Page 37 of Puck Prince

Of course. They weren’t taking pictures of me. My pride is a teensy bit bruised, but I won’t complain.

He’s no doubt swooping out to rescue his maybe-wife, maybe-hookup from the papz. But then, no. Owen marches right past the woman and the baby, not even bothering to look at them, and heads straight for me.

The last fifteen minutes has been the emotional equivalent of the spinning teacup ride, so all I’m capable of doing is standing and watching his approach. And it’s a good approach.

Sunlit, chiseled jaw. Sculpted legs. It doesn’t help that I know what those legs feel like under my hands—and in other, less work appropriate places. He wasn’t wrong last week: I started massaging his calf, but couldn’t quite bring myself to stop there.

Just like I can’t bring myself to look away from him now.

Horniness has got to be yet another symptom of carrying this man’s spawn.

Our baby is going to be an absolute beauty.

That thought is still clanging around inside my head, loud enough I’m sure Owen can hear it when he wraps his arm around me and yanks me close to him.

God, does this man ever not smell like cinnamon and sex? It’s intoxicating. And infuriating.

Lost in the moment and a little dizzy from the mix of hormones and how hard his body feels against mine, I don’t even fight him as he pulls me into the building. I glance back over my shoulder, looking for the woman and baby.

But they’re nowhere to be found.

As soon as we are inside and out of sight, Owen drops me like I’m hot. Running his hands through his hair, he checks to make sure the photographer is plodding away down the sidewalk before he lets out a breath.

I am slightly less relieved.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” I demand.

His eyes drop to me. “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, ‘what do you mean’? You just ambushed and manhandled me in front of the paparazzi. That’s exactly the kind of shit that’s going to get people talking! I thought we were going to be more careful.”

Too late for that.

“Oh, gee, I’m so sorry I saved you out there,” he drawls sarcastically.

“Saved me? From what?”

He lowers his voice a little, looking around and stepping closer. “Look, I’m trying to make this easier, but you insist on being difficult,all the damn time.I am doing you a favor because you—we—are being targeted by the press.”

“Wedon’t even know each other, remember? That was the deal.Wehave nothing in common.”

Except a fetus, but that’s a horrifying truth to be examined at another, much later time.

“And I don’t think dragging me into your apartment building is going to help keep the press away. You made it look like we were up to something!”

Again, too late for that.

“I didn’t—” Owen lets out an exhausted laugh. “I had no choice.”

“What are you even talking about?”

“When is this gonna end?” he groans, seemingly to the universe because it takes a few beats before he finally looks at me. “You live next door; you work at the arena. I’m trying to stay out of the public eye here?”

“You’re a hockey player, Owen. You’ll never be out of the public eye.”

He just shakes his head. “You know what? Just forget it. It won’t happen again. We don’t know each other.”

With that, he walks off, and I am left standing in the lobby, confused and nauseated. “Great.”

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