Page 26 of Ice Dance Hockey

“That’s what I said!” Jack bellows. His loud voice wakes the baby. “Shit.”

“And that’s our cue,” Logan says, grabbing my hand, dragging me out the door, and saving me from Mercy’s interrogation.

Chapter6

Rhett, the Gentleman

Logan

Idon’t want to be impressed by Rhett’s fancy car, but I am. Who doesn’t want to ride in a car that’s like a DeLorean but cooler? The red McLaren’s doors open upward with the press of a button. Even I can’t resist running my hand over the pearl-coated exterior. I know a lot about these cars, but I’ve never been this close to one. Wonder if he’d let me drive it?

“Does it really hit one hundred and eighty-six miles per hour in twelve point eight seconds?”

“Yep. I can show you sometime.”

“Right. Guess we’ll need more dates,” I say with air quotes around the word dates.

He can’t show off the speed of a fine machine like this one in the city, but it’s a smooth ride to one of the fanciest steakhouses in Vancouver, Hawksworth. He valets his car even though I’d never trust a stranger his age with the keys to my quarter-of-a-million-dollar vehicle. Guess if something happens to it, he can just get a newer and better model.

Holding his hand out for me, I’m confused for a second, but then I get it. Right. People watch him wherever he goes. He’s the mayor’s son and a super famous hockey player. It’s a wonder he doesn’t have bodyguards tagging after him, but I guess the bad guys and their bullets would simply bounce off Rhett’s massive chest.

But God. He’s a fine specimen in that navy blazer, cut to form-fit over his hockey physique. Thankfully, the sleeves are long enough to hide his bandaged forearm.

“It’s showtime. I’ll explain when we get inside. I think it’s better for you to experience life with an Elkington—more specifically me—blind for the first few minutes so you get it.”

“Thanks for asking me, asshole, but yeah that’s fine, I guess.” Is he always like this? What if I had major anxiety? Thankfully, it’s only mild anxiety and I can handle something like … whatever the fuck it is we’re about to do.

His face twists with confusion. He genuinely didn’t think about that. No wonder Jack’s his perfect partner. Jack exists to be on the thrilling side of life. He’s emboldened by social situations. Me? I have zero friends. You have to be nice and like people to have friends. Neither of those things applies to me.

Rhett’s worry that they’d give up his reservation is unfounded. They treat him like royalty from the moment he walks in. Phones are on us as soon as they recognize who’s just walked in, not-so-discreetly trying to film us. A few people come up to us and want autographs from my famous “boyfriend”.

“I’ll sign a few,” Rhett promises his adoring fans in a voice—one I’m now labeling his crowd-pleasing voice—he hasn’t used with me since the first day we met. “But I’m here to enjoy an evening with my boyfriend. I hope you can understand.”

Huh. Who knew Rhett was like this? He’s good to his fans, while not allowing it to overshadow time with his “boyfriend”. It could be an act for PR purposes, and at the end of the day that’s what this is—so that people will get the false idea he’s in a loving relationship—but I could see him being this conscientious with Jack.

This man is thoughtful in interesting ways. Not so much in others.

Then again, I’m imperfect in a lot of ways, too.

We’re shown to our table. It’s filled with seventeen kinds of cutlery and fine china. I’m handed a menu.

“I’ll have?—”

“Bring him a bottle of San Pellegrino and a side of lime as well,” Rhett interrupts. “I’ll have a nine-ounce glass of your Sandhill Merlot.”

“Coming right up, sir,” the server says and races off to do his bidding.

“What are you doing?” I hiss.

“I’d bet my hockey career you were going to order water, and you can’t just order water in a place like this. I can’t buy you alcohol, so we’ll have to spend money another way. I hope you’re hungry.”

I am. I’m always hungry. What I eat doesn’t reflect the constant, gnawing, hunger. “Not particularly, no. I had a late lunch.”

He eyes me. “Bullshit. What did you have for lunch?”

“None of your fucking business.”

He raises his brows and smiles. He’s up to something. I don’t bother asking because I know he won’t tell me.

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