“Rule two—don’t add stress to either him or me.No hockey drama.No testosterone grenades.I’ll tell him what he needs to know when I know what we’re facing.”
Cally looks like he wants to argue but stops himself.“Okay.”
“Fine,” I nod.
She exhales, and I can feel the tension drain from her bones just a little.
“Rule three,” she says, and the pause after it is like an inhale before a freefall.“We’re not talking about the past today.”
Cally clears his throat.“So, no rehashing our greatest hits?”
“Not unless you want to be the next patient in the ICU,” she mutters.“I refuse to end up in prison.”
He laughs.“You’d look hot in prison-orange.”
“You’re the worst,” she says, but I hear the curve of a smile in her voice.
“I see opportunity,” he murmurs, and it takes everything in me not to look back and shove him into the car door.
“Rule four,” I add, because if I’m going to survive this drive—and him—there has to be a line somewhere.“No flirting.”
Cally’s grin widens, slow and pleased, like I just laid down a bet instead of a boundary.
“Not even with you, big guy?”he says, and then—because he has zero self-preservation instincts and too much charm—he blows me a kiss.
It’s not subtle, or playful.It’s a full, exaggerated, unapologetic kiss, lips puckered and eyes locked on mine like he wants to see exactly how far he can push before something breaks.
Something hot and traitorous coils low in my gut before my brain can shut it down.
Fuck.
My fingers curl against my thigh.The urge to slam him against the door and remind him I’m not someone you tease rips through me so fast I have to breathe around it.And worse—so much worse—is the second impulse that follows: the need to close the space between us and find out what that mouth could do if it ever stopped being a smartass.
One day, I’m going to break that mouth of his.
And the truly fucked-up part?I’m not sure which outcome scares me more.
Thank fuck, my phone vibrates, dragging me back before I do something irreversible.I glance down, grateful for the interruption.
This time it’s not my agent, but Team Ops.
ORCAS OPS: Welcome to Portland.You and Winthrop will be available for joint media tomorrow morning.Please confirm attendance.Details to follow.
My eyes narrow.
Joint?What the fuck?
“Fuck,” Cally mutters from the backseat, all bravado evaporating into suspicion.“What exactly are they doing?”
Ves leans forward between the seats, concern threading through her usual brightness.“What do you mean?”
“We have a joint press conference tomorrow?”I ask, already knowing the answer and hating it.
“Yep,” Cally says.“Like we’re a team or something.”
“I think ...”I exhale through my nose, slow, controlled.“My guess is that they didn’t just trade for you.Or me.They traded for the story.Rivals forced to cooperate.Big names.Instant headlines.They’ll spin it like destiny and call it marketing while expecting us to play nice for the cameras—or fight if that’s what will sell.”
Ves groans.“So ...matching jerseys and fake smiles with the hope that you might kill each other on the ice?”
