Before I can ask who it is, she’s hurried off again.Okay, then.
I make my way to the front of the store, dusting off my hands. But I stop dead in my tracks when I catch sight of my visitor. Hovering over the round table that houses our staff picks and recommendations is Nicholas Berrett. Yep. The two-time Stanley Cup winner and star center of the Boston Bobcats. I thought he looked familiar last night, but I chalked it up to alcohol and his insanely good looks. Because this man is seriously gorgeous enough to be on the cover of one of my spicy romance books. It wasn’t until Kennedy nearly had a panic attack after finding us talking that I learned “Cole” is actually Nicholas.
There’s no way he just happened to wander into the Book Nook. Especially when he more or less admitted that he hasn’t read anything other than the directions on a bottle of laundry detergent in the past year.
So why the hell is he here?
I will myself to focus on that question instead of how good he looks. Because damn, does he look incredible. His espresso-colored locks fall over his forehead in a way that’s too sexy to be accidental and his jeans and jacket hug his toned body, making it obvious that he sees the value in both arm day and leg day.
How I carried on a normal conversation with him rather than stare at him like a love-struck teenager is beyond me. Because men as beautiful as he is—especially famous athletes—don’t come around often. And if they do, they’re not coming around for me.
Swallowing the knot of nerves building in my throat, I take a steadying breath and make myself walk over to him.
“Anything catching your eye?” I greet him, praying I come across as cool and casual. Internally, my stomach flips like it’s training for the Olympics. I’m about five seconds away from becoming a gold medalist.
At the sound of my voice, he looks up, and a slow, easy smile spreads across his face. It sends a shot of adrenaline straight to my lady bits. He’s just as muscular and manly as I remember, with a jawline that’s likely sharper than his skates.
“Most definitely,” he replies, wearing a smirk.
I ignore the pointed comment and gesture to the book in his hand. “So you’re into alien smut?”
Cole flingsMated to the Alien Mercenaryonto the table like it’s a hot potato. “What?” His eyes go wide and he stumbles back a step. “No. I don’t read… alien, uh, whatever.”
“Don’t knock it till you try it.” I bite back a smile at his awkwardness. “Openly reading smut is part of the newest wave of feminism.”
Cole has already composed himself. So much so that he shoots me a wink that should be cheesy but somehow lands dangerously close to charming.The way his amber eyes sear into mine like they’re cataloging my every reaction has me blushing like I forgot to put on SPF before a day at Franklin Park. “Please enlighten me about this smut you speak of, Maya.”
“Maybe another time, Cole.” Eyes narrowed, I cock my head. “Or should I say… Nicholas?”
The dimple in his right cheek softens his sharp features marginally as he holds up his hands in apology. “I’m sorry; but it’s rare that someone doesn’t recognize me. All my close friends do call me Cole, though. I only go by Nicholas professionally.”
Scrunching up my toes in my boots, I shrug it off. I’ve learned from my mother that the omission of the truth can be as harmful as a lie, but his explanation makes sense. I didn’t sense any underlying motive then, and I don’t now. “Apology accepted.”
“And in my defense, you told me you were a travel agent,” he says, his grin firmly in place, “to a weather-forecasting groundhog.”
A compulsion to flee hits me hard. When the memory surfaces, I want nothing more than to hide under one of the reading tables in the back. I’ve never hated that weird habit of mine until now. My throat closes up, so though I don’t dart away, all I can do is stare at him dumbly, which only adds to my mortification. At least I didn’t tell him I was a paranormal bounty hunter who sells rareTwilightparaphernalia on the side.
“Hmm.” He picks upMated to the Alien Mercenaryagain and lazily thumbs through the pages. “I shouldn’t have been surprised when I found out you worked at a bookstore, considering you brought your e-reader to a party.”
Nerves skitter through me. “It’s no different from people bringing an emotional support dog with them to a party,” I blurt, like that’s a completely normal and valid comparison. “So you shouldn’t take it personally.”
Did I just imply I have an emotional support e-reader?
“Fair,” he concedes, his lips twitching, “but Idotake it personally that you think so poorly of hockey.” He slips a hand into his pocket and pulls out two tickets like he’s a magician revealing that he’s had my card all along. The right side is emblazoned with the Bobcats’ blue and gray logo. There’s a barcode on the left, and in bold black font, the wordsReserved Club-Levelare spelled out. “These are for you.”
I frown down at the tickets.Why is he giving these to me?Gingerly taking them from his hand, I force my expression to morph into something resembling a smile. “Thank you.”I think?
He grins at my lackluster response. “Don’t get too excited, My.”
I don’t comment on the over-familiar nickname, even as my heart thuds against my breastbone. “Of course I’m excited. Do you know how much money I’ll get when I resell these online? I’m about to pay off my credit card and treat myself to dinner.”
His smile falls, turning into what can only be described as a pout. An annoyingly adorable, offensively cute pout. No man over six feet with stubble should be capable of pouting like that.
“I’m kidding,” I reassure him with a laugh.
The edge of his lips quirks up. “Come to the game. We’ll grab a drink after, and I can answer any questions you have about what the hell happened on the ice.”
I haven’t been asked out in person since the invention of dating apps, which I haven’t bothered to redownload since I ended things with my ex, but that doesn’t mean I don’t recognize that flicker of interest in his eyes.
