirit. Maybe if my sister had the same spunk, she’d have fought harder then. And, then, possibly, she’d still be alive now.
Those thoughts swirled through my mind as I ushered the women into the back room where we liked to eat and unwind. Thankfully, tonight had brought about a W—one where I had the opportunity to pound a much-too-physical Florida team into the boards and with my fists. That happened after the pissant got away with high-sticking Naese, who’d been on a breakaway.
I flexed my fingers, which were looking like Ida Jane’s. Definitely worth the bruised knuckles knowing that player didn’t go after another one of my boys. Now, though, we could celebrate—and the boys looked like they were going to let loose.
Houston had amazing food and great service—one of the perks of living in a huge city. Ida Jane and her friend were currently near the door, still hovering as they took in the scene of well-dressed hockey players and their partners, many of whom were dressed more casually in their team sweaters, milling around the buffet and bar set up along the far wall.
I remembered my first time in such a room, back in Detroit, overwhelmed and unable to understand half of what people said. Pride bloomed in my chest. I’d come a long way from that lost young player.
