“Coworkers who clean uprealnice,” Carter amends, giving Naomi an exaggerated once-over that earns him a glare from Tall.
The goalie hasn’t moved. He’s still planted beside her, hands in his pockets, like someone hit pause on him. His eyes flick to hers again, and she’s not imagining it: he’s not ready to leave.
But Carter claps him on the shoulder. “Come on, Stretch. Let the lady work her magic.”
Tall stiffens slightly at the nickname, and Naomi’s heart tugs.
“I just need to drop these off,” she says, lifting the cards. “You guys go find Mila.”
Tall’s jaw works for a second before he nods. “Right. Time to go smile and shake hands.” His tone could strip paint. “You know how good I am at that.”
“A natural charmer,” Carter says cheerfully.
“I’m everyone’s favorite.”
“A real people person.”
Naomi bites back a smile as Carter grins wider, clearly enjoying himself.
Tall gives her one last look—a beat too long to be casual—then turns and follows Carter into the ballroom, already looking like he’s regretting every life choice that led him here.
CHAPTER 14
GARRETT
The ballroom is loud.
Too many chandeliers. Too much music. Too much old lady perfume.
Garrett moves through the crowd feeling deeply out of place—shoulders hunched, hands shoved in his pockets, wishing desperately he could unbutton the collar of his shirt.
Being built like a tree is great for hockey, decent for intimidation, absolute garbage for going incognito.
Carter walks beside him, loose and smug in that godawful burgundy jacket, greeting guests like he’s the damn host.
“Bar first,” Carter announces, veering left. “I need something bubbly and photogenic for the ’gram.”
Garrett grunts. He’d meant to find Tilly so they could brood quietly together in a corner. Maybe plot a plausible exit.
But his legs follow anyway, if only because standing alone in the corner doesn’t seem better.
Beside him, Carter is rambling about cougars and God knows what else. Garrett half-listens, nodding occasionally, trying to looknormal while his entire brain replays the last five minutes on a torturous loop.
That dress.
Black and liquid, clinging to her like it was poured on. The way it hugged her chest made his mouth go dry, his hands twitch uselessly at his sides with the urge to touch—grab, haul, claim. Her hair was swept up, all the better to show off the elegant line of her neck. And those blue eyes, sharp and shining behind that glittering mask, didn’t miss a thing. Not even him, standing there like a jackass, trying not to stare.
Because he did stare. Probably blinked too much. Definitely forgot how human speech works. And now he’s pretending to function while half his blood’s flowing south and all he can think about is how that dress would look on the floor of his apartment.
He exhales hard through his nose.
Get it together.
He has stared down slapshots at ninety miles an hour without flinching. And yet five minutes talking to Naomi Piccolo has him sweating under tailored wool and reliving every word like a middle schooler at his first school dance.
Pathetic.
He could probably take home any woman in this room tonight if he wanted. Scratch the itch. No strings. He’s done it before—mostly in the off-season, when it wouldn’t screw with his focus. It never takes much. In his experience, most single women are amenable to a roll in the sheets with a six-foot-six pro hockey player, even if his flirting skills peak at “Hey.”
