Page 34 of A Little Tempting

As if he can read my thoughts, he smiles and settles back in his chair, giving me space to breathe.

“Okay, Dyl. Friday afternoon, it is.”

8

REEVES

I’m either an idiot or a fucking genius. Probably both. Checking the time on my phone, I wait for Dylan to arrive at the arena. She hasn’t texted me, which means I still don’t have her number, and I doubt it’s a careless mistake on her part. She doesn’t seem like a late person, though. I scan the parking lot again, searching for her, when I find Everett’s SUV slowing at the curb.

Of course, he brought her.

I would’ve offered to ride together since she doesn’t have a car, but I had to pick up one of my props for today’s shoot and figured she’d catch a ride with Griffin or something. Everett, though? I should’ve known he’d take one for the team and bring her. As she slips out of the passenger seat, she turns back, says something to Everett, shakes her head, and waves, closing the door behind her.

I climb out of my car at the same time and call out, “Hey, Dylan!”

When she sees me, she smiles, offering the same small wave she gave Everett.

“I’ll be right there,” I add, opening the back door. I bought my camera from a thrift shop a few months ago. It’s about ten years old, but after a quick Google session where I learned the gist of using a DSLR, I took some sample photos, and Dr. Broderick assured me it would do the job.

I still can’t believe a drunken game of Truth or Dare the night before fall semester enrollment, combined with a few botched credits during my freshman year, brought me to this moment. Sharing a class with the one and only Dylan Thorne.

What are the fucking odds?

People say you’re supposed to spend your freshman year figuring out what you want to do for your degree. Yet, here I am, a fucking senior, and the only thing I want in life is to play hockey. It makes bullshit things like a degree and what classes I should take feel so damn inconsequential at this point. I’m doing nothing more than passing the time until graduation. Or at least, it was my plan until Mav wound up with a heart condition, shattering his future in the NHL. Maybe my degree means something, after all.

I squeeze the camera bag in my grasp, letting the nylon strap dig into my palm before tossing it over my shoulder as I shove aside the reminder of exactly how screwed I’ll be if hockey doesn’t pan out. With one final glance at the hail-mary prop in my back seat, I close the door behind me, choosing to keep it hidden until we’re situated.

Everett hasn’t pulled away from the curb. Not surprising. His eyes follow me from the side mirror as I approach a waiting Dylan.

Yeah, yeah. I see you, Ev. Afraid I’m encroaching on your territory?

Giving him a smirk, I walk up to Dylan and smile down at her. “You look pretty.”

She tucks her white-blonde hair behind her ear and looks at the ground. “Uh, thank you. Shall we…get started?”

“Sure thing. Mind if I go first?” I lift my camera bag, and she nods.

“Yeah, sure. Might as well get it over with, right?”

“Don’t sound so excited, Thorne.”

“There’s the nickname again.”

“You know, I’ve been debating what else to call you.”

“Huh?”

“Since you don’t like Thorne and all,” I explain.

“Who says I need a nickname?”

Ignoring her question, I study her profile, loving the light shade of pink as it spreads across her cheeks from being smothered in my full attention. “I’m thinking…Pickles.”

Her head snaps to me. “Pickles? For a nickname?”

“Yeah, you know, Dyl? As in dill pickles?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

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