Page 4 of The Dixon Rule

“Oh my God. You have a fish? Who has a pet fish? Have some self-respect, Dixon.”

Her emerald-green eyes shoot fireballs at me. I can practically feel the heat. “Leave my fish out of this. He’s not perfect, but he’s mine.”

I bite back a laugh. It doesn’t escape me that she’s still in nothing but a towel. And…well, I’m not going to lie…she looks really fucking good. Diana’s gorgeous, with wide-set eyes, platinum-blond hair, and a sassy mouth. She’s a little shorter than I usually like, barely over five feet, five-two if we’re being generous. A pint-sized hottie with a big personality. Although it seems like a major part of that personality involves busting the balls of yours truly.

“I’m going to change. But we need to talk, so don’t go anywhere.”

“I can help you get dressed,” I offer innocently.

“Ew. Never.”

I smother a laugh. Diana and I have a love-hate relationship. As in, she hates me, and I love to annoy her.

As she flounces off, I admire the way the towel rides up the backs of her toned thighs. I swear I glimpse the bottom curve of her ass cheeks. Her fair skin boasts a deep summer tan, which tells me she must be making good use of the pool outside. Fuck, I’ve got a pool now. This place is so sick.

I don’t even care that my friends and teammates keep ragging me about the fact that my “rich daddy” bought me a condo. Sure, my family has money, but I’m not some spoiled, entitled dickhead. I didn’t ask Dad to buy me an apartment. It’s an investment for him—once I graduate from Briar University and head to Chicago to play in the NHL, he’ll just rent this place out, the way he does with his hordes of other properties in Vermont and northern Massachusetts.

In the meantime, I get to enjoy my own space after sharing a house with Ryder and Beckett for the past three years. Two of those years were spent at Eastwood, our former college. After the Eastwood and Briar men’s hockey teams merged, we moved to Hastings, the small town closest to the Briar campus.

Diana returns in a pair of tiny cutoff shorts and a baggy T-shirt. She’s not wearing a bra, and my eyes dip involuntarily toward the tight buds of her nipples, which are poking against the thin material.

“Stop looking at my boobs.”

I don’t deny that’s what I was doing. Shrugging, I shift my gaze and sweep my hand to gesture at the loftlike space. “Terrible interior design aside, this place is really nice. Looks a little bigger than mine too. How much is your rent?”

“I don’t rent. And I’m not telling you how much my mortgage is. Nosy much?”

My eyebrows fly up. “You own it? That’s badass.”

She pauses, as if she doesn’t want to engage with me, then says, “My aunt left it to me in her will. She only lived here a year before she died.”

I glance around. I don’t want to ask, but…

“Oh my God, she didn’t die in this room. She had a heart attack in her office in Boston.”

“Damn. That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Anyway. Let’s get this out of the way. The rules.” Diana crosses her arms. “Just because you’re in Meadow Hill now, doesn’t mean you’ll have the run of the place.”

“I think that’s exactly what it means.” Highly amused, I mimic her pose by crossing my own arms. “I live here.”

“No, you live there.” She points to the wall behind her to indicate my apartment beyond it. “You don’t live here.” She waves her hand around her living room. “So don’t go around offering to throw parties in my house.”

“I didn’t offer. I simply made a suggestion.”

She ignores me. “Because I’m not cohosting any parties with you. This is my sanctuary. I don’t know what Gigi’s told you about me—”

“She said you’re a pain in the ass.”

Diana gasps. “She did not.”

“And she said you’re high-maintenance.”

“She didn’t say that either.”

“Actually, that part she did.”

That narrows her eyes, and I know she’ll be texting Gigi after this for verification. My best friend’s wife—Christ, that’s still strange to say—warned me away from Diana, advising me to leave her best friend alone if I didn’t want daily tongue-lashings. It’s not in my nature, though. Some people might shy away from confrontation. Some might lose sleep over the notion that someone might not like them—and I know for a fact Diana doesn’t like me. But I’m not averse to confrontation, and for some reason, her dislike only makes me want to bother her even more. It’s the preschooler in me. All men regress to their kindergarten days every now and then.

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