Page 32 of Sin Bin

Over his shoulder, he flashes me one of his rare grins and then beckons me with his hands. “Give me your bag, Miss Italian, before you actually wipe out and I’m not quick enough tosaveyou.”

Oouut. He’s showing off his Canadian sideagain.

I don’t put up a fuss and hand him my purse. Without thinking twice, he lifts the strap over his shoulder and continues to march down W. 57thAvenue, like he totally isn’t rocking a hot pink, fauxleatherbag.

I trail after him, attempting to lift my feet in a way that doesn’t send spikes of pain shooting through the sole of my foot each time the heel of my stiletto meets concrete. “Aren’t hockey players supposed to have quick hands?” I call outtohim.

Andre turns around, his arms spreading wide in athis-is-what-you-getpose. “Zo, we both know that I have quickhands.”

That he does. Coming from a place of personal experience, I can totally attest to the fact that Andre does, in fact, have quickhands.

Thankfully, he takes pity on me and my lack of physical strength by doubling back and taking hold of my arm. I spend the last three blocks cursing high-heeled shoes, hockey players, and my own ambition to reclaim my position as a respected public relationscoordinator.

We draw to a stop just inside the rotating glass doors of our final stop. I’m panting, totally out of shape, while Andre only looks like he’s been out for a stroll. It’s tremendouslyunfair.

One glance at my reflection in the mirror behind the front receptionist’s desk, and . . . Oh. My. God. I look wild.Absolutelywild.

Andsweaty.

I feel my humiliation seep from my body and splatter on thefloor.

“Can I help you?” the woman at the desk asks politely when we approach her. She cuts me a glance, and there’s no way that I miss her brows lifting inhorror.

I’m a sight to be had. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her to stop judging me, but Andrecutsin.

“We’re a few minutes late for an appointment with the editor forFamemagazine.” He casually slings my hot-pink purse to his other arm and extends his hand. “Andre Beaumont,” he greets in the most pleasant voice I’ve ever heard from him. “We had some unfortunate issues withparking.”

The woman’s expression turns starstruck at Andre’s introduction. “It’s . . . uh, we don’t really have parking here in New York City. It’s sort of athing.”

Andre presses a palm to the lip of the desk and leans forward. “Mhmm, we realized that a bit too late. Unfortunately, we’ve just driven in from Boston, and since it took longer thanexpected. . . ”

“Oh!” She visibly jumps in her seat. “You want to goupstairs.”

“That’dbenice.”

This from Andre, who has quite literally ditched his moodiness forflirtation.

The receptionist’s brown eyes land on me. “Are you hissister?”

Andre lets out a choking noisebesideme.

Maybe it’s because I’m tired. Maybe it’s because I look a fright, and I’m finally coming to accept that my dream of being respected is slipping away again. Maybe it’s because of five other million things that I refuse to think about, but I slip my hand over Andre’s arm and murmur, “I’d hope not! You don’t kiss yoursisters.”

The arm under my hand stiffens, signaling Andre’s surprise. When he tries to pull away, I clutch tighter, refusing to let him go, and widen my smile to scary proportions. “Honey,” I say sweetly, “shouldn’t we be headingupstairs?”

He responds with silence, and I risk a peek up at his face. Oh man. He isnotpleased.

In a voice that’s tightly leashed, he growls, “Absolutely.Honey.”

I pat his hand and turn back to the receptionist. “What floor doweneed?”

Her gaze darts between Andre and I. “Um, the twenty-sixth.”

“Brilliant.” I give a little finger-wave and tug Andrealong.

Each step toward the elevator echoes loudly in the marble-floored lobby. The heels of my stilettos puncture the tile, but it’s Andre’s personal vibration that’s off thecharts.

We wait side by side for the elevator to descend to the lobby level. I glance at his reflection in the mirrored doors. A pulse ticks to life in his jaw. With his free hand, he tugs at his leftearlobe.

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