Page 12 of He Has Charm

“I’m on the wagon. You can drink yourself silly if you want.” She snorts back at me.

“And leave you in charge? You forget we’re on again tonight. The charity event. For a good cause. The Brawlers’ Foundation. Time to start your redemption tour and make good on the promise you made to the press.” She stands in the middle of the room, barefoot and vulnerable, and before I can stop myself, my hormones react like I’m a teenager looking at a photo of naked boobs. Shit. Don’t go there.

You’re on a mission and it doesn’t include hanky-panky with sugar buns, no matter how hot and adorable she is, no matter how much fun it would be to unwind all that uptight passion she has hidden.

Besides, she’s all wrong—the kind of woman I don’t need, like poison to my system, the ruin of my career-focused bachelor life. Really, Maddox? Look where that lifestyle’s gotten you. She breaks into my war of hormones and habit over ambition and good sense with her next words.

“Do you have a tux?”

It takes a beat to get my head out of my ass and back to my new reality. An event. Tonight. Fuck.

“Sure. I have a tux, but not with me—”

“Shit—I mean—excuse the language,” she says, picking up the hotel phone.

“No need to excuse your language to me. In fact, let’s take foul language between us off the table of banned behavior.” One less crack in the ice to avoid with her. One less piece of eggshell I need to worry about chipping. She makes a vague gesture with her hands as she talks to someone on the line, then turns to me.

“What’s your tux size?”

“You’re ordering me a tux? For tonight? I have a perfectly good suit. I’ll change my shirt.”

“Black tie. You need a tux.” She licks her lips, her eyes begging for my cooperation. I’d like to see them begging me for something else. Because apparently, I’m a dickhead. Literally.

“Forty-eight tall. And don’t get me those skinny pants. I don’t care how fashionable they are. Those tight-ass pants are not made for guys who skate for a living.” She nods, and her green gaze wanders down my body to check out my legs. I arch a brow and she shoots her eyes back up to my face and turns away, talking into the phone again. I keep my snicker to myself.

God help me because I’ll need it if this dance between us goes on for the next four months. I don’t care how not my type she is, because she seems to be my cock’s type. Fuck. What’s worse is I seem to be her pussy’s type, if that look on her face as she checked out my body means anything. I’m confident my read on the tension between us is right.

And that’s fucking inconvenient since it’s damn clear, even with all the uncertainty surrounding my standing here, that fucking around with Miss Sugar Buns is the one absolute no-no to fitting in on the team. She’s at the top of the list of things I can’t do. She’s the warden and I have a feeling no matter how hot she finds me, I wouldn’t get away with even an attempted seduction. She’d shut me down faster than my slapshot into NOLA’s nets when the Brawlers play them next fucking week. And I can guarantee that’s going to be goddamn fast. Faster than that team ditched me after one unfortunate—never mind. Sugar buns hangs up the phone and aims a self-satisfied smile at me.

“Your tux will be delivered within two hours, with a white shirt, bow tie and all.”

“Bow tie? Cool. I can pretend I’m the larger, younger, and more handsome brother of James Bond.”

She chuckles. “Sure. That’s you. Suave and sophisticated all day long.” I arch a brow in challenge. She adds, “Okay, maybe there is some resemblance between you and Bond. You both have a penchant for bedding dangerous women.” She walks past her discarded shoes and heads for one of the two bedroom doors in our suite.

“Thanks, su--St. John.” I barely stop myself from calling her sugar buns.

“No problem. I had to scrounge up some extra clothes for myself too. My friend will be stopping by to bring them over, but I’ll make sure we don’t disturb your nap.” I file away the fact that she has a friend in Boston and resist asking if said friend is a guy. I should assume he is.

“Did you find a cobbler for your broken shoe?” I ask. She turns at the bedroom door.

“What? No. No time for that now. I’ll get to it. Eventually.” I nod and she shuts the door behind her. I’d bet my right—and left—nut that my sugar buns is a card-carrying workaholic. I nod in silent understanding because I get it. If I worked for a living, I’d be a workaholic, but I can hardly consider what I do work. I love hockey too fucking much to think of it that way. So I guess that makes me a play-aholic.

Smirking at the thought of her prickly disapproval had she heard my thoughts, I pick up the phone and dial the concierge because I have a mission of my own for him. There must be a Neiman Marcus in this city and they must carry Christian Louboutin shoes.

* * *

It’s crazy that I haven’t stepped a skate on the ice yet and I’m meeting my teammates for the first time at a formal charity ball. None of them were at the press conference earlier because they were all running drills, doing what they’re supposed to be doing as pro hockey players. Doing what I should have been doing because I’m itching like fuck to get back on the ice. First, because I miss it, and second, because I need like fuck to prove myself to this team.

After a quiet, tense, thankfully short drive where I remind myself in a silent mantra do not touch Harper because she looks like a one-way ticket to nirvana with her short black dress over those long legs all topped by those fiery dark auburn tresses. Her green eyes are all glammed up, but the essence of her determined, authentic self remains in full force under all the sexy vibes. We arrive at an impressive glass building, which is 60 State Street according to the giant 3D sculptured sign. I’m surprised to see a half dozen cameras around, Hollywood red-carpet style on a modest scale.

“Cameras on the street in Boston?” I say under my breath as I put my arm around Harper’s back as if we’re together because, damn, it feels like we are and she looks too hot to be arriving solo. Even if she’s half hidden under her long black coat.

“Seems you’ve created a stir and have poked the interest of even the conservative Boston sports market.” We walk inside and take the elevator to the top, to the State Room, and when the doors open, I’m impressed. Through the tall window walls, the harbor views convince me there’s more to like about Boston than the Brawlers and sports.

“What do you think?” Harper asks, knowing the answer.

“Spectacular.” I take a deep breath and look around at the crowd. “Smells like money in here.”