Winning It All (Hometown Players Book 4) (10 page)

“I’m so glad you came!” Audrey grins at us. “It’s packed tonight, but you guys will get special treatment, I promise. So Shayne will have the regular, I’m sure. What about you, Jessie?”

“What’s your usual?” Jessie asks me.

“Mojito,” I tell her and tuck my damp hair behind my ear. I wish I’d had time to dry it properly—and style it. Luckily I had a pair of jeans, flats and a semi-cute, although sort of sporty shirt, in my work locker. Luckily Jessie isn’t too dressed up either, in a pair of jeans, ankle boots and a sweater, so I don’t feel too out of place.

“I’ll take one of those too,” Jessie tells Audrey, who immediately starts to make our drinks.

“Did you order a Seb-tini?” someone says behind us, and then I feel a hand on my lower back. It’s large, firm and warm, and it makes my stomach flutter like a baby dove. I turn and come face-to-face with Sebastian Deveau. He’s in a crisp white dress shirt with a loosened silver tie around his neck. His dark hair is tousled and his jaw is dotted with stubble. He’s wearing glasses. Simple, dark-framed ones that give him that sexy-as-fuck CEO look. He shouldn’t be allowed to own those.

Jessie glances behind me and her whole face bursts into a warm smile. She laughs, delighted. “No Seb-tinis here, unfortunately, so I settled for a mojito.”

He steps a little closer so now he’s beside me, hand still on my back. With his free hand he wraps Jessie in a hug. I bristle. Oh God, please don’t say he’s the fiancé. For a brief, irrational but all-consuming second, I believe he is. But then she breaks the hug and says, “Please say the love of my life is with you.”

Sebastian knows Jessie’s fiancé? He nods, as if answering my question, but he’s really answering her. Her grin grows again. “Great! Oh! I forgot introductions. Seb, this is Shayne. She works at the new fitness place I’m going to start at this week.”

“Shay,
ma belle
,” he purrs. Literally fucking purrs at me. And that hand is still warm, strong and possessive against my spine. “It’s an unexpected pleasure to see you again so soon.”

Jessie’s eyebrows jump toward the ceiling. I start to feel my cheeks heat, but before I can manage to say anything Frenchie leans toward me. “Everything about you seems to be an unexpected pleasure.
C’est fantastique
.”

Oh my God, he’s speaking French. And it’s the hottest thing I have ever heard. I can feel my cheeks evolving from pink to red. He sees it happen, and it makes his smile grow victorious and his tongue slips out and wets his bottom lip. Oh God. I’m dying.

“You two have met?” Jessie is completely confused.

“Shay and I are intimately acquainted,” Sebastian tells her, and I want to crawl into a hole and die.

I step away from his touch, and if it wasn’t so loud in here I swear you’d be able to hear my ovaries scream in protest. Everything about this man makes my girl parts want to fornicate. It’s infuriating and invigorating in equal, overwhelming parts. “Frenchie is a member at the gym. And he was at the open house.”

“I know. I was too!” Jessie smiles at me, but the confusion is still visible in her green eyes. And then, suddenly, it’s not. Her eyes grow wide and her perfect heart-shaped mouth falls open. “Oh! You wore that green dress to the Elevate opening! You and Seb…oh!”

She starts to giggle. Sebastian looks uncomfortable, and I realize she knows what happened between us that night. Oh my God, I want to die. The only thing easing my embarrassment is that Sebastian looks like he wants to die too, and I’m happy it’s thrown his game off. He pulls off his glasses and gives Jessie a pleading look, trying to get her to shut up. Her giggles stop instantly, and she reaches out and touches his face.

“Ouch. Seb!” He winces and I turn to get a full look at his face. The right side, away from me, has a short but deep gash through his eyebrow and forehead. It’s red and swollen. The frame of his glasses was obscuring it but now it’s on display—and it looks painful.

“Holy crap!” I gasp before I can stop myself.

He likes that. It makes him smile again. “You’re worried about me, Shay.”

“No,” I retort quickly—too quickly. “I just…It looks disgusting.”

He frowns a little. Jessie ignores our awkward one-upmanship dance and, as Audrey puts our drinks on the bar and tells us they’re on the house, Jessie asks her for some ice and a clean bar cloth. Audrey glances at Seb and her smile turns to a wince. “I hope the other guy looks worse.”

“He doesn’t,” Seb admits, and I try to pretend I’m not concerned. Because I shouldn’t be. This is the kind of stuff that I hate—the hockey fights that these idiots, like my dad and my brother, get into because of some stupid team code, even though they know they’ll lose. What profession expects its employees to fuck themselves up on purpose? I hate hockey.

He turns away from me, slips his glasses back on and says to my best friend, “Audrey, can I also get some bourbon and two more beers, please, love?”

Love?
He just flirts with everyone, doesn’t he?

“Where are you sitting?” Jessie asks him. He points to the far corner of the room, by the back wall. I take my mojito off the bar and hand Jessie hers.

“Let’s sit by the window,” I suggest brightly. It’s the opposite side of the room.

Jessie shakes her head, auburn hair sailing over her shoulders. “Let’s sit with the boys. You can meet Jordy!”

She’s so excited I don’t even have time to dissuade her. She takes my hand in hers and starts toward the back of the bar. She seems to be heading for two guys sitting at a long high-top table by the brick wall near the emergency exit. They’re both in suits. There’s a freckled brunette who looks like his cat just ran into traffic and a tall blonde with broad shoulders, a chiseled chin and a dimple when he smiles—which he’s doing right now as he focuses his blue eyes on Jessie. Her fiancé is smoking hot, I’ll give her that. And I know before she even says it that he must play for the Winterhawks too.

When we reach the table he stands up, wraps one arm around her waist and lifts her to his lips. The kiss is subtle, but ridiculously romantic. Man, I want to be kissed hello like that. “This is a very happy surprise,” he tells her in a deep voice filled with affection.

“Jordan, this is Shayne. She’s Trey’s sister and she works at Elevate as a yoga instructor,” Jessie says to him, and as we shake hands and he tells me it’s nice to meet me, she turns her attention to the sad sack of a hockey player next to him. “Shayne, my fiancé, Jordan Garrison, and his teammate and friend, Mike Choochinsky.”

I feel like a child on the verge of a tantrum. I want to drop to the ground screaming and kicking my feet in protest. Why, oh why, does Jessie have to be marrying a hockey player? I liked her! Damn it.

“Hi, guys,” I say, and the Mike Choochinsky guy barely raises his head, which is slumped forward with his shoulders, examining the tabletop. Jordan, on the other hand, is the Welcome Wagon.

“Hi! Nice to meet you! I think I saw you at the gym opening, didn’t I?” he questions.

I nod and take a big gulp of my mojito before turning to Jessie. “I think I should go.”

“What? Why?” She’s more confused than ever now.

“I totally spaced. Forgot I have no clean yoga gear for tomorrow. I have to go home and do laundry,” I babble, and it’s the stupidest lie I’ve ever told. I take another big gulp of mojito and leave it half finished on the table. “Nice meeting you guys. Have a good night.”

Before anyone can protest, I am pushing my way through the crowd. I glance over at Audrey, who is frowning at me over the crowd in front of her. I ignore her and don’t stop until I’m on the street. The damp, cool air is refreshing, and I take a deep breath.

I’m really bummed Jessie is with Jordan. I don’t want to hang out with someone wrapped up in the hockey world because I don’t want to be wrapped up in it. I’ve spent enough unhappy years involved with it thanks to my father and brother and Dustin. It’s confusing because she honestly doesn’t fit the mold. I mean, sure, she’s pretty—gorgeous, really—but she’s smart and she seems independent. The goal of most hockey girlfriends is to land that engagement ring, which is why they’re called puck bunnies. They’re just hopping from player to player looking for the ring. As soon as they do—sometimes even before, if they’re ballsy—they quit their jobs and cruise on his bank account. Jessie is still working. Sure, it’s part time, but it’s working. And she never mentioned Jordan’s profession until she had to. I’ve been around puck bunnies—a lot of them—like the ones that followed my brother around college and the ones that married my father’s teammates. And the ones that tried to destroy my parents’ marriage. All of them drop their “famous” boyfriend/husband/fiancé’s profession like it’s their own personal achievement. Like it earns them respect. Jessie didn’t do that. Maybe she’s different, but I would have to stick around here to find out and, with Sebastian here, that’s too much to handle right now. I’ll try and get to know her better at work or something.

I sigh as it starts to drizzle, pull the hood up on my jacket and search for the Uber app on my phone.

“You can’t even finish your drink?”

I fight the urge to groan, and I turn around. He’s standing under the black-and-white-striped awning that covers the door to the bar. He’s still without his suit jacket and he’s rolled up the sleeves to his white dress shirt. His tie still hangs loosely around his neck. His glasses still sit perfectly on his chiseled face, ice blue eyes peering out inquisitively from behind them.

“You need to stop wearing those glasses,” I tell him flatly. “They make you look like an accountant in a porn movie.”

He blinks and then lets out a heavy chuff at that. “If your porn has accounting in it, you’re doing it wrong,
ma belle
.”

“Stop with the French too,” I say, folding my arms over my chest to show my irritation. “Your mother tongue won’t work on me.”

He looks even more amused than he did by the porn comment. This man is drop-dead sexy when he’s amused. I’m getting damp and it’s not from the weather. As a couple slips past him into the bar, he takes a step toward me but is still cloaked by the awning. He smirks, crossing his arms over his muscular chest, the white fabric on his biceps pulling snugly. “That’s odd, because you enjoyed my tongue last night.”

White-hot desire swirls low in my belly and rushes through my veins. Images of him naked and pushing into me, licking and sucking at my skin as he does, spin through my head like I’m scrolling through pictures on my phone. Oh God. Why did it have to be so good?

I try pushing the images of our sexcapades out of my head and try to conjure up different ones. Bitter ones from my past. The reason I have to deny myself the only man I’ve ever craved. The only man who has yet to satisfy me. I level my gaze at him. “Nothing you do works on me now.”

He doesn’t respond. He just stares. His gaze is hard. Intense. Confident. I imagine it’s the look he gave whoever caused that slice through his eyebrow. He takes another step toward me; this time it brings him out from under the protective cover of the awning. Still, he says nothing. The water starts to dapple his shirt and little droplets coat the lenses in his glasses, but he still says nothing. He takes another step closer.

We’re a foot, maybe, apart. Those crystal blue eyes are unwavering, unblinking, narrowed right on mine, and I can’t look away. I also can’t breathe. He uncrosses his arms. The misty rain is making his shirt see-through. His skin looks so inviting through it. My fingers flex with the need to touch him, so I press my folded arms down tighter on top of them. He can’t see out of his glasses now, so he reaches up and pulls them off. My eyes shift to the angry slice on his forehead and the dark sutures holding it together.

“You’re not supposed to get stitches wet,” I scold and reach up to wipe droplets from his forehead before they reach his cut.

As my fingers brush the skin above his cut, he moves. It’s quick and unexpected, so I don’t have time to react as he grabs me by the wrist and uses it to yank me closer. As my mouth opens in a surprised gasp, he covers it with his own. I want to protest—I
have
to—but as soon as his tongue sweeps over mine, a switch flips somewhere inside me. My reasoning, my rational thought is turned off, and desire and lust is turned on, filling my body with want. For
him
. And I can’t help but kiss him back.

He pushes me back two steps until I’m pressed up against a light post. His hand, still holding my wrist, slides into the narrow space between our bodies, and he presses my hand against the long, thick, hard outline pushing against his suit pants. He breaks this kiss, pulling his lips just enough to speak.

“You still do this to me,” he growls and rubs himself into my palm. My hand, controlled by want and not reason, just like the rest of me, wraps my fingers around him. “And I know if I slip my fingers into your jeans right now, they’d come out wet.”

I kiss him again. To shut him up. To gain some modicum of control. To keep myself from moaning “yes” and God knows what else. “Come home with me,” he whispers into the kiss.

“No,” I whimper and manage to find the strength, and common sense, to pull my hand back. I reach behind me and grip the cold, slick metal lamppost to help hold me up, since my legs are shaking. Kissing Seb makes me feel drunker than champagne. “I told you. I had fun. You’re good at sex because you’re a hockey player and that’s what you do, but I’m not into that. I’m not…I didn’t mean to be one of your playthings, Frenchie. So no.”

I move away from the light post and away from him. “I’m going home. Alone. Good night.”

He moves to follow me, and I know that I won’t say a damn word to stop him. Oh, God help me…Then three guys bustle by me on the sidewalk chattering away, oblivious to the scene beside them until one of them glances up and sees Sebastian. His eyes widen in recognition. “Holly crap! Sebastian Deveau! Man, that game tonight…that was tough.”

Sebastian blinks, and his gaze switches instantly from the feral look he was giving me to an amicable, gregarious smile. “Yeah. Don’t worry. Won’t happen again.”

“I never do this, but any chance we could get a pic with you?”