Page 22 of Icy Pucking Play

Cyn:You mean because you almost kissed him?

I glance around frantically, as if someone might be reading my texts over my shoulder.

Me:We did NOT almost kiss.

Cyn:Not what you said Saturday night after three glasses of wine.

Oh God. Saturday night. When I'd come home from golf and proceeded to tell Cynthia every excruciating detail while demolishing a bottle of cheap Merlot...

"And then," I had said, sprawled dramatically across our couch, "he did that thing where he stands really close to 'adjust my stance' but really he was just…"

"Being a hot hockey player who clearly wants to kiss you?"

"Cyn! He doesn't want to—I mean, we didn't—it wasn't like that!"

"So, you didn't almost kiss?"

"There was no almost kissing! There was just...intense eye contact. And maybe some heavy breathing. And possibly his hands on my waist. And okay, maybe his face got really close to mine, but…"

"But?"

"But then a golf cart went by and he jumped away like I'd burned him and things got weird and I ran away to hide in the bathroom like a coward and now he probably thinks I'm an idiot who can't play golf OR act professional and he's never going to approve the feature and I'm going to have to move to Antarctica and become a penguin researcher!"

"First of all," Cynthia had said, refilling my wine, "penguins are clearly more your speed than golf. Second, from what you're telling me, he's just as interested as you are."

"He is not! He's just...naturally helpful. And tall. And smells really good. And has these eyes that kind of crinkle at the corners when he's trying not to smile..." I had groaned into a throw pillow. "Oh God, I'm in so much trouble."

My phone buzzes again. This time it's a string of penguin emojis from Cynthia.

Me:I hate you.

Cyn:No you don't. Now stop moping and call him.

Me:Can't. In a meeting soon.

Which isn't technically a lie. I do have a meeting.

With Lexi. In approximately twenty minutes. Where I'll have to tell her that I completely blew our chance at the Ryland Daniels feature because I couldn't maintain boundaries with his stupidly attractive uncle. The one that basically controls his career at this point.

My phone buzzes again, but this time it's not Cynthia.

It's him.

My heart stops. Literally stops. I'm pretty sure I'm legally dead for at least three seconds before it starts beating again at approximately hummingbird speed.

"Incoming call: Evan Daniels", my phone helpfully displays, as if I don't have his name seared into my brain along with the memory of how he felt pressed against me during those golf "lessons”.

I nearly drop the phone twice before managing to answer.

"Hello?" My voice comes out embarrassingly squeaky.

"Sophie." Just my name, in that deep voice that absolutely does not make my knees weak. "Do you have a minute?"

"YES! I mean... yes. Sure. A minute. I have one of those."

Wow. Okay, girl, you need to calm the fuck down.

There's a pause, and I can almost see him swiping his hand through his hair the way he does when he's thinking. "About Saturday..."

---