The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

by Lauren Blakely

Then, with a new kind of reckless abandon, I reach for the next thing, and the next, and the next. Until…what have I done? I’ve plundered her bag. Yep, I’m a lingerie pirate. This is bad, man.

Hehe

He was friendly then. He’s an enemy now. And yet the fucker still makes my skin tingle.

I wish I could say I don’t understand his reasons but the thing is—I do. I get that we all have secrets and scars we don’t want anyone to see.

“He’s not your type, Everly.” “How would you know what my type is?” “Not that guy,” he says.

Hehehe

Fuck, she’s hot when she’s irritated. How is that possible? Witchcraft, I’m guessing.

I don’t have to explain my body to Lucas. He already knows I have scars.

The fact that she can’t stand me inexplicably turns me on more, which says something about me I’m not sure I’m ready to face.

“Sunshine, I’ve already heard the sound you make when you like something,”

Hehehe

I know how to do this. If he could stop acting like he has the man flu, I could explain it.

she says with the most confident, winning smile I’ve seen—one that sends heat roaring through my body. It’s annoying, my attraction to her. So annoying I don’t even have a comeback.

And I have the answer. Yes, this is torture.

“What?” I ask, my voice rough. In a whisper, she says, “Your mouth. It’s hanging open.” Busted. But I’m not even sure I mind.

Hehe

We’re inches away, and for a few silent seconds under the midday sun, I swear he’s going to kiss me. He’s staring at my mouth. He can’t seem to look anyplace else. And I don’t want him to.

“So, Everly,” he begins. “How are you going to dress me down in a social media post today?” I’d like to undress him. But I ignore that inappropriate thought too.

But who is this man for real? Is he the jerk who taunts me, or is he the man who gently offers to talk anytime? I don’t know. And I want to.

This man is like a dog sometimes. Shame I like dogs so much.

He wanted me to know this part of him. The part he’s not going to share with the world. My heart feels squishy in a way it hasn’t in a long time.

He flashes his gaze to me, his eyes smoldering as he stares me down. “You don’t want me to be nice.”

GIRLLLLLL

the words die on my tongue. Since my gaze catches on a man crossing the street. It’s Max, and he’s headed this way.

I’m not confounded though. That comment was a dig at me, and I fucking love that because it says I’m under her skin. Good, because she’s burrowed so deep under mine.

He should make sure you get inside safely. But before he does that, he should devastate you with a kiss like he can’t fucking breathe if he doesn’t kiss you.”

There are so many questions I want to ask her. So much more I want to know. But mostly I take what she’s said for the gift that it is—a piece of her after I gave her a piece of me.

“No, Max. You said you’d devastate me with a kiss.” And that’s it. That’s enough. Just fuck it. Fuck everything. “I guess I’d better start.”

It’s magic, wonderful and terrifying all at once, because one kiss and I’m addicted. I don’t want him to stop. I want him to take me apart.

I should say goodnight to her. I should leave this room. I should get on that bus. But a glance at my watch tells me there are twelve more minutes before we have to leave.

But she puts her hand on my face, her thumb stroking my beard, her eyes swimming with vulnerability—the same kind I’ve been feeling for her. I cover her hand with mine. “I’ll try to resist you. But I make no promises.”

“I didn’t just get an extra London fog that day in Seattle by chance. I got it for you.”

“Know this,” he says emphatically. “I think about you far too much. I think about you all the time. I’ve been thinking about you for so fucking long and denying it.

then I drop the pair to the floor so I can touch her thoroughly, properly, reverently.

He tugs me closer on the couch, grazes those full lips along the side of my neck, traveling up to my ear. “Sunshine, I’m doing all sorts of real favorite things with you.”

But holding my hand and not letting me go. It feels like a metaphor or maybe I just want her hand in mine to feel like one.

“Sounds like I was helpful.” “Is that so?” she asks, but she’s smiling. “It was in your best interest,” I say, unrepentant. “And what is my best interest?” I meet her gaze unflinchingly. “Me.”

“I wore it for you.” He holds my gaze for a long beat, his eyes darkening as he says, “I want to keep earning that.”

I lower my hand, and let them fall as he grips my other hand, like he’ll hold on for all time.

It’s fucking glorious, the way she responds. She grabs my head, determined to keep me right there. Like I’d go anywhere else.

“Love the way you look right now,” I tell her. Her smile is instant and it’s mine. All mine.

“I’m driving you home,” I say. When we’re in the car, one thought runs through my head — It’s what a boyfriend would do.

He closes his eyes for a brief second, but he’s smiling. He’s smiling so wide, like I’ve given him a dream come true. What a wild thought.

It’s okay if you feel doubts now and then. It’s okay if you worry. Just talk to me about them like we’re in this together rather than apart, okay?”

I hit the ice for warm-ups and a few minutes later, my future wife walks to the gate, like she owns the world.