Page 17 of A Major Puck Up

This laugh is laced with a little resignation. “I happen to like you too.”

I spin and drape my legs over his hips so we’re face to face, and my heart trips over itself at the sight of him. His dark brown hair is mussed and his cheeks are flushed from the heat of the water. The gold flecks in his brown irises make his eyes sparkle.

“I didn’t say I like you. I said I like the nickname.”

His tongue slides against his bottom lip, and then he bites down on the same spot. “But you do.” It isn’t a question, so he doesn’t wait for a response. Instead, he angles in and gives me a gentle kiss.

He’s right. I really do. But it doesn’t matter, because soon, he won’t like me very much. I swallow that thought down and decide to enjoy what little time we have.

“If you could do anything in life, what would it be?” he asks.

The question surprises me, though the answer comes easily. If my father didn’t own a wildly successful music label, and if he wasn’t about to marry the biggest pop star in the world, I’d write music.

I’d planned to tell my father about my dream, but on the night we were set to have dinner together, he announced to the world in a fucking stupid display of lust that he was sleeping with my brother’s ex-girlfriend.

A woman who is only four years older than me and the biggest musician on his label.

So fucking cliché.

I was mortified, but it was so much more than that.

On top of the embarrassment, it felt as though she’d taken my place. Because I’d dreamed of being involved in the music industry, working alongside my dad, who had seemed lonely. I thought I’d be enough.

But now he has her and little time for me.

Sure, he still invites me to meet him—or worse, them—for dinner, but I know they’re pity invites. He’d rather be with her. He merely feels obligated to me.

He’d rather make music with her. Spend time with her.

For so long, I had no one but my father, and I always thought he only had me—which made me feel not so alone in this world. But now…

“Write music,” I admit, because my mind is so jumbled there’s no way I can come up with a credible lie.

Gavin gazes down at me warmly. “You have talent. Why don’t you do that?”

“Because I played an old tune in a bar to a crowd of intoxicated people, you think I have the talent to write good music?” My tone is all humor. I enjoy sparring with this man.

He shrugs. “Yeah. Your voice was incredible. You’re mesmerizing.”

“He says while I’m naked and sprawled across his lap.”

His laughter echoes off the bathroom walls as he shakes beneath me. “No. That was the first thought that came to me when I stepped into the bar. I’d barely seen you, and I was utterly bewitched. Besotted.”

“Besotted?” I tease, relishing the joy dancing in the air between us.

“Besotted,” he says, firmer, brown eyes glazing.

“And what about you? If you could do anything, what would it be?”

He arches one brow. “I see you’re just going to ignore my question.”

I press my lips together, silently imploring him to keep going, because yes, I’m doing just that.

He sighs and rubs circles against my back, the water sloshing around us. It’s warm in the bath. Against his chest. I’m not quite sure I’ve ever felt so comfortable. Or so comforted. It’s unexplainable, that a stranger could put me at ease this way. For now, I can’t dissect the implications, so I push the thoughts away, determined to live in the moment.

“I’d coach hockey.”

I try to hide my surprise, because I happen to know he owns a team. Not that he knows that I know that. Why would he prefer coaching a team when he can—and does—own the whole damn thing? If I asked him about what he does, maybe he’d explain, but if I ask, then I’m only adding another infraction to the list I’ve committed tonight. Now that I’ve gotten to know him, I want to lie as little as possible.

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