Page 38 of Hard to Handle

We could get along outside of the bedroom.

I was determined to prove that to myself on a personal level and to him on a professional one.

That’s the only way I have any chance of convincing him I know what’s best for him and once he knows that, trusting me as an agent would fall into line.

Heading east on Wheelock Street, I glance his way. “I never said how far the ride was going to be.”

“Good thing it’s an off day or else I’d be missing my game,” he mutters, but there’s humor in his voice as the lights of the college come into view on our left and the arena is just coming into our sights on our right. It’s dark outside, but co-eds mingle on the sidewalk and common areas as the streetlights cast their glow around them.

“When in Hanover, right?”

“When in Hanover, what? Kidnap a hockey player and take them to . . . where in the hell are we exactly?” he asks.

“Dartmouth. We’re at Dartmouth College to be exact.”

I see the jolt of his body. “Okay.” He draws the word out as I pull into a packed parking lot and get lucky and find a space right off the bat. “I was never good at school, Kincade. You’re making me get all itchy just thinking about having to sit in a classroom.”

“What? You hate having someone tell you what to do and how to do it? That’s a shocker.” I shift the gear into park. “Here, wear this.” I reach into the back seat and toss a baseball cap at him and wait for his response.

“No way!” He shakes his head and throws the LA Kings hat off his lap like it’s a hot potato. “Are you crazy?” His laughter fills the cab and I pause and take it in. It’s not a sound I hear often from him. “I can’t wear that.”

“Why not? You’d be supporting the NHL.” I pick it up and try to put it on his head.

“No,” he cries and grabs my wrists as I struggle with him playfully. “I will not be a traitor. I will not.”

“I’m going to take a picture and post it all over social media.”

“Never,” he shouts as he begins tickling me to distract me from my efforts. I squeal as I fall awkwardly across the center console so that my chest is on top of his.

Breaths panting and lips inches from each other in the small space, our eyes meet and hold as the protests die on our lips.

“Dekker.” My name is a quiet assault to my ears even after all the shouting. In those two syllables, I hear so many things. Are they real or am I making them up?

Kiss me.

The thought is in my head as I struggle to slow my thoughts. As I fight the urge to lean in and taste him.

But his lips are right there. His body is warm and inviting beneath my hands pressed to his chest. And the memory of just how good we can be together is front and center in my mind.

His eyes flicker to my lips and then back to my eyes.

A horn blares in the aisle behind us and we both jump back like two kids caught necking in the school lot.

“Saved by the bell,” he murmurs into the silence of the cab as he turns the Kings hat over in his hand. I sit with my back against the door and watch his fingers play over the embroidery.

“You ready?” I ask the question, but neither of us move as we sit in the silence.

“Why are we here again?”

“Here as in the car or here as in more of a philosophical way?” I dodge.

“Dekker?” he growls, and I laugh.

“Because sometimes a change of scenery is good for perspective.” The comment is innocent but the insinuation is there, and the way he looks over at me, blue eyes shielded in the shadows, says he caught it.

“What exactly are we talking about here, Dekker?”

Chills chase over my skin as we stare at each other. Nerves. They run rampant as I debate how honest to be with him.