Page 1 of Puck of the Irish

One

NAT

“I’d say gofor the salad fork.”

I tear my gaze up from the table to see Anthony Rizzo striding over. Star center for the Seattle Vipers hockey team, social media thirst-trap expert, and all-around playboy, he’s definitely not someone I thought I’d see here tonight. I blink in surprise but quirk a brow in question as he slides into the chair beside me. My other tablemates are all up schmoozing or dancing or throwing money around. I’m biding my time, hidden in the corner, until I can get the hell out of here.

“You looked like you were wondering which piece of cutlery you should use to gouge your eyes out. My vote is the salad fork,” he clarifies as he leans back to lounge casually in the chair, giving me one of those slow, slightly crooked smiles of his that melts the panties off of anyone within a six-block radius. He looks too handsome for his own good. I mean, healwaysdoes—six-foot-four, blonde hair, blue eyes, abs for days and pearly whites that would make a dentist cream his jeans—but damn if the man can’t wear the absolute hell out of a tux. I’ve seen himin suits before, of course. In fact, the first time I officially met the man he was in a suit for a social media photo shoot. I may or may not have done something incredibly embarrassing, but he thankfully didn’t notice and I’ve managed to act like a normal human since then. Well, mostly. I can’t be held responsible for what happens when Jell-o shots are involved.

“I would also suggest only gouging out one eye. Then you can have a patch. Ya know, do the whole sexy pirate thing.”

“I’m not sure that works for girls,” I point out.

“Oh you’d be surprised…” I snort, unable to help myself. He always makes me laugh, even when I’m in a shit mood.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, running my finger along the rim of my wine glass. He signals to a server for a drink, flashing her a winning smile when she delivers it and making the girl blush deeply. I’m not immune to his charms by any means, but we’ve managed to keep things friendly and professional since we met a couple of months back—we’re kind of coworkers in a sense, and that can get all kinds of messy and complicated. Not only that, but he’s a notorious one-and-done kind of guy, a new puck bunny on his arm every night, and while that’s completely fine with me since I’m not so sure I want a relationship right now anyway, I would admittedly just hate to be one among so many, just a name on a long, long,long, list.

So, we’ve flirted, I’ve fantasized, he’s eye-fucked, but that’s the extent of it. We’ve hung out plenty of times, our rowdy little group of a handful of players, my boss, Hattie, our other marketing colleague, Bobby, and myself (dubbing ourselves the Vipers Sin Bin) doing trivia nights and bar crawls and barbecues, and while there have been a fewalmostmoments between us, we’ve never crossed the line.

But fuck if I don’t want to steamroll right over it tonight. I don’t want to be here, I’ve already been given yet another lectureabout my life choices, I’ve had the perfect amount of wine, and Rizzo is lookingtoo. damn. good.

“I don’t strike you as the philanthropic type?” he asks, feigning hurt. I know he actually does a lot for local charities and Make-a-Wish, and is always one to volunteer for events at the arena. That’s the problem with Anthony Rizzo: on the surface, he’s just a classic fuckboy—but in reality, he isn’t one at all. Oh he gets laid six ways from Sunday by too many women to count, don’t get me wrong, but he isn’t actually a dickhead about it. He doesn’t act like a jerk, isn’t chauvinistic or gross, doesn’t lead girls on or make empty promises just to get some.

He's actually a really good guy.

Which makes him dangerous. It would be extremely easy to fall for Rizzo, and that would be probably the dumbest decision I’ve ever made in a string of very questionable ones.

“You don’t strike me as the attending galas for philanthropic causes type,” I clarify.

He shrugs. “I came as a favor to a friend. It’s for a good cause, the food is always top notch at a Harrington Foundation event, especially ones at the Celeste, there’s an open bar, and, most importantly, I look fuckingfantasticin a tux,” he says with a wink and I roll my eyes, but smile. “So, I figured why not. The bigger question is what areyoudoing here, Nat?” He still lounges casually, like he doesn’t have a care in the world, but he’s searching my face in that way he has that most people don’t notice. Rizzo sees far more than he lets on. He’s happy to play the dumb jock (though he actually graduated top of his class from Cornell), or the eye candy that doesn’t take much of anything seriously, but there’s much more to him. I hate that I’ve noticed it. I hate that it makes him all the more interesting. I hate that it makes me like him even more.

Liking Anthony Rizzo only leads to heartache and awkward days at the office. Not a good idea. A casual hookup, on the other hand…No. Still not a good idea, I remind myself.

“I came as a favor to a friend,” I say, repeating his answer. It’s sort of a version of the truth if you stand back and squint really hard.

He arches a brow. “Is that so?”

I take a long sip of my wine, giving him a challenging look. He’s tried to get into personal life questions in the past—not in a creepy or annoying way, just in a let’s-get-to-know-each-other-because-we-all-hang-out-and-my-best-friend-is-probably-in-love-with-your-best-friend way—but I haven’t given up much. My personal life is…complicated, so I prefer to keep it vague.

“Are you having a good time at least? You look amazing, by the way,” he adds, letting his gaze drift downward over my tight black gown, lingering a bit where the slit cuts high up on my thigh, before slowly skating back upwards over my chest and throat, and finally meeting my eyes. His baby blues dance with a sultry playfulness that makes my pulse race. One of thosealmostmoments is brewing, I can feel it, and right now, I don’t want to stop at almost.Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea…

“Thanks,” I say, trying not to sound breathless. “But I can’t say that I’m having a good time, no.”

“No?”

I shake my head. “These things are always a pain. A lot of money gets raised for great causes, so that part is good, but the rest of it is just tiresome. A bunch of rich people throwing around money and looking down their noses at everyone, comparing whose summer house in the Hamptons is bigger or who has the newest yacht.” His eyes narrow a bit.

“Do you make a habit of attending charity galas? Even though you apparently hate them?”

Shit. I take another sip of wine, trying to come up with an answer when I see Erin heading my way, a determined—and slightly terrified—look on her face. Double shit.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” I ask quickly. Rizzo’s brows go skyward and I roll my eyes. “Not like that, Thirst Trap,” I say and he huffs out a laugh at my nickname for him. “But do you want to grab a drink somewhere that’s…not here?”

“I suppose I can be persuaded to do that. I’m ready to get this bowtie off anyway,” he says, standing and offering me his hand. I grin and glance around.

“Here, this way.” I tug him into the shadows on the edge of the room and duck behind the stage to slip out of the side door. I’ve become a pro at sneaking out of these things without being noticed or stopped.

“Why do I get the feeling that was an escape of sorts?” he asks.

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