Page 30 of Hat Trick

I nod, avoiding eye contact by staring at the twinkling lights above us. “He spent the first three months talking to my chest. Stereotypical, right? I’m sure it won’t be the last time I’m hired for the way I look and not for what skill sets I bring to the table. So, I sought to prove him wrong—to prove everyone wrong.” Wishing that I had my gloves, I skim my hands up my sides and clamp down on my opposite elbows, hoping to stay warm. “It only took me a few weeks to realize that nearly ninety-percent of our clients were men. Which meant that if I thought Walter was bad, there was a good chance that he’d be the least of my problems soonenough.”

Marshall circles me, his skates cutting in and out, crossing one over the other. His hands are tucked behind his head, gripping the back of his neck. He looks at ease, relaxed—if you don’t notice hisexpression.

Mouth pulled into a tight line, he turns his face to the other skaters. Even in the shadowy night, with only the twinkling lights in the tree limbs above us, I note the tick in his jaw and his hard swallow. “What’d you do? You’re obviously stillthere.”

Theh.

If possible, his accent is even stronger thannormal.

I reach out on his next pass by me, dropping my hand on hisarm.

I’m not nearly strong enough to stop him, and I end up trailing him just a little, coasting. My palm slips down his arm until our fingers glide against each other. He twists his palm and clasps myhand.

Oh.

I fix my gaze on our hands, wondering if he’ll let go, praying that hedoesn’t.

My heart is a wild stampede, a cacophony of words that don’t belong in a single breath but have merged into one:keepholdingon.

I lookup.

There’s a smile on his face that wasn’t there a momentago.

“You planned this,” I say, unable to stall the impressed awe in myvoice.

He leans in, pulling me closer so that our hands brush his hip. “You started it the moment you pretended to be clueless aboutskating.”

A girlish giggle escapes me. It sounds . . . Iwantto say that it sounds like the Old Gwen, that tinkling, awful laugh I used to give the men I wanted to sleep with. But it’s not—it can’t be. Because that other laugh was like nails on a chalkboard, even to my own ears, and this one is genuine, it’sreal.

Marshall ensuresthat.

He loops my hands around the back of his neck before releasing me to slip his palm over my shoulder, down my back, to just above my butt. We’re chest-to-chest, thighs-to-thighs, while we move intandem.

It’s foreplay with clotheson.

The equivalent of grinding on ice—I won’t lie, the atmosphere is a whole lot more romantic than a sweatynightclub.

“You’re slick, Hunt,” I murmur, though I make no move to pullaway.

“Slickandpretty,” he retorts playfully. “I’ll never let you forget it. Now finish the rest of yourstory.”

When I shrug this time, my breasts push against his chest and we both suck in a sharp breath. Is it possible to be both in hell and heaven at the same time?Focus, girl, you can doit.

I tilt my chin to the right, so I can watch the families skate around us as Marshall leads me effortlessly like we’re waltzing. “There’s not much more to tell, honestly. I wanted to be taken seriously in the office. So, I studied our clients and tried to learn what they did professionally. Hockey. Golf. I’ve sat in on local court cases and I’ve learned a little something about nudedrawings.”

“Don’t tell me you were the one who wasnude?”

At Marshall’s hopeful tone, I swat him in the chest with my free hand. My mouth opens to quip the old classic, “you wish,” when he snags my wrist and brings my hand to hismouth.

He kisses my knuckles, and my legs wobble in a way that has nothing to do with the ice and everything to do with this man in front ofme.

He kisses the beating pulse of my inner wrist, and I clutch his back, my nails biting into hissweater.

He slips my fingers into his hair, encouraging me to silently pull on the strands, and I feel my entire body quiver withlust.

“Marshall.”

His dark lashes flutter down, concealing his thoughts, and he’s so damn handsome—and, yes, pretty boy model-like—that I’m tempted to yank his head down and do away with his no-kissing rule. I want to taste him. I want to know if my imagination has anything at all on the reality of MarshallHunt.

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