Page 9 of Win Big

I remember kissing her throat... sliding my tongue over it, sucking gently on the thin skin there. I remember her moaning, her fingers in my hair... My dick thickens and my skin heats.

The air around us changes, pulsating. My heart picks up speed.

Our eyes are locked together.

“Can I tell you what takes place at the banquet?” she asks, her voice husky.

“I know.” My own voice is low and raspy too. I bend my head closer to her.

Heat shimmers between us. I study her mouth, so shiny and pretty.

“It’s not that bad,” she says. “You don’t even have to stay long. Just make an appearance.”

I close my eyes and let out a breath. “What time does it start?”

“Six. That’s the cocktail reception. The dinner starts at seven.”

I open my eyes. “I can’t be there at six.” I’m thinking. “Let me see what I can do.”

She nods slowly, her lips parted, showing a hint of teeth. I breathe in her scent... some kind of expensive spicy, sexy perfume. I inhaled the hell out of it the other night in my bed and now I want to bury my face in the side of her neck and breathe her in.

Her father is Bob Wynn. Owner of the team. The king of hockey.Jesus.

I take a step back. “I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. And more importantly, all the kids who are helped by our contributions will appreciate it.”

I yank open the door and step out. It swings shut behind me, which is a good thing, because Bergie and Jimmy are just passing by, walking down the corridor. They eyeball me.

“What the hell were you doing in there?” Jimmy asks.

“Nothing.” I join them in a brisk pace, praying that Everly doesn’t fling open the door and shoot out of there. “Going home for naps?”

“Yeah.”

Luckily Everly’s a smart cookie. We round the bend and head to the exit before she does that.

“See you later.” In the parking garage, I reach my vehicle first and hold my fob at the door to unlock it. “Later, dudes.” Jimmy waves and he and Bergie continue to their own cars.

Shit. I sit with my hands curved around the steering wheel for a moment. January eighteenth is Owen’s birthday. It’s a Friday night, and I offered to take Owen and nine of his closest friends to Monkey Biz, a big indoor playground. It’s already booked for six o’clock. There’s no way I can bail; Heather can’t handle ten five- and six-year-olds on her own. And I can’t let down Owen. Besides, I want to be there.

When I get home, I pick up the phone to call Heather. She’s at work; she’s a business analyst at a big healthcare company. Luckily, she’s at her desk and she answers.

After some chitchat, I tell her, “I’ve got a bit of a scheduling conflict the day of Owen’s birthday party.”

After a beat of silence, she says, “That’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I’m not canceling. I’m just wondering if we could possibly make it earlier that day. Like maybe five?” That’ll still make me late for the banquet and I’ll be driving like a freak through L.A. traffic to get from the playground to the arena, but it could work.

“I work till four,” she says. “That’s why we made it six, so I have time to pick him up from daycare.” She pauses. “Maybe I could get off a little early.”

“I can call Monkey Biz,” I offer. “To see if we can move it.”

“What if they can’t?”

I rub the back of my neck, wandering to the window that looks toward the ocean. “Well, I’ll figure something else out.”

“What’s the conflict? Hot date?”

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