“We can’t. And we won’t.”
He curves over me, drawing me into an argument he cannot win. “Name one reason why.”
“One?” My spine snaps straight with outrage. “I could name five!”
“Shoot.”
I tap my index finger on his hard chest. “One. You’re a hockey player.”
“Crime of the century,” he says mildly. “But I might be benched for the rest of the season, so if I’m not actually playing is that?—”
“No jokes, this is serious. Two, I’m your coach’s daughter, and?—”
“That feels like the same reason.”
“No, it’s not. One is a problem for me, because I’ve been hurt before and I have no interest in repeating foolish mistakes. Theother is a huge problem for you, as soon as he finds out. And I refuse to let it be a problem for me again.”
“It’s not a problem for me.”
“Yes, it is,” I insist, because his cocky confidence is no match for my personal experience. “So we have two strikes against us already.” I add a third finger. “Three, you don’t take no for an answer.”
“You’re still processing your feelings, and?—”
I splay four fingers out now and tap them harder against his smooth cotton shirt, annoyed that he’s not listening to me. Annoyed at how good his chest feels beneath my hand, too. “Four…”
“Four?”
I focus on the white thread around his button hole, because I don’t want to look up at him. “You spit champagne into women’s mouths.”
“You liked that.” He murmurs the correction, and his voice wraps around me like silk on my skin.
I will not be swayed by a nice voice or a hard chest. I will not be afraid to look at him, either. I lift my chin and glare. “This isn’t a debate! I’m listing my reasons.”
He zips his mouth shut and nods.
“And five…”
He waits.
And waits.
I growl in frustration.
He smirks. And that’s good enough.
“You’re smirking right now.” I wave a full hand of reasons why we won’t work out in his handsome face.“Which is exactly the cocky hockey player reaction I was expecting.”
“Are you done?”
“Yes.”
He takes my hand in his, sending a wave of warmth radiating up my arm as he taps my thumb. “Let’s work backwards from five, which is that you don’t have a good fifth reason.”
I yelp in protest, and he presses his index finger to my mouth.
“Shh. I’m talking now. As for why I was smirking, it’s because you’re fucking cute when you get a good head of steam on you. I like it when you’re feisty. That’s better than scared. I don’t want you to be worried, Francesca.” He folds my thumb in to my palm, then taps my index finger. “Four, youdidlike it when I spit champagne in your mouth, and I don’t do it to women in general, that was a special thing between you and me. Don’t besmirch the memory?—”
“Besmirch?”
