“I’ll explain it to him afterward,” I tell Selena and then glance at the rest of the group. “My name is Brie Bennett and I’m the director of Daphne’s House.”
I smile brightly at all of them and make sure to let it dim a little as my eyes connect with Alex Larue again. But he smiles back, bright but lopsided. “Of course you are,” he mumbles and his dark blue eyes lift to the ceiling. I know he’s cursing God or the universe, or both. I’d do the same if I didn’t think it was unprofessional.
Instead I turn back to the group. “Come this way into our classroom and Selena will explain more about the classes we offer the kids, all of which are taught by professionals who are donating their time and sometimes supplies, like charcoals and paper for our art class.”
The group filters by me into the large room. Selena smiles at me as she passes and makes her way to the front as she continues talking. Alex hangs back, closer to me than I would like. I get a whiff of his cologne, which is dark and warm and earthy. Not unpleasant even though it kind of makes me think of a lumberjack.
Those dark blue eyes keep stealing furtive glances in my direction, which makes all the glaring I’m doing worth it. It would be wasted energy if he didn’t see it. I can’t help but really take in his face, since I’m trying to melt it with my angry gaze. He’s got really dark, really thick five-o’clock shadow but it’s nicked in places by white scars like the two on his chin. There’s also one by his eye and through his eyebrow. He’s like an alley cat, all marked up and probably proud of it. Surprisingly for a hockey player, his nose is straight and smooth. His mouth is wide and his lips not overly full or thin but perfectly symmetrical. He’d be attractive if he wasn’t a sleazeball.
I glance over at Selena as she starts to lead the volunteers out into the hall again. “Selena will finish up the tour by taking you up to the common areas the kids share on the second and third floors.” I pause and make sure I’m looking only at the Don Juan of hockey. “We want to work with people who are willing and able, but we understand if it’s not the right fit for you. So take your time, look around, ask any and all questions you have. We want it to be an exceptional experience for both you and the kids. And feel free to ask me anything as well. I’ll be here in the classroom.”
I give the other three potential volunteers another warm smile as everyone, including Alex, follows Selena upstairs. I go back to cleaning up, but my brain is stuck on Alex. How in the hell is he here? What kind of absurd coincidence is this? I realize now, from the look on his face and the fact that I never gave him my last name when we met, that it has to be a coincidence. He certainly didn’t follow me here from Starbucks and without my last name he couldn’t have Googled me and figured out where I worked. But I have a hard time believing a guy like him would take it upon himself to volunteer here—or anywhere other than maybe a strip club on amateur lap dance night.
I have to admit I loved the look on his face when I spoke to him in French in Starbucks and I was tempted to stick around and really enjoy the blush on his cheeks but I didn’t want to risk being late for a meeting with a perspective donor my mom had set up for me. Still, the encounter wasn’t easy to forget and as I headed back here a couple hours later I found myself reliving it and then punching his name into Google on my phone. BIG mistake.
Judging by the stories, he’s a world-class flirt. Tons of women—sometimes in nothing more than skimpy bikinis or cocktail dresses—have posted photos with him on social media, and almost always with his lips on their cheek or ear or neck and vice versa. His own social media is filled with half-naked selfies. The guy appears to be about as deep as a puddle.
There’s a knock and I put down the easel I’m carrying and turn around. “Parler du diable.”
He grins at my “speak of the devil” comment. I have to admit it’s a good grin. “J’ai été appelé pire.”
“Yeah, I’m not surprised you’ve been called worse,” I say, frowning. “Why are you here?”
He steps into the room, the grin falling off his face, and shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Orientation is over and I wanted to apologize for being late and let you know I really do want to volunteer.”
I pick up an easel and carry it into the corner where the others are stacked. “Is this a court-ordered thing or something?”
“Excuse me?” he asks, completely baffled. I turn back to him and he’s moved to the last easel, picking it up much more easily than I do, and carrying it over to the stack where I’m standing.
“Were you ordered by the courts to do some kind of community service?” I repeat. I’m honestly not trying to offend him I just can’t for the life of me picture him willingly giving up time to be with kids when he could be hitting on women or taking half-naked selfies for his one million Instagram followers.
“Are you serious?” He sighs. “No. I like helping kids. Is that so hard to believe?”
I shrug. “You don’t come across as someone who cares about much more than hockey and hitting on women.”
“You have spent five minutes with me.” He looks at me with an annoyed expression.
“It could have been seven minutes if you had showed up on time for the volunteer program you say you are so interested in,” I snap back.
He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his ample chest. “Well here’s a little bit more about me. I prefer sunrises to sunsets. I like cats more than dogs. I will always offer a homeless person food, which is what made me late today, and I also like to donate to fund-raisers that help kids so I was going to offer hockey tickets as one of the prizes for yours.”
I absorb every word he says with a weird inner satisfaction, like I was hungry for the information and I didn’t know it. While the superficial information is interesting it’s the last two statements that shock me. He was late because he was buying food for a homeless person, which makes me an ass for thinking he was just being inconsiderate of our schedule, and he wants to donate to the fund-raiser.Myfund-raiser? “Who told you about the fund-raiser?”
“Selena. She mentioned it to everyone at the end of the tour.”
“Why would she do that?” I question, annoyed.
“Why wouldn’t she? Is it a secret?” That big, bold obnoxious grin takes over his smug face again. “Just a little advice. Secret fund-raisers don’t raise as much money as the ones you tell people about.”
“You’re hilarious,” I remark dryly and uncross my arms because they’re starting to ache I’ve had them crossed so tightly for so long. He must take that as a sign of concession, like I’ve waved a white flag.
“I told Selena I would come by for my first volunteer shift on Friday. Meet all the kids and figure out what their fitness goals are,” he tells me and then he hesitates before he asks, “Okay?”
I’ve asked professional athletes to come and just give a talk but no one has taken me up on it. Now this guy is here offering to help and even give me tickets, which would be a big draw for the fund-raiser. I may not trust him as far as I can throw him—and trust me with all that towering height and sculpted muscle I can’t throw him—but I can’t say no. “Okay but, again, I need my volunteers to take this seriously.”
“I do and I will.” He gives me one more of those confident grins. “You’ll see.”
Len pops into view behind him. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m going for an afternoon coffee run. Can I get you—”
