Page 40 of Power Play

“No darts?”

“I trust you to play fair.”

I have no idea what game we’re actually playing, or if we’re even playing one anymore.

Duke leads me around another couple, and then another and another, until we’re flirting with the perimeter of the dance floor. Victorian-replica wallpaper lines the walls, and every so often a gold sconce is featured with a real candle—because the Omni Parker House is nothing if not authentically historic. The tables have been moved out of the way to make room for more dancers, aside from a large one at the opposite end of the room, where the donation table sits like a beacon of goodwill.

Unfortunately, my wallet isn’t big enough for more than a single check. I’m blaming Josh for that, seeing as how he’s already on my shit list.

“Why did you flinch when we walked through the front doors?”

His question catches me by surprise, and I don’t manage to restrain the second jerk of my shoulders. He notices this one, too, and rubs his hands up and down my back in comfort.

His touch both soothes and arouses me, damn him.

“My senior year prom was here,” I tell him quickly, like I’m tearing off a bandage from a festering wound.

“Had a good time?”

“My date decided that he’d rather spend some quality time with his best friend, Joe. Naked, in the restroom.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“So, you . . . Did what for the rest of the dance?”

“Ate food, mostly.” Pretended that I’d meant to go stag to prom the entire time. As that thought slides into fruition, another one follows on its heels: was prom all that important in the first place? It felt that way years ago, when my back and the walls of this ballroom became best buddies, but now that I think about it . . . I wasn’t all that interested in Jason. It was the sting of rejection that had hurt a lot more than a truly broken heart. “I hung out with my friends, those who weren’t shackled up for the night, anyway. Nearly demolished the entire tray of éclairs.”

“What color was your dress?”

I lift my brow, mouth pursing as I look up at his handsome face. NowthatI remember—for weeks, I’d stalked the local boutiques, waiting for the right dress to land on a sale. While Jenny had picked out her dress months in advance—read: Miss Punctuality Herself—I’d handed over my saved cash the weekend before prom. The dress had been sparkly and beautiful and . . . “Red.”

“Like the Red Wings jersey.”

Groaning, I drop my forehead to his chest. “You aren’t going to let me live that down, are you?”

“No. Your turn for a question.”

“How kind of you.”

Although I’m not looking at him, I can hear the grin in his voice when he says, “I try—sometimes. When I’m not too busy showing my dick.” He lets that sink in for a moment, giving me time to recall our earlier conversation, and I give a snort of laughter. “Go ahead, ask me something. Whatever you want.”

I don’t even give myself time to think on it. “What’s your biggest regret?”

“My biggest regret?”

“Yes.”

I feel his intake of breath, just before his breath rustles my hair. “Not kissing you.”

Now it’s my turn to breathe deeply. He’s killing me. I swear to God, Duke Harrison is the biggest tease on earth. He may have women running loops around him. He may have not one buttwoStanley Cups under his belt. He may have been the model for aGot Milk?ad however many years ago.

But when it comes down to making a move with me, the NHL’s most popular goalie is tip-toing around the line separating business from pleasure.

“Duke?”

“Yes, Charlie?”

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