Page 4 of Penalties and Proposals

A slow, irritatingly sexy grin begins to make its way across the obnoxiously handsome man’s face. I loathe him. I’m also hoping that any second now he’s going to realize who I am and shrink away with embarrassment.

He nods, pushing his hair back as he lets his eyes drop to the floor, almost as if he’s the one who is embarrassed. Good. No, GREAT. He knows now, he’s got to know it’s me. That’s right buddy, let’s hear that apology I know you must have been practicing.

“Well …” He pulls his eyes slowly to meet mine. I wait with literal bated breath to see what he’s going to do next. His hand slowly stretches out, closing the space between us as he steps closer to me. Is he going to try to hug me? Dance with me?

None of the above.

He keeps his hand at a ninety-degree angle and smiles so wide a dimple almost pops off his adorable plump cheek … and I begin to loathe myself now, too, for thinking anything about this man is remotely adorable.

“We should meet each other officially, then.” He looks at me expectantly, eyes bouncing to my hand and then back up again. Unsure of the game we’re playing, I thrust my hand out, going for a handshake, but it comes off like I’m about to slug him in the stomach, causing him to jump back.

“Oh, gosh,” I mutter, placing my hand firmly in his and giving his hand a pump. “Didn’t mean to freak you out. I’m the photographer.”

Noah laughs. “I’m the ice hockey player.”

When I cock my head to one side and stare at him, do I notice he’s still holding my hand? I do. His hand is rough and gritty compared to mine. And those calloused hands feel oddly nice.

“Do you have a name or should I just call you ‘photographer’?”

It takes me a second to get what he’s saying, probably because he’s pulling my life force out of me with his touch, but when I do I’m pretty sure it’s like in the cartoons when a lightbulb comes on over the dum-dum’s head.

“Willa.” Using my other hand, I pat my chest. “I’m Willa.”

“Willa.” He says my name as if he’s not said it before. As if we’ve never been introduced. Our hands still move up and down in a shaking motion, and it’s all a bit surreal. “Hi. Nice to meet you, Photographer Willa. I’m Noah.”

As we size one another up, or maybe it’s me doing the sizing, I’m a little surprised by the lack of recognition I’m getting. Then it hits me why he’s acting like he doesn’t know me.

I’ve changed.

My hair is longer than it was a few years back, and a completely different color. After wearing glasses forever, I got over my fear of touching my eyes (don’t laugh, the worry wasreal) and started wearing contacts, so the glasses are no more. Judging from the look in his eyes, I’m willing to bet that he actually has no idea it’s me. He could also have been so intoxicated when we met that I don’t register at all.

I’m not sure if I like the fact that I have one hundred percent anonymity in this situation or not, but considering how I was feeling earlier, this is going kind of smoothly. A temporary fix for now: just ignore the fact we know one another from a long time ago. Forget that he cost me a job and his team of people aided in sending me into a spiraling depression for a year, at a time when my mother needed me most because my father had passed away. Spare the thought that his publicist at the time tried to get me blacklisted from future work because of what Noah did, as if trying to silence me.

I whip my hand from his as the thoughts begin to do a country line dance in my head, startling Noah once again. Enough that he takes a step back.

“Whoa,” he says. “Sorry, Willa, didn’t mean to freak you out.”

Why do I have to get awkward when I feel uncomfortable? Why should I feel uncomfortable when he was the one who messed up that day? There’s an internal war as I tell myself to shove this down for now, look at this chance encounter as a positive.

Maybe the fact that we’re here, stuck in this town together for a month, and having to spend time together for his photos, I might just be able to talk to him and do something that’s not passive-aggressive. Speak my mind. I know it’s what most people would do.

However, at the end of the day, I’m a professional. With a job to do. We’re not gonna be weird here, and by we, I mean me. If an opportunity happens where I can say something, well, I need to have a little pep talk with myself ‘cause I’m gonna say it. I’ll say everything I ever wanted to.

“You didn’t freak me out,” I lie through my teeth, waving myhand in the air as if I casually act twitchy all the time. “I’m fresh from the airport, I’m tired, and I really want to check in and go to my room for a hot shower.”

Noah slowly nods, his eyes locked in on mine. It’s like a prison cell kind of lock, something hard to pick and get out of.

“Okay, Willa,” he all but purrs. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You, too,” I manage to say. Stepping away, I halt, spinning around. “Wait. I didn’t tell you why I was saying your name.”

“This is true,” he acknowledges, that sexy grin slowly making its way back. I want to wipe it off his good looking face.

“I’m withAthletic Edge, and they’re doing a feature on you. They called me and asked if I could take your photos since I’m here.”

“Okay, cool. Let’s make it happen.” He smiles, showing off an oddly perfect row of teeth for someone who plays ice hockey. I’m willing to bet a large number of those pearly whites are fake. “If you have a pen, I’ll jot my number down for you.”

Reaching into my bag, I pull out a pen and pad, handing it over to him. As I do, I watch as his gaze drops to the items and he catches sight of the tattoo peeking out under my cuff. There’s a flicker, a moment that passes as Noah stops and contemplates something, like having something tug on a sense memory. The muscles around his lips tense, and his brow furrows, showing me a tiny wrinkle in between in his eyebrows, before it relaxes. Then, he freezes, with his hand still outstretched.

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