Page 68 of The Puck Bunny

She sucks in a breath and nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow night at the gala.”

She jumps from the car while I take in her words, my whole body reacting reflexively with the primal need to have more of her, to take her home with me and ravage her like she’s never been ravaged before. Something to remember? I want to give her something she’ll never forget.

Something I’ll never forget.

As I put the Jeep in gear and pull away from the curb, my dick is as hard as granite with my runaway thoughts about Sara Bellagamba, the forbidden one. I curse myself for kissing her.

Everything about her is exactly what I need to forget.

CHAPTER 21

SARA

“When are you going to call his mom and tell her you’re not coming to her Friday-After-Thanksgiving-Dinner?” Billie Mae asks as she zips my dress. We’re in her bedroom to get ready for the gala because I need to borrow a cocktail dress from her.

I’m watching in the mirror, amazed that this dress fits because she’s a size smaller than me.

“I’ve never seen you in this dress. Does it even fit you? I bet it swims on you. Why would you even buy it?”

She rolls her eyes. “Never mind that. Look how gorgeous and sexy you are.” I do what she says and she’s not wrong as I feel the warmth of a blush creeping up my neck. The dress is definitely her style—fitted, low cut, and short. The satiny black material glitters with rhinestones and I hope the thin straps will hold against the strain of my boobs. But I can’t help being suspicious that she bought it for me. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Are you sure it fits? It feels a little tight.” I tug on the bodice. “It barely covers my nipples.”

“Don’t exaggerate. It looks perfect. Quinn will drool when he sees you.”

I spin around to eye her. “I thought we agreed my fling with Quinn is history? Right?”

She shrugs. “Doesn’t hurt to rub it in and send a message about what he’s missing.”

I laugh. “About Thanksgiving dinner—I don’t have his mom’s phone number. I’ll have to ask him to for it to tell her I’m canceling. Or have him tell her.”

“Bummer, you’ll have to have another conversation with him. A non-work conversation. Oh no.” She’s mocking me.

I swat her arm. She thinks I’m too worried about the repercussions of a fling.

She also thinks I could can Quinn’s mind about it in a nanosecond if I really tried. I don’t want to bring up my failed attempt that time over the phone, so I let her think what she wants. Either way, we have the specter of the Friday-After-Thanksgiving-Dinner looming in less than two weeks. And I need to deal with it.

“I’ll talk to him tonight.”

* * *

We arrive at the BC Club high up overlooking the city through 360-degree walls of windows and rush by the entrance to the impressive room to the back where the Brawlers’ party is. We’re in the nick of time and Delaney puts us to work greeting people and checking their invitations to make sure they’re supposed to be here. A security guard in a tux stands by in case anyone doesn’t agree with our policy.

We give each guest a gift bag stuffed with hockey-related decadence, like a specially-made full-sized chocolate hockey puck.

“After most of the guests have arrived,” Delaney says, “I want you both to mingle, making sure the guests are enjoying themselves. You are official Brawlers organization hostesses. But I also want you taking plenty of photos and videos and. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Billie Mae says. She’s on best behavior because she promised Bobby half a dozen Brawlers tickets for his high school friends and she’s nervous about asking.

Me? I nod like a puppy. Then I stop myself and try a professional smile. It’s still me and I’m still eager to please, but I’m no puppy. Not anymore; I’m a grown-up dog—I mean, woman.

“Good,” Delaney says, hands on her hips. She’s wearing an elegant, full-length gown in black, with gold embroidery around the neck-line and waist, but she still manages to carry off her drill sergeant routine like she owns it.

I have to admire that in her. She knows who she is and isn’t afraid to go with it at all times.

She hands us fancy Brawlers Hostess name tags. “Put these on where people can see them.” She eyes my dress skeptically. “The players, their guests, and people from the Brawlers’ organization will be coming in the back, so you won’t have to worry about them.”

A mountain of tension that I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying lifts from my shoulders.. But it’s no sooner gone than it’s replaced by disappointment. Because, yeah, I’m that messed up, confused girl. Crap.