Hands in the pockets of his black dress pants, he drops his eyes to my bags. “Need a little help with all that?”
Here’s the thing: Will Jones is a god on the ice. I guess, considering his dad’s talent, the chances of him making it pro were always high. But this guy makes even the greatest players look straight average. I’d also be a liar—or totally blind—to deny how good-looking he is. Loose, dark waves—which any woman would kill for—complement olive skin while a smattering of freckles across high cheekbones finishes off a model-worthy face.
And don’t get me started on that prominent jawline or the way his sophisticated taste in clothes screams of a man several years older than Will and in his late twenties. Combine that with Will’s boyish charm and features, and it’s dynamite to the opposite sex.
Trouble is, Will already knows all of the above, and that is a huge turnoff for me. Not that I’ve ever really thought about Will that way or entertained the prospect of anything more than we already are—friends who can’t help but clash due to our differences.
I’ve had a few boyfriends over the years, and each of them has shared similar qualities: humble and understated in their appearance and personality.
My parents always taught me that pride comes before a fall and never to believe your own hype. Will Jones embodies all those characteristics.
“I’m good,” I tell him, stepping into the hallway and making for my front door.
It feels like my fingers might fall off when Will dips his hand into my jacket pocket and pulls out my apartment key, unlocking my door and opening it.
My place is nice, and that has nothing to do with the modest salary I earn. Thanks to my dad’s long and illustrious pro hockey career, our family wants for nothing. That said, we’re nowhere near as wealthy as the Joneses, who have multiple houses across the country and one of the biggest legal practices in the US. Will’s mom, Kate, is a phenomenal lawyer and, alongside a couple of friends, has built a legal empire over the last decade.
Will and his sister, June, have lived in luxury their entire lives, although I definitely wouldn’t describe them as spoiled when it comes to getting their own way. Kate would never allow that and insisted that her son complete four years in college to get a full education before he set foot in the NHL. Will wanted to turn pro straight out of the draft, but no one argues with Kate Jones.
Literally no one.
“I won’t ask how you knew where I kept my door key,” I say, leading him into a white marble kitchen and setting the bags down on the island.
He closes my front door and hooks the keys onto the holder, which sits above a white console table in my entryway.
When he reaches my kitchen, he does a three-sixty spin and inspects the space, hands back in his pockets and a gray sweater rolled up to the elbows. It’s open at the collar, revealing a thin yellow gold chain I don’t recognize. There’s a small medallion hanging from it, and I’d move a little closer to inspect it if that wouldn’t look weird and somewhat invasive. I wonder if it was a gift for his twenty-second birthday last February since he wasn’t wearing it at Christmas.
“What can I say, Drew?” Will’s dark eyes land on mine, and he walks toward me, dipping one hand into a grocery bag and pulling out a tub of brownie ice cream. “You’re that predictable.”
I frown at him and snatch the ice cream from his grasp, marching it across to my freezer, where I pull open a drawer and add it to my already-well-stocked stash.
“Ooh, strawberry cheesecake.”
I’m back across the kitchen and taking the dessert from his hands. “Just because you only eat chicken and brown rice doesn’t mean others don’t live like normal people.”
Will chuckles and peers into another bag, which I grab and pull out of his sight.
“I’m not here to judge your eating habits, even if you do have enough ice cream to feed all of Seattle.”
I deadpan and prop my hands on my hips, foot tapping impatiently against the glossy gray floor tiles. “I’d say you’re absolutely judging me, and I don’t appreciate it. Especially now that we’ll be working together in a professional capacity.”
Maybe it’s my imagination, but when Will’s eyes drop down the length of my body, I swear he bites on the corner of his lip.
I’d also have to be blind to miss the way this man tears through women like the female population is due to turn extinct at any moment. Still, my cheeks heat at the way he takes in my black suit dress and jacket, even if I know he can’t help but flirt with every woman he sets eyes on.
“Speaking of which”—Will checks the gold Rolex on his left wrist—“I’m really fucking hungry, and it’s going to take us at least a half hour to get across town at this time of day.”
I frown. “Why travel that far? There’s a nice Italian restaurant a couple of blocks away.”
Rounding the island, Will moves toward me. He walks like he skates—effortlessly and with a swagger I can’t easily describe, causing my sentence to die before I’ve finished it.
“Because I don’t eat just anywhere, Drew. You know I only eat organic, and half of all restaurants try to get away with foods packed full of additives.”
I’d point out that this Italian restaurant only serves homemade food if I cared enough to argue. But just like with his mom it’s pointless trying to change Will’s mind once it’s made up.
“All right,” I drawl and point to the bags and then my clothes. “But give me at least ten minutes to put away my unhealthy shopping and change into something more casual. Then I’ll call us a taxi.”
Will clears his throat and grimaces. “You might be a little underdressed in casual clothes. And I have my car, so no taxi needed.”
