That’s the last thing I expected. “You did?”
“Yes. She told me to get my hands dirty.” She presses her lips together, trying not to smile. “She said I need to know the organization, every part of it. I’m only here for three months, but I can still do good things. I can still try.”
She reaches for the plastic beer cups stacked on the counter.
“These cups?” She holds one up. “They’re garbage, Tate. They keep breaking. It’s a waste of the bartenders’ time and it’s a waste of resources. And honestly? It makes us look cheap. The fans pay ten bucks for a beer, they should get something better.”
She gestures at the payment system.
“And the card reader system keeps freezing and when it does, we need to reboot it. It takes like, three minutes. We could be pouring drinks and making money during that time, and not pissing off customers.”
I continue to blink at her, stunned and pleased.
Her eyes drift to where she was working a moment before. “Sorry, Tate, can we talk later? I have a line.”
She heads back to her spot, looking at me over her shoulder. “We’ll talk tomorrow morning, okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. Okay.”
I head back to the dressing room and step onto the bench with a smile on my face.
Whether she realizes it or not, Jordan Hathaway cares about the Storm organization.
CHAPTER 39
JORDAN
A week later,I’m lying on the couch in the guesthouse, trying to connect to the spotty, inconsistent Wi-Fi, ignoring the cat snoozing on my pillow, when there’s a knock at the door.
“Hi,” Tate says when I open it.
He’s shaved. His hair’s damp, like he just showered. He’s wearing what he always wears on weekdays at the office—dark jeans with a belt that snags my attention on his trim waist, a collared shirt devoid of any creases, and the hint of a white t-shirt beneath it.
And yet, there’s an air of something extra to his appearance tonight. Like he put in ten percent more effort.
“Nice socks,” he says with a funny smile, like he’s surprised and pleased, and my gaze swings to where he’s looking, at my feet.
“Oh.” They have foxes all over them. “Thanks.”
The cat appears, weaving around his legs, rubbing herself all over him.
“Well, hello you,” he says, dropping to a crouch to pet her.
This shirt is dark green. I haven’t seen it before. Is it new? It yanks the green out of his eyes, almost aggressively, and a tiny part of me is grateful he doesn’t wear it to the office. I’d never get anything done. Instead of the dress shoes he normally wears at the office, he’s wearing stylish brown leather boots. His belt is different. More casual. More worn, like he’s had it for years. His scentis different than normal—still with the warm, masculine undertones ofhim, but with something extra. Not strong enough to be cologne. Maybe aftershave?
His sleeves are rolled up, showing off his forearms. My gaze slides down to his belt and a twinge of attraction runs through me. I picture him taking it off, sliding it out of the belt loops with his eyes on?—
I still have a crush on Tate Ward.
A useless, inconvenientcrushon the most eligible bachelor in professional hockey. The responsible, patient, unfairly handsome coach that about seventy percent of Vancouver lusts over. The most unattainable person I could have set my sights on.
Not that they are. My sights, I mean. Set on him. They’re not. I’m not actually entertaining this ridiculous idea.
He fired someone for me, though. I think? I’m not sure. Maybe he just didn’t like Gary. He did call him a fuckhead. And he made me a scout.
“Jordan?”
I snap to attention. “What?”
