She studies me, one finger tapping her cupped jaw, and my face burns. She’s so freaking pretty, I find it hard to look at her, to inhale air into my lungs.
When I’m about to start another ramble, she slips the remaining earbud from her ear, secures it in a white container, and shoves it in a small purse in her lap. She climbs to her feet and smooths the fabric of her dress. A slit travels from her right calf to her hip, showcasing a muscular leg, toned and lean. She’s nearly a foot shorter than me, but I wouldn’t fuck with her.
“I’m Finley.”
Finley. It’s a nice name, not one I’ve heard before. Since moving to the US, I’ve encountered a lot of names I’d never heard in the small Canadian town where I grew up.
“If this is some weird strategy to get me alone,” she continues, “you’ll regret it. My brothers could have you on your knees in five seconds.”
If you want me on my knees, all you need to do is ask.
Thank the hockey gods I keepthatthought to myself, otherwise Finley would report me, the pervert who cornered her in a closet to talk about restrooms.
“If I were trying to trap you, I wouldn’t ask you to leave this room. And if I were trying to pick you up, I wouldn’t talk about restrooms.”
I don’t know what I would say to impress her. I watch my teammates navigate these conversations all the time, like it’s easy. It’s never easy for me.
Her stern expression breaks into one of amusement. “You make a compelling argument. All right, let’s find the men's room before you officially tank this entire interaction.”
We’re in the hallway now, and Finley points to the next door. “It’s out of order,” she notes of the men’s room before heading toward the reception. She swings right at the fork without looking left to the party and strolls down the next hallway. She stops at the elevator, presses the up button, and steps inside when it opens.
She tilts her head. “You coming?”
I don’t hesitate and step in beside her. “Where are we going?”
“The pool,” she says as if it’s an entirely ordinary answer.
“I might be tipsy, Finley, but I can aim just fine into a small body of water.”
“I wasn’t suggesting youpeein it.” She shakes her head, but a trace of a smile forms. “This is the strangest first conversation I’ve ever had.”
“Really?” I grin. “It’s fairly normal for me."
“Honestly, I’m not the least bit surprised.” The elevator dings as it comes to a stop on the third floor, and Finley steps in front of the door to keep it open for me. She swipes her room card to let us into the pool area, then gestures to the opposite end of the room. “Your palace awaits.”
I speedwalk toward the locker room but stop abruptly and glance over my shoulder. “You’ll be here when I get back?”
She nods toward the pool, a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ll be swimming.”
Finley eases her dress down her torso until she wears nothing but a strapless bra.
Holy shit.
She pauses when our eyes meet but does nothing to cover herself. Not the least bit self-conscious. She has no reason to be, but still, I’m a stranger.
I keep my eyes focused on her face. “Uh-huh,” I say dazedly, hoping she’ll assume my tongue-tied response is due to alcohol. Not because I’m here with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, and she might be flirting with me.
Or screwing with me.
I scurry away from her. When I come back several minutes later, Finley is floating in the center of the pool, arms spread out. Her dress, undergarments, and shoes are strewn across the floor. I’m surprised she didn’t care enough to place them on a chair. But it’s not like I know her.
“I’ve been told alcohol and swimming is a bad combination.”
Her head bobs out of the water. “I’m the only sober person in this place. So are you coming in or are you too drunk?”
I hold up a finger. “Tipsy, not drunk.”
I undo my belt and step out of my dress pants, tossing them onto a chaise lounge along with my socks.
