Page 4 of Hat Trick

God, it’s so much fun to tease her. After the shit day I’ve had so far, it feels like I’ve suddenly won the lottery I never even entered. Ducking my chin against her ear, I murmur, “I’m sorry, did I issue you an invitation to play mygames?”

I hear her teeth clack together. “We’relate.”

“What’s another five minutes? I’m sure Zoe and Beaumont will be ecstatic when they see us walk intogether.”

“We’renotwalking intogether.”

“What? Embarrassed to be seen with me?” There’s always time for a first. I’ve gained a bit of a reputation over the last few years for only dating supermodels. I’m not going to deny it—the rumors are true. But what can I say? Supermodels work a chaotic schedule just like I do. There aren’t hurt feelings when I’m on the road for a week, and I definitely don’t get my briefs in a twist when a photoshoot or runway show has them taking the red-eye toParis.

They live their lives, I livemine.

When, and if, we’re in the same place at the same time, we hookup.

It’s a win-winsituation.

There’s only been one woman I’d ever consider changing my ways for, and it’s the one currently trying to escapeme.

So much for a romantic stroll through the gentlesnowfall.

With a sigh, I lift my arm and she doesn’t waste her opportunity. Her fuck-me heels sink into the ice, puncturing the frozen water the same way she takes on her adversaries. Quickly, without a singleregret.

Screw it—I’mnot wasting my first opportunity to be alone with her in years. I catch up to her in two strides and we cross the street together. “I know why I’m late,” I murmur, “but what’s yourdeal?”

Her lashes sweep down, and I’m not sure if she’s trying to watch her step or avoid making eye contact. “I . . .” She blows out a deep breath. “I don’t want to talk about it,Marshall.”

She neverhas.

In her eyes, I’ve always been the too-charming, too-young jock. And, yeah, she’d be right about that. But unlike what most people think, I do have a brain rattling around in my skull—a surprise, I know. Concussions from playing hockey or not, I’m not ameathead.

Just like how I know she’s always been more than what she shows off to the world: standoffish and ice-cold.

I shove my hands into the pockets of my slacks. “Anything that I can do tohelp?”

That stopsher.

Her stride pauses, just as she’s reaching for the wrought-iron railing to Cheers’s front stoop. “Why would you want to dothat?”

Cocking my head to the side, I say, “Definitely doesn’t have anything to do with your prickly attitude, that’s forsure.”

She snorts, and then takes the stairs. “I preferfeisty.”

Unable to help myself, my hand goes to her back. Just to make sure she doesn’t fall. Safety and all that. “Feisty? Is that so? In some circles, they might even go so far as to throw out the word ‘bitchy.’ Not thatI’mcalling you that, ofcourse.”

Her shoulders twitch under her trench coat. “Ofcourse.”

I grip the door handle and pull it open for her to step through first. Heat blasts my face, reminding me that even as a professional hockey player, five-degrees Fahrenheit feels like my own slice of hell. As warmth returns to my bare fingers, I tell her, “I’d be willing to lend an ear, if you wanted—for aprice.”

Blue eyes flick up to my face, and for a moment, I’m convinced that the impenetrable Gwen James is going to break into a smile. But then she just shakes her head, purses her lips against happiness, and quips, “I know your price, Marshall, and I’m not interested in being shackled and chained to your basementwalls.”

Fuck, but she’s witty when she wants to be. I chuckle softly, enjoying her subtle teasing, and step to the side as an attendant offers to take Gwen’s jacket. “You’ve heard the stories,huh?”

“Every singleone.”

“And?” I prompt as she slips the coat off her shoulders. “Feelin’ a little turnedon?”

The coat is whisked away and, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I die. Right then and there, I’m fucking dead. Because Gwen James has always been unbelievably gorgeous to me, even in the jeans and university sweatshirts she once wore to class because she couldn’t be bothered to doll herself up for two hours of hell onearth.

But right now . . . I take her in,allof her, not bothering at all to hide my once-over. It’s a game we’ve played for years, and even if it hadn’t been, I doubt I could hide my appreciation. In theory, her red dress should clash with her red hair. Itdoesn’t.

---