Physically, that makes perfect sense. He is all tall, dark and muscles. Seriously, he is built more like an MMA fighter than a hockey player. He has thick, almost black hair with a bit of a wave to it and incredible copper-brown eyes framed by dark expressive brows and a perfect roman nose. He also has the sexiest, prettiest wide mouth, and sometimes it flashes the most panty-wetting, mischievous smile I have ever seen. Sadly, I’ve only seen it a couple of times because he isn’t much on smiles…or happiness in general. And now I know Avery is charming, too, when he lets himself be.
But letting myself develop a crush on Avery Westwood would be the equivalent of psychological napalm. He is off-limits in so many ways it is almost impossible to count.
Chapter 2
Stephanie
He’s sitting on a wooden bench outside the Hotel del Coronado, where he’s staying. I can’t believe he called me. I never thought he’d risk being seen in public with a lone female—especially if he has a girlfriend, and especially the way the media picks up on any scent of a personal life. But he wants me to help him look at apartments.
He doesn’t see me coming, so I can take him in without looking like a gawking weirdo. He’s got aviators on and a baseball cap pulled low over his dark hair while he stares at the ocean sipping from a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf cup.
I don’t know why, but it feels like there’s a hummingbird trapped inside my stomach. I try to quell the feeling by reminding myself he’s the same uptight hockey jock he usually is—hiding from the world under shades and a hat but still sitting upright with perfect posture like a Boy Scout in case someone snaps his picture, and probably sipping an organic tea with free-range milk so his drink doesn’t offend anyone.
That thought steadies me, and as I reach him I bend down and pull off his hat. His head snaps up, but he breaks into a smile as soon as he sees me. “Hey! Steph!” He’s on his feet and pulling me into a hug before I can blink.
It’s startling to be hugged by him. He’s never, ever hugged me before. I don’t think I’ve seen him hug anyone except on the ice with his teammates after a win or a big goal. It’s like having a brick wall embrace you, except he’s warm and smells way more appealing than bricks and mortar.
“You look beautiful,” he says, throwing me for another loop. “California agrees with you.”
“Thanks. It’s the sunshine,” I say as awkwardly as possible for some reason, and then make it weirder by stepping back and pointing at the sky, like he doesn’t know where sunshine comes from.
He smiles again, unbothered by my weirdness. “It’s definitely different from Seattle.”
I nod and hold his hat up between us. “And you don’t need to hide here, Avery. It’s not as rabid a fan base as Seattle. No one will recognize you.”
He looks skeptical. And concerned. He’s comfortable hiding. It’s annoying but also really sad when you think about it. Does anyone really even know this guy? I take the hat and put it on my own head, which must look ridiculous, because I’m in a pretty little sundress and wedge sandals—nothing you would normally pair with a baseball cap.
He shoves his hands deep in his pockets as we walk. His shoulders kind of hunch forward, too, because he’s still trying to hide, even without the hat. Oh, God, this boy…
“So where are we headed?” I ask, and he pulls his phone out of his back pocket, looks something up and hands it to me. It’s an email with a list of addresses for rental apartments. All of them are located here on Coronado Island, which doesn’t surprise me because most of the Saints live here. “Okay. We’re right near the third place on the list. Wanna start there?”
“Yeah, sure.”
As we veer off the walking path and onto a side street, he asks me “Typical Avery” questions: How was my summer? How’s my job going? He even remembers the name of my boss, which I told him once while we ran together in Seattle. He was listening. Wow. My own brother doesn’t remember my boss’s name, and they’ve met each other. After his tenth question aimed at me, though, I decide it’s time I do the asking.
“So I heard you had a girlfriend this summer,” I start casually. I can literally see his body tense. “Will she be joining you here?”
He shakes his head tersely. We pass a group of guys on skateboards, heading toward the ocean. They look up at us but no one stops; no one even blinks. I nudge Avery’s shoulder with my own. “See, no one screaming your name. No one asking to take a picture or an autograph or tossing you their bra.”
He laughs at that. It’s a great sound. It soaks into me, warms me and makes me smile back. “No one ever threw a bra at me. I’m a hockey player, not a rock star.”
“Same difference to Canadians, right?”
“Maybe,” he replies with a grin. “Still, no bras.”
We turn another corner. We’re half a block from the beach. I stop and take his phone from him to double-check the address again. I glance up and point. “Your first potential palace, Hockey King.”
He rolls his eyes and holds the tiny gate open for me. I haven’t been alone with a guy in a long time so I can’t remember the last time a guy held a door or gate for me. It feels nice. I lead our way up the tiny path to the town house. It’s similar to what I expected to see when looking at places with Avery. Spacious, with state-of-the-art appliances and renovated bathrooms. This place is three bedrooms, two floors, with a decent-sized backyard. I like it, but he seems unimpressed. The rental agent who shows us around really tries to sell him on it, but Avery just smiles politely and says he’ll be in touch after he’s seen the other options.
As we walk back toward the ocean for the second rental, I ask him again about the girlfriend and if she’ll be visiting soon. He almost frowns and then gives me a standard media-friendly Avery answer. “I ended it a couple weeks ago. It wasn’t serious.”
“That’s a lie,” I reply flatly, and my bluntness throws him off because he stutter-steps and comes to a stop. I turn and look him in the eye, my appearance glaring back at me in the mirrored lenses of his aviators. I don’t look like a total dork with his baseball cap on, which I forgot I was wearing. “You’ve never let anyone see you in public with a girl or called anyone your girlfriend, but you did with her. That’s serious.”
He doesn’t answer. Instead he points to the high-rise just over my shoulder. “That’s the other place, right? I recognize it from the listing picture.”
“Nice avoidance tactic, Westwood, but I’m on to your bullshit,” I reply as he walks by me toward the condo. “I’m not going to let you treat me like a member of the press.”
“I wouldn’t be touring potential homes with you if you were a member of the press,” he reminds me as he presses the apartment number on the intercom outside the front door.
