Page 11 of Hat Trick Heart

I look around again and that’s when I spot her. She’s on the other side of the huge L-shaped desk and she’s smiling as she does something with the books someone hands her and then she hands them back to them.

They take the books and walk away, smiling and perusing what they’re taking home.

I walk over to her and she smiles at me. “What are you doing here, Emile? Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your game?”

“Not right now.” I don’t know why I don’t tell her about the suspension. I just know that I don’t want her to know. I glance around the room and eye the huge space packed with spaces to sit and read and research. “This is… nice.”

She snorts. “Right. That didn’t sound convincing, Emile. Not that I’m really surprised by that sentiment out of you.”

I cock my head and frown. “Why me in particular?”

“You don’t seem like a reader and you said you never really hung out in libraries so it’s kinda hard to picture you being enthused about one.” She laughs.

“You might be surprised.”

“Sure. Can I help you with anything today?”

“Yeah. I thought I might check out some magazines.”

She points over to the side where there seem to be newer issues on a long display that appears to have cubbies underneath with stacks. “There are our current magazines.”

“Thanks.”

I walk away and study the magazines offered and pick up two sports magazines that are current. I take a seat in a chair that allows me to see the desk and office and keep an eye on Sassy. I start reading them but every few seconds my head comes up and I watch what she’s doing.

She’s beautiful. She’s wearing a pale pink, soft two-piece sweater like a 1950’s T.V. character and her glorious auburn hair is pulled back in a soft updo that shows off her pretty face and the long column of her throat. When she steps out from behind the desk to help someone find a book, I almost swallow my tongue when I see a dark gray skirt that hugs every one of her luscious curves down past her knees. Her dainty feet are wearing delicate sandals that show off her delicately muscled calves.

She’s a fucking work of art and if I thought that coming to see her at work was going to disabuse me of my fascination with her, I think the opposite is true. I want to see more. I want to touch that fabric and see if it’s as soft as it looks. See if her pale skin is softer.

I want to lift her up in my arms and carry her off to my place for the next few hours and just devour her, consume her.

I don’t think even that will cure me of my feelings for her though. I’ve never wanted a woman like I want this one.

By the middle of the day, she’s got company at the desk and she picks up her purse and speaks to the woman who just came in. She laughs and smiles and then she walks out the door and I stand up abruptly and put my magazines back, following her out.

By the time I get outside she’s way ahead of me on the sidewalk but I consider it a win since she didn’t take her car. I follow behind her, keeping her in sight. After a five-minute walk, she turns into a tiny restaurant that serves the lunch-time crowd. She gets a table in the crowded place and I quickly step inside, ducking around a corner and finding another handy spot to keep an eye on her that’s hopefully out of her sight.

I see her order lunch and when a server comes up to me, I ask for a hamburger and double-order of fries plus a huge glass of water. The water’s brought and I keep my eye on her as I sip at it. She pulls out a book and immediately seems to get lost in it, even jumping when the server brings her lunch. I frown when I see that she’s just got a salad and a drink.

That’s not enough food for a bunny let alone a fully-grown woman.

The server comes around and drops off my food and I take a bite of the hamburger, groaning under my breath. Fuck that’s good!

I see there are televisions in the corner of the place and there’s a sports news program on and I can see the GM of the Frostwolves on there talking and I cringe, assuming it might be an announcement that I’m not going to be starting for the immediate future.

Within seconds of that program being on, I start to hear rumblings around me and my stomach sinks. It doesn’t take long before the first person shows up at my table, holding out a piece of paper and a pen.

“Hey, are you Emile LaCourt? Could you sign this for me?”

That’s the start of the swamping of my table. I’m at least three deep when I manage to get a second to look through the people circling around me and I see her standing there, her mouth dropped open, staring at me before she walks away.

But I can’t get up and run after her. I smile and sign things and chat with all of these people because it’s what I’m supposed to do. These are our fans and we are dependent on them to keep our jobs. This is important.

No matter how much I want to get up and push my way out of here, I can’t.

But I miss her more than I thought it was possible to miss a perfect stranger.

And although that should be terrifying and confusing, I just can’t stop wanting her more than anything in my life.

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