I step forward, smoothing my blouse and plastering on my most professional smile.
“Hi. Rosie Anne Prescott, Junior Partner at Prescott and Associates.” I extend my hand to Boone—hockey bad boy, muscled athlete, apparent chaos magnet, and the man no law firm on the East Coast will touch except my father, who never met a scandal he didn’t want to monetize.
Boone takes my hand, his grip firm, but his eyes are all suspicion and heat.
Meanwhile, my dad looks like he’s two seconds away from imploding, my brother’s staring at me like I’ve grown a second head, and the Mayhem team owner—the guy who I assume runs the entire show, Caleb King—looks like he’s deciding whether to throttle Boone in the throat or send him into an early retirement.
But I can’t let that happen. Not yet. I need Boone to keep his job if I want my promotion. If I wantanyof this to work, I need to play the peace maker and salvage this entire interaction. We have to save his reputation, get this case dropped and fast before my moonlighting asRose, the dancer,catches up to me.
I take a deep breath, shove aside the absolute train wreck this morning has turned into and prepare to do what I do best—fix shit I didn’t mess up.
Much in the same way that I’d tried to fix my parent's marriage as a child and almost succeeded until my mom ran away with her love. But this time, I'm older, wiser and know what works.
Boone’s still holding my hand shaking it, and when he squeezes it to get my attention on him, I swear for a moment the world tilts slightly on its axis.
His hand practically swallows mine whole. It’s broad, calloused, and warm. It’s the kind of hand that could crush a puck mid-air if it wanted to.
Funny, considering he hadn’t touched me that night in the club, so I didn’t notice. He’d followed the rules to a T, keeping his hands planted firmly at his sides. And now I’mreallyglad he had because these hands are enormous. Like hockey-stopper mitts.
Now that I think about it, is that what they're called? Puck stoppers? Puckers? Catchers?
I'm getting off track. If he ever decided to switch positions and play goalie, nothing would get past him with these paws. Not even a snowflake.
He raises a brow as if he’s reading my mind.
To be fair, I don’t blame him for the confusion that’s etched across his admittedly handsome face dusted with dark beardhair, a mustache to match and smooth skin. And I don’t fault him for his outburst either.
This situationisbizarre. One minute, we’re strangers meeting in the shadows of a club in New Jersey, and now we’re sitting across from each other, learning names and exchanging social security numbers.
We’re about to enter into alegal marriagewith no clue who the other person really is.
It’s ridiculous.
It’s awkward.
And yet, it’s not the worst thing in the world. This is a strictly PR relationship. We’ll hardly even interact.
At least he’s easy on the eyes.
I let my gaze flicker over him, taking in the mahogany-colored Henley that’s stretching over his broad shoulders and a pair of black dress pants that do nothing to hide his powerful frame.
It’s snowing outside, but there’s no coat, hat or gloves in sight. Typical hockey player, I guess—used to the cold. I don’t know much about the sport other than the fact that most players live and breathe the ice. But I’ll learn.
His brown eyes are warm despite the palpable tension that’s in the room. And his dark hair—chin-length and slicked back—could use a trim, but it works for him.
Then there’s the scar on his upper cheek, faint but noticeable, like maybe he caught a puck there once. It only adds to the whole rugged,down-home boy,charm. And the jawline? It could cut glass.
He’s tall, too. Even in my five-inch heels, he towers over me. Six-four, at least, maybe even a bit more when he’s not leaning across the table to shake my hand.
“Boone Tremblay…” he says, trailing off like he’s still trying to figure out if this is real life.
And now it’s time to act.
A laugh bursts out of me, light and easy. It’s the one that I perfected years ago for smoothing over awkward situations with clients or diffusing my dad’s temper. It’s the same laugh I used back in high school when my best friend and I got caught sneaking into the house after spending the night in the treehouse instead of my room.
We hadn’t been doing anything bad—God forbid I ever break the rules—but my dad had been pissed anyway.
He always said that my laugh reminded him of my mom. It would soften the bite of whatever I told him despite her being the woman who broke his heart. She’s the one person he’s ever truly loved even to this day.
