Page 43 of Conrad

Hidden treasure. She shook her head and dropped her phone on the seat, scrubbed her hands down her face.

“Did you get a bodyguard?”

Conrad, back in her head.

And yes, maybe she should call Franco, the personal security her father usually assigned to her when they had public events. But she didn’t love being watched.

Followed.

But maybe Conrad was right, so she’d activated her home security system for the first time in months.

She didn’t need a bodyguard.

What she needed was answers.

Her phone buzzed and she picked it up, checking her watch. Conrad was officially ten minutes late.

Clarice.She swiped the call on. “What’s going on?”

“It’s working. You officially got four thousand new followers with that pizza post.”

“That wasn’t mine. Someone else took the shot?—”

“And tagged you, I know. I had my assistant reformat it, add some sparkles and hearts, and repost it on a phantom account.”

Oh brother. “Listen?—”

“When’s your next date?”

The man drove up, parked next to her in his Charger.

“Now, actually. We’re getting sports equipment for the team.”

“That’s not a date.”

“It’s totally a date. He called it a date.”

“Really? Good. I wasn’t sure he was on board—I talked with Felicity, who said she’d talk to him, so . . . okay then. I suppose it could be cute. Take pictures.”

Conrad had gotten out, leaned down, and knocked on her window. She waved to him. It wasn’t a date—not really. But it didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate those blue eyes, something warm in them as he smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.

He was too easy to like, the way he sent a warm hum through her.

“Fine.” She hung up, then dropped her phone in her bag and got out. “Hey.”

He wore jeans and work boots, a wool jacket, and a tuque. His dusty-blond hair curled out of the back, and he smelled a little like sawdust.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Jack roped me into helping him put down new flooring in his bus.” He walked to the warehouse door and rang a bell at the back entrance.

“He got a new bus?”

“Yeah. Gutted it and is remodeling it. He has a vision for it I can’t yet see, but I trust him.”

The door opened, and a middle-aged man, dark hair, greeted Conrad with a handshake.

“Hey, Grant. Did you get my request?”

They walked into the back room, a space filled with racks and racks of equipment, from helmets, gloves, padding, breezers, sticks, and skates to protective gear, picks, goalie gear, and boxes and boxes of unbranded jerseys.

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