Read the book: «Body Check»
Dear God. Why did she have to end up with a hockey player?
“Stop looking at me like that.” Hayden glared.
“Like what?” Brody said, blinking innocently.
“Like you’re imagining me naked.”
“I can’t help it. I am imagining you naked.”
His eyes darkened to a glitter, and liquid heat pooled between her thighs. She tried not to squeeze her legs together.
“I told you this morning I wanted to leave things at one night,” she protested.
He moved closer, his lips inches from her ear, his warm breath fanning her neck. “What about what I want?”
She resisted the urge to moan. If she wasn’t careful she’d hop right back into bed with Brody Croft.
And she’d love every sexy second of it….
MILLS & BOON
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Dear Reader,
I am absolutely thrilled about writing for Harlequin Blaze. Body Check is a story that’s been in my head for quite a while. It’s a dream come true to be able to share it with you!
Growing up in Canada, I suppose it’s not surprising that I ended up writing about our nation’s most beloved sport. After all, there’s nothing sexier than a hockey player. And, of course, no romance would be complete without a scandal or two!
I had a blast writing Body Check, from its initial conception to the research phase (where I pestered my hockey-playing buddies with questions ike “What really goes on in the locker room?”) to those final, finishing touches.
I hope you enjoy Hayden and Brody’s story, and I’d also love to hear from you! Drop me a line at www.ellekennedy.com or swing over to The Sizzling Pens at sizzlingpens.blogspot.com to see what some of my fellow Harlequin authors and I are blogging about!
Happy reading!
Elle Kennedy
Body Check
ELLE KENNEDY
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Elle Kennedy grew up in the suburbs of Toronto, Ontario, and holds a B.A. in English from York University. From an early age she knew she wanted to be a writer, and actively began pursuing that dream when she was only a teenager. When she’s not writing, she’s reading. And when she’s not reading, she’s making music with her drummer boyfriend, oil painting, or indulging her love for board games. Elle loves to hear from her readers. Visit her at her Web site, www.ellekennedy.com, or stop by her blog, sizzlingpens.blogspot.com, to chat with Elle and her fellow Harlequin writers.
I could not have written this book without my
fantastic critique partners, Lori Borrill and
Jennifer Lewis, two incredible authors
in their own right, and the best support system
a girl could have.
I’d also like to dedicate this book to…
My family and friends, for not letting me give up.
Tyler, Amanda and Brad, for all their help
with this story.
My fabulous editor Laura Barth. And senior editor
Brenda Chin for taking a chance on me
and my hockey-playing hero!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
1
“I REALLY NEED to get laid,” Hayden Houston said with a sigh. She reached for the glass on the smooth mahogany tabletop and took a sip of red wine. The slightly bitter liquid eased her thirst but did nothing to soothe her frustration.
The pictures staring at her from the walls of the Ice House Bar didn’t help, either. Action shots of hockey players mid slap shot, framed rookie cards, team photos of the Chicago Warriors—it seemed as if the sport haunted her everywhere she went. Sure, she was a team owner’s daughter, but occasionally it would be nice to focus on something other than hockey. Like sex, perhaps.
Across from her, Darcy White grinned. “We haven’t seen each other in two years and that’s all you’ve got to say? Come on, Professor, no anecdotes about life in Berkeley? No insightful lectures about Impressionist art?”
“I save the insightful lectures for my students. And as for anecdotes, none of them involve sex so let’s not waste time with those.”
She ran her hand through her hair and discovered that all the bounce she’d tried to inject into it before heading to the Ice House Bar had deflated. Volume-enhancing mousse? Yeah, right. Apparently nothing could make her stick-straight brown hair look anything other than stick-straight.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Darcy said. “Why do you have sex on the brain?”
“Because I’m not getting any.”
Darcy sipped her strawberry daiquiri, a drink she’d confessed she hated but drank anyway, claiming men found it sexy. “Aren’t you seeing someone back in California? Dan? Drake?”
“Doug,” Hayden corrected.
“How long have you been together?”
“Two months.”
“And you still haven’t done the mattress mambo?”
“Nope.”
“You’re kidding, right? He’s not down with getting it on?” Darcy paused, looking thoughtful. “Or should I say, he’s not up with it?”
“Oh, he’s up. He just wants, and I quote, ‘to get to know each other fully before we cross the intimacy bridge.’”
Her friend hooted. “The intimacy bridge? Girl, he sounds like a total loser. Dump him. Now. Before he brings up the intimacy bridge again.”
“We’re actually on a break right now,” Hayden admitted. “Before I left I told him I needed some space.”
“Space? Uh-uh. I think what you need is a new boyfriend.”
God, that was the last thing she wanted. Toss her line in the dating pool and start fishing again? No, thank you. After three failed relationships in five years, Hayden had decided to quit falling for bad boys and focus on the good ones. And Doug Lloyd was definitely a good one. He taught a Renaissance course at Berkeley, he was intelligent and witty, and he valued love and commitment as much as she did. Having grown up with a single father, Hayden longed for a partner she could build a home and grow old with.
Her mom had died in a car accident when Hayden was a baby, and her dad had given up on finding love again, opting instead to spend more than twenty years focusing on his hockey-coaching career. He’d finally remarried three years ago, but she suspected loneliness, rather than love, had driven him to do so. Why else would he have proposed to a woman after four months of dating? A woman who was twenty-nine years his junior. A woman he was in the process of divorcing, no less.
Well, she had no intention of following her dad’s example. She wasn’t going to spend decades alone and then jump into marriage with someone totally unsuitable.
Doug held the same mind-set. He was a traditionalist through and through, a believer that marriage should be valued and not rushed into. Besides, he had a rock-hard body that made her mouth water. He’d even let her touch it…once. They’d been kissing on the couch in the living room of her San Francisco town house and she’d slid her hands underneath his button-down shirt. Running her fingers over his rippled chest, she’d murmured, “Let’s move this into the bedroom.”
That’s when he’d dropped the no-intimacy bomb on her. He’d assured her he was unbelievably attracted to her, but that, like marriage, he didn’t believe sex should be rushed. He wanted the first time to be special.
And no amount of chest rubbing could persuade him to let go of his chivalrous intentions.
And therein lay the problem. Doug was simply too nice. At first she’d thought his views on making love were really very sweet. But two months, coupled with eight months of celibacy prior to meeting Doug, added up to extreme sexual frustration on her part.
She loved that Doug was a gentleman but, darn it, sometimes a girl just needed a man.
“Seriously, this Damian guy seems like a wimp,” Darcy said, jerking her from her thoughts.
“Doug.”
“Whatever.” Darcy waved a dismissive hand and tossed her long red hair over her shoulder. “Screw intimacy. If Dustin won’t have sex with you, find someone who will.”
“Believe me, I’m tempted.”
More than tempted, actually. The next couple months were bound to be pure hell. She’d come home after final exams to support her father through his messy divorce, to be the good daughter, but that didn’t mean she had to like the situation.
Her stepmother was determined to squeeze Hayden’s dad for every dime he had. And, boy, did he have a lot of dimes. Though he’d spent most of his life coaching, Presley had always dreamed of owning a team, a goal he’d finally reached seven years ago. Thanks to the substantial insurance settlement he’d received after her mom’s accident, and his wise investment in a pharmaceutical company that had made him millions, he’d been able to purchase the Chicago Warriors franchise. Over the years he’d continued investing and building his fortune, but his main priority was the team. It was all he ever thought about, and that’s what made coming home so difficult.
Her childhood had been chaotic, to say the least. Traveling with her dad across the country for away games, living in Florida for two years when he’d coached the Aces to a championship victory, five years in Texas, three in Oregon. It had been tough, but Hayden’s close relationship with her dad had made the constant upheaval bearable. Her father had always shown an interest in her life. He’d listened while she babbled about her favorite artists, and taken her to countless museums over the years.
Now that she was an adult and he was busy with the team, he no longer seemed to care about making time to connect with her outside of the hockey arena. She knew other team owners didn’t get as involved as her father did, but his background as a coach seemed to influence his new position; he had his hand in every aspect of the Warriors, from drafting players to marketing, and he thrived on it, no matter how time-consuming the work was.
That’s why three years ago she’d decided to accept the full-time position Berkeley had offered her, even though it meant relocating to the West Coast. She’d figured the old absence-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder cliché might kick in and make her father realize there was more to life than hockey. It hadn’t.
So she’d come back to see him through the divorce in hopes that they could reconnect.
“Have you become a nymphomaniac since you left town?” Darcy was asking. “You never mentioned it in your e-mails.”
Hayden forced herself to focus on her best friend and not dwell on her issues with her dad. “I haven’t become a nymphomaniac. I’m just stressed-out and I need to unwind. Do you blame me?”
“Not really. The evil stepmother is throwing poison apples all over the place, huh?”
“You saw the morning paper, too?”
“Oh, yeah. Pretty crappy.”
Hayden raked her fingers through her hair. “Crappy? It’s a disaster.”
“Any truth to it?” Darcy asked carefully.
“Of course not! Dad would never do the things she’s accusing him of.” She tried to control the frustration in her tone. “Let’s not talk about this. Tonight I just want to forget about my dad and Sheila and the whole messy business.”
“All right. Wanna talk about sex again?”
Hayden grinned. “No. I’d rather have sex instead.”
“Then do it. There are tons of men in this place. Pick one and go home with him.”
“You mean a one-night stand?” she asked warily.
“Hell, yeah.”
“I don’t know. It seems kind of sleazy, hopping into bed with someone and never seeing them again.”
“How is that sleazy? I do it all the time.”
Hayden burst out laughing. “Of course you do. You’re commitment-phobic.”
Darcy went through men like socks, and some of the details she shared in her e-mails made Hayden gape. She certainly couldn’t remember ever experiencing seven orgasms in one night, or indulging in a ménage à trois with two firefighters she’d met—figure this one out—at an illegal bonfire in Chicago’s Lincoln Park.
Darcy raised her eyebrows, blue eyes flashing with challenge. “Well, let me ask you this—what sounds more fun, having a few screaming orgasms with a man you may or may not see again, or hiking across the intimacy bridge with Don?”
“Doug.”
Darcy shrugged. “I think we both know my way is better than the highway. Or should I say the bridge?” She fluttered her hand as if waving a white flag. “Sorry, I promise to refrain from any further bridge comments for the rest of the evening.”
Hayden didn’t answer. Instead, she mulled over Darcy’s suggestion. She’d never had a one-night stand in her life. For her, sex came with other things, relationship things, like going to dinner, spending a cozy night in, saying I love you for the first time.
But why did sex always have to be about love? Couldn’t it just be purely for pleasure? No dinner, no I-love-you’s, no expectations?
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Falling into bed with a man when last week I was still with Doug?”
“You asked for space for a reason,” Darcy said. “Might as well take advantage of it.”
“By going to bed with someone else.” She sipped her wine, thoughtful and hesitant at the same time.
“Why not?” Darcy said. “Look, you’ve spent years searching for a guy to build a life with—maybe you should try looking for one who jump-starts your libido instead. The way I see it, it’s time for you to have some fun, Hayden. I think you need fun.”
She sighed. “I think so, too.”
Darcy’s grin widened. “You’re seriously considering it, aren’t you?”
“If I see a guy I like, I just might.”
Her own words surprised her, but they made sense. What was so wrong with hooking up with a stranger in a bar? People did wild things like that all the time, and maybe right now she needed to be a little wild.
Darcy twirled the straw around in her daiquiri glass, looking pensive. “What’s your pseudonym going to be?”
“My pseudonym?” she echoed.
“Yeah. If you’re going to do this right, you need total anonymity. Be someone else for the night. Like Yolanda.”
“No way,” she objected with a laugh. “I’d rather just be myself.”
“Fine.” Darcy’s shoulders drooped.
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves, Darce. Shouldn’t I pick the guy first?”
Darcy’s enthusiasm returned. “Good point. Let’s spin the man wheel and see who it lands on.”
Stifling a laugh, Hayden followed her friend’s lead and swept her eyes around the crowded bar. Everywhere she looked, she saw men. Tall ones, short ones, cute ones, bald ones. None of them sparked her interest.
And then she saw him.
Standing at the counter with his back turned to them was the lucky winner of the man wheel. All she could see was a head of dark brown hair, a broad back clad in a navy-blue sweater and long legs encased in denim. Oh, and the butt. Hard not to notice that tight little butt.
“Excellent selection,” Darcy teased, following her gaze.
“I can’t see his face,” she complained, trying not to crane her neck.
“Patience, grasshopper.”
Holding her breath, Hayden watched the man drop a few bills on the sleek mahogany counter and accept a tall glass of beer from the bartender. When he turned around, she sucked in an impressed gasp. The guy had the face of a Greek god, chiseled, rugged, with intense blue eyes that caused her heart to pound and sensual lips that made her mouth tingle. And he was huge. With his back turned he hadn’t seemed this big, but now, face-to-face, she realized he stood well over six feet and had the kind of chest a woman wanted to rest her head on. She could see the muscular planes of his chest even through his sweater.
“Wow,” she muttered, more to herself than Darcy.
A shiver of anticipation danced through her as she imagined spending the night with him.
Beer in hand, the man strode toward one of the pool tables at the far end of the bar, and headed for the cue rack. Setting his glass on the small ledge along the wall, he grabbed a cue and proceeded to rack the balls on the green felt table. A second later, a tall, lanky college-age kid approached and they exchanged a few words. The kid snatched up a cue and joined Mr. Delicious at the table.
Hayden turned back to Darcy and saw her friend rolling her eyes. “What?” she said, feeling a bit defensive.
“What are you waiting for?” Darcy prompted.
She glanced at the dark-haired sex god again. “I should go over there?”
“If you’re serious about doing the nasty tonight, then, yeah, go over there.”
“And do what?”
“Shoot some pool. Talk. Flirt. You know, look under the hood before you commit to buying the car.”
“He’s not a car, Darce.”
“Yeah, but if he was, he’d be something dangerously hot, like a Hummer.”
Hayden burst out laughing. If there was one thing to be said about Darcy, it was that she truly was one of a kind.
“Come on, go over there,” Darcy repeated.
She swallowed. “Now?”
“No, next week.”
Her mouth grew even drier, prompting her to down the rest of her wine.
“You’re seriously nervous about this, aren’t you?” Darcy said, blue eyes widening in wonder. “When did you become so shy? You give lectures to classes of hundreds. He’s just one man, Hayden.”
Her eyes drifted back in the guy’s direction. She noticed how his back muscles bunched together as he rested his elbows on the pool table, how his taut backside looked practically edible in those faded jeans.
He’s just one man, she said to herself, shaking off her nerves. Right. Just one tall, sexy, oozing-with-raw-masculinity man.
This would be a piece of cake.
BRODY CROFT CIRCLED the pool table, his eyes sharp as a hawk’s as he examined his options. With a quick nod, he pointed and said, “Thirteen, side pocket.”
His young companion, wearing a bright red Hawaiian T-shirt that made Brody’s eyes hurt, raised his eyebrows. “Really? Tough shot, man.”
“I can handle it.”
And handle it he did. The ball slid cleanly into the pocket, making the kid beside him groan.
“Nice, man. Nice.”
“Thanks.” He moved to line up his next shot when he noticed his opponent staring at him. “Something wrong?”
“No, uh, nothing’s wrong. Are—are you Brody Croft?” the guy blurted out, looking embarrassed.
Brody smothered a laugh. He’d wondered how long it would take the kid to ask. Not that he was conceited enough to think everyone on the planet knew who he was, but seeing as this bar was owned by Alexi Nicklaus and Jeff Wolinski, two fellow Warriors, most of the patrons were bound to be hockey fans.
“At your service,” he said easily, extending his hand.
The kid gripped it tightly, as if he were sinking in a pit of quicksand and Brody’s hand was the lifeline keeping him alive. “This is so awesome! I’m Mike, by the way.”
The look of pure adoration on Mike’s face brought a knot of discomfort to Brody’s gut. He always enjoyed meeting fans, but sometimes the hero worship went a little too far.
“What do you say we keep playing?” he suggested, gesturing to the pool table.
“Yeah. I mean, sure! Let’s play!” Mike’s eyes practically popped out of his angular face. “I can’t wait to tell the guys I played a round of pool with Brody Croft.”
Since he couldn’t come up with a response that didn’t include something asinine, like “thank you,” Brody chalked up the end of his cue. The next shot would be more difficult than the first, but again, nothing he couldn’t manage. He’d worked in a bar like this one back when he’d played for the farm team and was barely bringing in enough cash to feed his goldfish, let alone himself. He used to hang out after work shooting pool with the other waiters, eventually developing a fondness for the game. With the way his schedule was now, he rarely had time to play anymore.
But with rumors about a possible league investigation swirling, thanks to allegations made in a recent interview with the team owner’s soon-to-be ex-wife, Brody might end up with more free time than he wanted. Mrs. Houston apparently had proof that her husband had bribed at least two players to bring forth a loss and that he’d placed substantial—illegal—bets on those fixed games.
While there was probably no truth to any of it, Brody was growing concerned with the rumors.
A few years ago a similar scandal had plagued the Colorado Kodiaks. Only three players had been involved, but many innocent players suffered—other teams were reluctant to pick them up due to their association with the tarnished franchise.
Hell would freeze over before he’d accept a payout, and he had no intention of being lumped in with any of the players who might have. His contract was due to expire at the end of the season. He’d be a free agent then, which meant he needed to remain squeaky clean if he wanted to sign with a new team or remain with the Warriors.
He tried to remind himself that this morning’s paper was filled with nothing but rumors. If something materialized from Sheila Houston’s claims, he’d worry about it then. Right now, he needed to focus on playing his best so the Warriors could win the first play-offs round and move on to the next.
Resting the cue between his thumb and forefinger, Brody positioned the shot, took one last look and pulled the cue back.
From the corner of his eye, a woman’s curvy figure drew his attention, distracting him just as he pushed the cue forward. The brief diversion caused his fingers to slip, and the white ball sailed across the felt, avoided every other ball on the table and slid directly into the far pocket. Scratch.
Damn.
Scowling, he lifted his head just as the source of his distraction drew near.
“You could do it over,” Mike said quickly, fumbling for the white ball and placing it back on the table. “It’s called a mulligan or something.”
“That’s golf,” Brody muttered, his gaze glued to the approaching brunette.
A few years ago an interviewer for Sports Illustrated had asked him to describe the type of women he was attracted to. “Leggy blondes” had been his swift response, which was pretty much the exact opposite of the woman who’d now stopped two feet in front of him. And yet his mouth went dry at the sight of her, his body quickly responding to every little detail. The silky chocolate-brown hair falling over her shoulders, the vibrant green eyes the same shade as a lush rain forest, the petite body with more curves than his brain could register.
His breath hitched as their eyes met. The whisper of an uncertain smile that tugged at her full lips sent a jolt to his groin. Jeez. He couldn’t remember the last time a single smile from a woman had evoked such an intense response.
“I thought I’d play the winner.” Her soft, husky voice promptly delivered another shock wave to Brody’s crotch.
Stunned to find he was two seconds away from a full-blown erection, he tried to remind his body that he wasn’t a teenager any longer, but a twenty-nine-year-old man who knew how to control himself. Hell, he could control the puck while fending off elbows and cross-checks from opposing attackers; getting a hold of his hormones should be a piece of cake.
“Here, just take my place now,” Mike burst out, quickly pushing his cue into her hands. His gaze dropped to the cleavage spilling over the scooped neckline of the brunette’s yellow tank top, and then the kid turned to Brody and winked. “Have fun, man.”
Brody wrinkled his brow, wondering if Mike thought he was graciously passing this curvy bombshell over to him or something, but before he could say anything, Mike disappeared in the crowd.
Brody swallowed, then focused his eyes on the sexy little woman who’d managed to get him hard with one smile.
She didn’t look like the type you’d find in a sports bar, even one as upscale as this. Sure, her body was out of this world, but something about her screamed innocence. The freckles splattering the bridge of her nose maybe, or perhaps the way she kept biting on the corner of her bottom lip like a bunny nibbling on a piece of lettuce.
Before he could stop it, the image of those plump red lips nibbling on one particular part of his anatomy slid to the forefront of his brain like a well-placed slap shot to the net. His cock pushed against the fly of his jeans.
So much for controlling his hormones.
“I’m guessing it’s my turn,” she said. Tilting her head, she offered another endearing smile. “Seeing as you just blew your shot.”
He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah.”
Snap out of it, man.
Right, he needed to regroup here. He played hockey, yeah, but he wasn’t a player anymore. His love-’em-and-leave-’em ways were in the past. He was sick to death of women fawning all over him because of his career. Nowadays all he had to do was walk into a place—club, bar, the public library—and a warm, willing female was by his side, ready to jump his bones. And he couldn’t even count the number of times he’d heard, “Do you like it rough off the ice, baby?”
Well, screw it. He’d been down the casual road, had his fun, scored off the ice as often as he scored on it, but now it was time to take a new path. One where the woman in his bed actually gave a damn about him, and not the hockey star she couldn’t wait to gush to her friends about.
The sexual fog in his brain cleared, leaving him alert and composed, and completely aware of the flush on the brunette’s cheeks and the hint of attraction in her eyes. If this woman was looking to score with Mr. Hockey, she had another think coming.
“I’m Hayden,” his new opponent said, uncertainty floating through her forest-green eyes.
“Brody Croft,” he returned coolly, waiting for the flicker of recognition to cross her features.
It didn’t happen. No flash of familiarity, no widening of the eyes. Her expression didn’t change in the slightest.
“It’s nice to meet you. Brody.” Her voice lingered on his name, as if she were testing it out for size. She must have decided she liked the fit, because she gave a small nod and turned her attention to the table. After a quick examination, she pointed to the ball he’d failed to sink and called the shot.
Okay, was he supposed to believe she genuinely didn’t know who he was? That she’d walked into a sports bar and randomly chosen to hit on the only hockey player in attendance?
“So…did you catch the game last night?” he said with a casual slant of the head.
She gave him a blank stare. “What game?”
“Game one of the play-offs, Warriors and Vipers. Seriously good hockey, in my opinion.”
Her brows drew together in a frown. “Oh. I’m not really a fan, to be honest.”
“You don’t like the Warriors?”
“I don’t like hockey.” She made a self-deprecating face. “Actually, I can’t say I enjoy any sport, really. Maybe the gymnastics in the summer Olympics?”
He couldn’t help but grin. “Are you asking or telling?”
She smiled back. “Telling. And I guess it’s very telling that I only watch a sports event once every four years, huh?”
He found himself liking the dry note to her throaty voice when she admitted her disinterest in sports. Her honesty was rare. Most—fine, all—of the women he encountered claimed to love his sport of choice, and if they didn’t truly love it, they pretended to, as if sharing that common interest made them soul mates.
“But I love this game,” Hayden added, raising her cue. “It counts as a sport, right?”
“It does in my book.”
She nodded, then focused on the balls littering the table. She leaned forward to take her shot.
He got a nice eyeful of her cleavage, a tantalizing swell of creamy-white skin spilling over the neckline of her snug yellow top. When he lowered his eyes, he couldn’t help but admire her full breasts, hugged firmly by a thin bra he could only see the outline of.
She took the shot, and he raised his brows, impressed, as the ball cleanly disappeared into the pocket. She was good.
All right, more than good, he had to relent as she proceeded to circle the table and sink ball after ball.
“Where’d you learn to play like that?” he asked, finally finding his voice.
She met his eyes briefly before sinking the last solid on the table. “My dad.” She smiled again. Those pouty lips just screamed for his mouth to do wicked things to them. “He bought me my own table when I was nine, set it up right next to his. We used to play side by side in the basement every night before I went to bed.”
“Does he still play?”
Her eyes clouded. “No. He’s too busy with work to relax around a pool table anymore.” She straightened her back and glanced at the table. “Eight ball, corner pocket.”
At this point, Brody didn’t even care about the game Hayden was certain to win. The sweet scent of her perfume, a fruity sensual aroma, floated in the air and made him mindless with need. Man, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so drawn to a woman.
After sinking the eight ball, she moved toward him, each step she took heightening his desire. She ran her fingers through her dark hair, and a new aroma filled his nostrils. Strawberries. Coconut.
He was suddenly very, very hungry.
“Good game,” she said, shooting him another smile. Impish, this time.
His mouth twisted wryly. “I didn’t even get to play.”
“I’m sorry.” She paused. “Do you like to play?”
Was she referring to pool? Or a different game? Maybe the kind you played in bed. Naked.
The free excerpt has ended.
