The second his boots hit the pebbled concrete step atwenty-something blonde came up to him. She was pretty in that Los Angeles way, with contoured cheekbones, impractical designer heels, wavy blond extensions, and straight teeth.
“Decker?” she said with a pretty smile. “I’m Jessika, with a K. Jack’s PA.”
“Hey, Jessika with a K. Nice to meet you,” he said with a practiced smile until the girl was nice and flustered. “This is Taters.” He took her hand and held it a little longer than was professional and gave her a wink. What could he say? Flirting was in his DNA.
“Nice to meet you.” Her cheeks went pink. “Can I get you or your dog something to drink?”
“Well, isn’t that sweet of you. But we’re good. Aren’t we, Taters.” Taters nuzzled the girl’s hand and weaved his way around her body like a purring cat, then plopped at her feet, looking up at her with those big doggie eyes, charming his way into a belly rub. “Unless a good old belly scratch is on that list.”
“For you or Taters?”
“Since Taters is the jealous type, we’d better keep it to the canine variety.” Now this was where Decker shined. “I was hoping to catch Jack.”
Hoping to convince him to move Decker up from more than a hired hammer into a finesse man with his own designs and ideas. Anyone can swing a sledgehammer. Decker wanted to set himself apart by being a master contractor who made the space speak. He wanted to make his mark—stand out from the other toolboxes on these renovation shows. He also wanted to do his mom proud. While he’d spent most of his life on the ice, in his downtime he loved going to designer warehouses and furniture stores. Sometimes with his mom. And sometimes alone.
When he’d flown the idea past Asher, his agent had told him not to make waves. To look at this opportunity as a life raft for his career. Decker couldn’t give two shits about a television career; he just wanted to do right by his family and salvageDrill ’Em Hard Construction’s reputation so he could save this Castle Homes deal—and pull the company back into the black.
“Jack’s finishing up a meeting with the homeowner and his afternoon is full.”
“If anyone could manage to piece together ten minutes in his schedule, I’d bet the house it would be you. You seem to be the person behind the man who keeps it all running smoothly. The master of the calendar. Nothing happens without your approval.”
“You can see all that?”
“I’d have to be an idiot not to.” And he wasn’t just blowing smoke up her ass. Throughout his years in the NHL, he’d come to learn that the people with the real power who got things done were the quiet ones with the clipboards—they did the majority of the work and rarely got the praise.
“Let me see what I can do.”
He gave her a genuine smile. “Thanks. Do you mind if I take a look around?”
“I can show you,” she offered. “Anything you’d like.”
“That’s a generous offer, but I think I’m just going to poke around.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.” She handed him her card. “My cell is on the back. Call for anything. Anytime.”
He pocketed the card and headed around the side to take in the exterior structure, Taters hot on his heels. He reached the side yard and came to a slow stop, sucking in a breath at the beautiful sight before him.
There it was. The famous L-shaped, concrete waterfall-edged pool that was as recognizable as some of the most famous actors who had stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Framed with yellow-and-white lounge chairs straight from the fifties and a color-coordinating sitting area with a steel overhang that spanned the entire length of the pool.
A rail-less circular concrete patio framed in the property,giving one-hundred-and-eighty-degree unobstructed views of Los Angeles.
But what had his lungs collapsing and a fireball of lust infighting and spinning in his chest was the woman sitting on the edge of the diving board with her jeans pulled to her knees, her toes dangling in the water.
She was on the other side of the pool but even from that distance he knew who she was. His mystery date from the other week who he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about.
Poppy Hart.
Oh, he knew who she was. All it took was one viral video of them at the bar and he’d been able to learn all about her from the internet. Well, all the surface things. She had a renovation show of her own and was essentially YouTube’s DIY Sweetheart.
At first, he thought that their meeting was some kind of setup for her to get her fifteen minutes of fame, that he’d been played. But she’d never reached out to him, never made a single comment to the press. In fact, besides that one video on TMZ of them at the bar, and the onlookers’ videos, the story had died down, making him wonder if maybe there were actually genuine, honest women out there.
Only what was she doing here? On the set of his new show?
While his mind wanted to know, the rest of him wanted to take the moment to feast his eyes upon a real-life goddess because he knew the second she spotted him she was sure to knee him in the nuts. Hell, it might be worth it to be near her.
She was beautiful. Lush, womanly curves, full hips, incredible tits, long wavy brown hair tied up into a ponytail that made his palms sweat to yank on it. And those eyes. Even though she wore sunglasses he could remember those intense, green, bedroom eyes like he was staring into them. A soft mossy color when she was laughing and a deep emerald when she was pissy. While he liked the mossy, he loved the pissy.
He ran all the different scenarios on the magnitude of ways to approach her. Only, before he could settle on one, Taters broke rank and, always the ladies’ man, took off in a sprint toward her, his tail wagging like a hockey stick at the Stanley Cup.
