Page 7 of Lucky Puck

His showgirl is waiting outside his room, leaning on the door, playing with the key card. He’d given her his dam room key.

Shit. This isn’t good.

And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

Or is there?

He’s close against my back, and I realize I’ve trapped him against the closing elevator door. Spinning around, I know I’m going to find that flirty smirk that he thinks is so irresistible facing me. Well, maybe he has a reason to think he’s irresistible if the small ripple of pleasure bubbling in my chest is an example of his effect on women.

This kind of thing happens with him all the time. I know because I’ve seen it in videos, photos, and in person. And now it’s happening to me—or it would be if I let it, which I’m not. I’m not that easy. I’ve been cured of having any attraction to cute hockey players long ago.

“Don’t you smirk at me. You have no business giving her your room key. What do you think you’re doing?”

“I think it’s obvious what I’m doing⁠—”

“Don’t be smart.” I blow out a breath at his smirk, trying to stay cool—and miserably failing. “I mean be smart, but don’t give me your smart mouth answers.” I take in another breath because it’s making me breathless to whisper-shout at him and try to look casual doing it with the showgirls watching. Not that I care what she thinks of me. “You need your rest.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he says cavalierly as if that’s a real thing and starts strolling toward his room.

I automatically follow on his heels as if I’m magnetically attached—but not like that—more like a dog and a bone. As soon as he reaches the girl, or I should say woman. Even if she is older, she’s still stunning in a tired, end-of-a-long-day kind of way.

He aims a sultry look at her as he takes the key card from her and unlocks the door to his suite.

She pushes it open and gives me a look over her shoulder. “Did you change your mind about joining us?”

I give her my best withering look.

“Leave her alone,” Brody says as he smacks her bottom playfully, and she saunters into the room.

Then he turns to me and waits for me to say something, or to leave, as he stands in the doorway. He’s large and full of energy and smells so unfairly good, like charm and some kind of hedonistic salty male scent, and I realize it’s soap and sweat and my imagination.

He raises a brow while I’m wrangling my good sense back into place.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

He leans in, whispering back with his ovary-melting smile, dimples and all, close enough to make me shiver. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” His eyes dance with mischief, too mild for me to take offense, but I give him a stern look because it’s my job.

“No more alcohol.” The sternness in my voice runs out of steam as it becomes clear I’m not going to diminish his dimple or talk him out of a night of whatever with his Vegas showgirl.

“Yes ma’am. I’ll be fine. I promise.” He winks, and I wonder if he’s already more than tipsy, though I don’t know how he could be because I was watching him closely and he only had those two drinks. I’m pretty sure. Shit.

The suitably nameless showgirl giggles from deep inside the room, and I glance over his shoulder to see her. She’s naked. I groan inwardly. She looks triumphant and glorious with her skin glistening unnaturally, showing off her perfect body. Why did I think she was old and tired? She must have got a second wind. Not good.

I contemplate following him inside, but I don’t think she was kidding about the threesome and think I’ve already made enough of a fool of myself.

“Don’t you think it’s reckless to bring her to your room?” I whisper, keeping my voice reasonable.

“Don’t worry so much, Brooks. I can handle her. I have experience with these things.” He manages not to sound condescending, keeping me warm with his smile. Then his expression gets curious as if he’s trying to figure out why I’m so worried, and maybe he’s thinking it’s because I don’t have experience with these things.

Or it’s me and my conscience, projecting my baggage onto his thoughts. Because I actually don’t have experience at these things.

“Right. Okay.” I back up a step and almost stumble. I’m not good at graceful defeats or retreats. He touches my arm to steady me, and I feel it like I’ve been tazered, only by a magic Taser that shocks only my pleasure center and lights it up. All the way to the red zone in one split second. Shit.

Rushing my words, I say, “I’ll see you bright and early in the morning for the All-Star Game.” I turn to leave and take a step, but a deep feeling of unease overrides my embarrassed need to get away and makes me turn back. “Brody, don’t forget who you are.”

He nods at me with an uncharacteristically unreadable expression. I don’t stay to figure it out and hurry to my room down the hall at a brisk clip without looking back. When I reach my room, I finally hear his door click closed.

Chapter Four