Page 19 of A Little Broken

My brows dip. “Excuse me?”

“The hair,” he explains.

Reaching up, I smooth out my messy hair and tuck it behind my ear.

Paxton’s smile stretches. “Sorry, Birthday Girl. Still sexy. Come on.” He climbs off the bike and sets our helmets on the seat. “My treat.”

“A burger and fries.” I clutch at my chest. “My hero.”

“Hey, if you’re nice, I’ll let you get a shake, too.”

“Let me,” I repeat with a scoff. “Clearly, you don’t know me very well.”

“Not yet.” He reaches for the restaurant’s door, holding it open for me. “But give me time.”

Yeah, not likely.

Pax could be a Greek god—and honestly, he’s competing pretty hard for the title-–and I’d still never see him again after tonight. It isn’t personal. It’s a rule I have. And I might hate rules more than just about anything. But this one? This one, I promised to keep until my last breath after I found out Archer had already taken his.

Don’t think about him.

There are two people in the restaurant and both are behind the counter. Their noses are glued to the young guy’s phone.

“Come on, come on, come on,” he mutters.

“Yes!” the girl squeals. “I told you Taylor’s more than a pretty face.”

“It was a lucky pass,” the guy argues. “Thorne basically handed the puck to Taylor, and the only reason he’s talented is because his dad used to play and?—”

“Whatever, I don’t want to hear your excuses. Just because my team is better than the Grizzlies doesn’t mean you need to pout, Carlos.”

I approach the counter and clear my throat.

Carlos shoves his phone into his apron. “Shit. Sorry. We were just watching the hockey game.”

“I gathered,” I reply blandly.

Not catching my drift, he asks, “You watch?”

I shake my head. “Not really.”

“I didn’t either,” the girl chimes in. “Not until a few years ago when a bunch of hotties started playing. Seriously.” She fans her face. “I don’t know how hockey seems to attract the most gorgeous men ever, but I highly suggest you look up Griffin Thorne or Oliver Reeves or my personal favorite, Everett Taylor. They are the creme de la creme of the male population. I’m not even—” The worker’s eyes land on Pax and she gulps. “Um. Uh. Can I take”—she clears her throat—“your order?”

Seems hockey players aren’t the only creme de la creme of the male population.

Stealing a quick peek of the sexy as sin man behind me, I order a bacon cheeseburger with fries. Pax asks for the same, adding two shakes—one chocolate and one vanilla—before leading me to one of the empty booths. We’re the only people here. Well, other than the workers who are back to drooling overmy family on the ice. If I was smart, I’d probably be a little on edge about the whole thing. After all, I don’t know Pax. Not really. But being impulsive and reckless is kind of my middle name, so I don’t really care. Besides, if Dodger trusts him, then I do, too.

I’m not sure if they recognized him or thought he had a particularly pretty face. The workers. They’re too distracted by the hockey game. They didn’t ask for a name when we paid, either, handing us a receipt with a number on it instead.

I peek up at Paxton again. I don’t know how I missed it in the alleyway. The confidence in the way he carries himself is unlike anything I’ve ever really seen. But it’s so…effortless. Like it has nothing to do with his rockstar title and everything to do with the man himself.

Who is this guy?

Minutes later, our order number is called and Pax returns with a tray littered with food. He sets it down and starts divvying up our orders but hesitates when the only things left are the two shakes.

“Is there a problem?”

“Chocolate or vanilla?” he asks.

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