Page 8 of Puck Prince

But I can’t do that with him. I don’t even know him.

Except, I kind of do.

Men likehimare why my life is a mess. And I can’t get caught up in this, with someone like this, ever again.

Last time hurt too bad.

But I also can’t walk away. In the literal sense because of locks and the law of gravity, but also in the figurative sense.

I was speaking from experience when I said he could dole out lazy smiles and catch women like flies. I’m caught. Whether it’s that smile or his laugh or the way I might actually take a bite of this blanket it smells so good, he’s got me hooked.

“How about… you ask me questions, and I decide whether or not I want to answer?”

That makes him smirk. “A game. I like it.” His hands steeple as he thinks. “Where are you from, Callie?”

“Nearby.” It’s a meager breadcrumb, at best, but hey—I never said it was going to be a fair game.

But he runs with it. “Texas girl, I love it. And what do you do?”

“I help people.”

“This is like pulling teeth.”

“I help people… do their jobs better.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Queen of Vagueness.” He hops up, bracing against the balcony railing again. His muscles flexing… again. I don’t hate it. He’s got his sleeves pushed up to his elbows like some kind of forearm foreplay, and unfortunately, I am an absolute sucker for that sort of thing.

“What about you?” I flip it around. “What do you do besides watch hockey in a dirty jersey?”

“I play it, on occasion.”

“Sunday night beer league MVP?”

He chuckles. “Something like that.”

“I see.” I nod. “Your mother must be proud.”

He must sense the sarcasm, not that I went to any great lengths to hide it. “You don’t like hockey?”

How exactly do I answer that? Without, you know,answeringthat. “I don’t… mind hockey.”

“Ah. You don’t like hockeyplayers.” He sits back down, but it’s an amused sit. A cocky sit.

“I don’t have a problem with hockey players in general.”

He narrows his eyes again. The way it darkens them all while furrowing his brow is enough to make me bite my lips together. Then he points at me. “You have a history with hockey players.”

Mayday, mayday!He is getting dangerously close to being… dangerously close.

The universe must have empathy, or a sense of humor, because the sky lights up before letting out an extremely melodramatic peal of thunder. “Alright, you win,” I tell him.

“Win what?”

I stand up, tuck the loose flap of the blanket around me to form a quasi-toga, and then grab the railing on my side. “You ready?”

“For what?”

“To put those pretty muscles of yours to good use and help me onto your side without me plummeting to my death. Preferably before one or both of us gets struck by lightning.”

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