“WOAH!” The car lurches toward the shoulder.
“Are you trying to kill me?” she hisses.
I yank it back into the lane, my heart hammering against my ribs. She flings her shirt off, and there, right there in my passenger seat, is Laura in a simple white bra, her hair a mess from the shirt, her skin—
Don’t look. Do NOT look.
I’m looking.
“Fucking hell,” I wheeze. I sound like I just finished a full practice. “I think it's you trying to kill me. Give a guy some warning that he's about to see the most spectacular tits of his life.”
She runs her hands through her hair, smoothing it down as she glances down at herself.
“They're covered by a bra, you dramatic walnut. I'm changing clothes, not auditioning forGirls Gone Wild: Hockey Edition.”
Dramatic walnut.
Even now, she's giving me shit, and I'm half in love with it.
“Yes, but most of the time I have to buy a girl dinner before she'll get naked in my truck,” I say, desperately trying to keep my eyes on the road. The road. Just the road.
“Dinner? Please, one flash of your smile and those hot dimples and you could have any girl you want.”
My head whips toward her.
Did shejust—
“Was that a compliment?” I can feel the stupid grin spreading across my face, dimples and all.
She purses her lips, and I swear I see her cheeks flush. “I'm an actress. I'm used to changing quickly in front of people.” She waves her hand dismissively, completely dodging my question.
But I caught it. That was definitely a compliment.
I watch from my peripheral vision as she pulls out the blue dress again. It cascades everywhere—her lap, the floor, probably into my vents at this point. The sparkles catch the sunlight, and I realize my truck now looks like a craft store exploded.
She starts pulling the dress on, and I force myself to look away, giving her privacy.
Even though every instinct in my body is screaming to look.
“Come on, Hendricks,” she says, and I can hear fabric rustling. “I'm sure you see a lot of naked bodies when you're changing in hockey.”
“Oh yeah?” I can't help the edge of amusement in my voice. “Is this where you're going to try to distract me with fake hockey knowledge again?”
“What makes you think I don't know anything about hockey?”
“Because you didn't know who I was.”
It comes out more defensive than I intended. But seriously—how does someone know about hockey and not know me? It doesn't make sense.
“So arrogant,” she scoffs, and I can practically hear her eye roll. “Well, I know a hell of a lot more about hockey than you think.”
My hands tighten on the wheel.
“How? Did you date a player or something?”
The question tastes bitter coming out. The thought of her with some other hockey player, some other guy who—
“No hockey boyfriend, thank you,” she says.
