Page 12 of The Love You Win

“Miss Harding? Are you okay?”

“Oh, of course. I just had something come up.” I’m sure my eyes are glassy, which is why she turns to look at Maddox and his entourage of adoring female fans. Her frown deepens.

The hostess returns her attention to me. “You know what? Maybe he’s not that good-looking.”

A watery laugh bubbles out of me. “Right?”

“Have a better rest of your night, Miss Harding.” She offers me a conspiratorial smile that I return, then I push my way out of Rêveur.

Once I’m standing on the sidewalk, I suck in a few deep breaths and fish my phone out of my purse with a shaky hand. Jess and Nevaeh are going to be disappointed. They had such high hopes that tonight would remind me that dating can be fun. Unfortunately, it seems to have had the opposite effect.

I’m more certain than ever that I don’t need a guy to make me happy. I need my friends, my job, and my books.

Because arrogant assholes are only attractive in works of fiction.

five

MADDOX

I hate that she’s beautiful.

This would have been so much simpler if she was significantly older than me and unbearably rude. It would have been easier if she didn’t have stunning, delicate features, soft, inviting eyes, and freckles I want to count while we’re naked in bed after a night of epic sex. And her curves. God damn, her curves are perfect.

I like a woman who’s soft. Whose body gives a little when you press into her.

So I breathed a sigh of relief when her adorable rambling caught the attention of the other diners. If I can distract myself with autographs and photos with fans, she won’t be able to lull me into some twisted attraction. It’s a dick move, but I’m in more danger than I thought I’d be. She may not reek of desperation like some of these other jersey chasers, but I can’t forget she used her money to buy a way into my life. Even if it’s just for one dinner date.

And if I stare into her ocean-blue eyes for too long, I very well may lose all sense of reason.

Coach is going to kick my ass for being rude to her. Hell, I want to kick my own ass. I can tell she’s nervous and I’ve hurt her feelings with my gruff answers and bored demeanor. But it has to be done. She has to understand this isn’t a real date. She doesn’t have a chance with me, no matter how beautiful she is.

Still, I don’t enjoy the way she flinches, as though I’ve struck her, when I tell the teenage girl asking for my autograph she isn’t interrupting anything.

Not my proudest moment.

It also doesn’t mean I enjoy watching some of the sparkle in her eyes dull when I agree to sign autographs rather than choosing to converse with her.

I’ll just sign a couple more, then I’ll have made my point. Once it’s clear she has no future with me, we can make small talk and end this night quickly and on a more positive note. As long as she doesn’t forget the crux of it all.

This isn’t a real date, and I’m only here because I have to be.

One autograph has turned into two, then three, then four, and I’m starting to feel guilty. I’m sure my date well and truly understands the reality of this night now. I sneak a peek at Isla to gauge her reaction. Except she’s not in her seat.

Frowning, I glance beneath the table to see if her purse is still there. It’s not. But when I look up, I catch a flash of long, red hair and a shimmery black dress walking out of the restaurant. That, and the hostess is giving me a dirty look.

Shit. The photo-op at the end of the night. The one Coach told me was meant to reform my image of being an asshole to women. I snort at the irony of it all because this won’t be the first time the press calls me a dick. But it will be the first time it’s true. It won’t look great if the reporter shows up to snap a few pictures and get a few soundbites and my date isn’t even here.

“Excuse me,” I say to the woman leaning over to flash me her cleavage. Rising from my chair, I slide past the line of fawning admirers. I need to catch Isla before she can call an Uber or get in her car. Crap. What if she already has? The hostess glares at me as I race out the double doors.

Yeah, I know. Trust me. I hate myself, too.

I’m prepared to search for Isla and comb the surrounding blocks, but there’s no need. I nearly stumble into her back. She doesn’t turn when my footsteps slap against the pavement, so I take a moment to study her before making my presence known. She’s probably about to call her friends and tell them she wasted her money. How disappointing I am. That all her plans to land a rich hockey player were foiled.

Except she doesn’t do any of that.

My stomach roils when I notice her hand shaking as she holds her phone. Her chest rises and falls too quickly as she sucks in a shuddering breath.

Have I made her cry? Dammit. I have. Isla sniffles and uses the back of her hand to wipe her eyes.

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