Page 196 of Twisted Royals

“Where should I pick you up?”

“Ce Soir.”

“That the fancy little place down the street from where we met?”

“Umm, yeah,” she answers, sounding distracted. “I get off work at six.”

“You work there?”

She mumbles something I can’t quite hear and then says she has to go.

“Okay, six o’clock. For dinner and dessert.”

Elle

Even as I picked up the call, I knew it was a bad idea. And I continue to know it, as I go about my day, schmoozing department-store retailers, and boujee boutiques to carry our new line. And especially as I obsess over the sketches I’m drawing for a wildly impractical and devastatingly gorgeous whimsical line of shoes made from, of all things, glass.

It makes no sense. I’m not a designer any more and even if I were, the board would never approve of them, but I still can't get these stupid shoes out of my head. Much like a certain hockey player. And just like that, Dan’s taken up prime real estate in my mind again.

I wonder if all hockey players are as hot as Dan, and then sigh as my phone dings with another stupid match I couldn’t care less about. And shouldn’t I? Dan isn’t an option, even if he lived here in the US. He’s just a fling. A fun guy to hang out with while I wait for my Prince Charming.

Glancing at the clock, I note that our meetup is still several hours away. That’s plenty of time to cancel. And I should cancel. I reach for my cell, but don’t pick it up. I need to call it off, not because I don't want to see him again, but because I do, and badly.

Just as I’m about to reach for my phone again, it rings. Blanca. Thank god.

I pick it up and blurt out the first thing that enters my mind. “I just met the man. And even three margaritas in, he shouldn’t have gotten so deeply under my skin. But damn it, he has. And that feels dangerous.”

“Be right there.”

It takes Blanca less than five minutes to arrive at my office, make herself a latte from my pod coffee machine and plunk her bottom in one of the comfy chairs opposite my desk. “Spill.”

“I will, but don’t you dare spill that on my desk.” I point at her latte and she holds the mug with both hands, pulling it closer to her chest.

“I wouldn’t waste this gift from the gods.”

My brow shoots up in warning. “That’s what you said about your margarita, and you spilled it last night.”

“Oh, zip it. I won’t even set it down. Now tell me everything.”

“Okay.” I sigh, changing gears and gathering my thoughts. “Dan is hot, and yes, he makes my pussy sing in ways it never has before…”

She smirks. “Okay, and?”

I chew my lip. “But even if he’s rich, and capable of taking care of me in the manner to which I'm accustomed, he’s a jock.”

Blanca cocks her head. “And?” She takes a sip of her latte. “I don’t see the problem.”

“And I'm the daughter of a senator.” I release a forceful breath. “Not just any senator, but a senator who’s likely heading for the White House. And besides, my biological clock is ticking and Dan’s not the kind of man I can have a future with.”

“Right, so in a few months, there’ll be no such thing as incognito bar hookups with deliciously hot and demanding men for you.” She smirks. “Which means you have that long to let Dan, the sexy hockey player, put his biscuit in your basket.”

My brows rise. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“That’s hockey speak for scoring.” She holds up two fingers on one hand and makes a loose fist with the other. Sliding her fingers in and out of the hole in her fist, she says, “The biscuit being his puck and the basket being your net.”

I pull a face. “And how long have you spoken this secret language?”

She shrugs, taking another swallow of coffee. “I did some research after you woke me up last night to dish on the hockey Dom.”

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