Page 3 of Puck You Very Much

He didn’t react.

“Hi,” she said pleasantly, “I’m Lucy James. I’m new to the PR department.” She extended her hand and waited for him to shut off the treadmill or at least raise his own hand in greeting.

He did nothing of the sort. In fact, he didn’t even glance at her. Instead, he stared stubbornly at the treadmill’s display and continued jogging.

Irritated, she frowned, wondering what exactly his tactic was. She certainly wouldn’t leave simply because he was ignoring her.

Meanwhile, the silence between them was dragging on, making Lucy’s little finger twitch nervously. She cleared her throat again and said: “Oh, by the way, happy—”

“If you wish me a happy birthday, I’ll aim a puck straight at your head at the next game,” he interjected, his voice dark and raspy. “It’ll look like an accident. But you’ll know it wasn’t.”

Perplexed, she felt her eyes widen. “I… Wait,what?” She must have heard him wrong.

Yet Temple didn’t respond. He turned his gaze away again, set the treadmill up a notch, and quickened his pace. According to the display, he was now running an eight-minute mile without even losing his breath.

Lordy, when Lucy went faster than walking speed, drivers pulled over to ask if she needed an ambulance! But that was beside the point—the real issue was, had he really just threatened to hurt her? No, it must have been a joke. A type of humor that… honestly, she didn’t get. But okay. That happens. With some people, she just wasn’t on the same wavelength. No drama.

“Um, Mr. Temple, didn’t anyone tell you that someone from the PR department was expecting you in meeting room C?” she hazarded to say.

“Sure,” he answered shortly and scratched his chest.

“Oh. I just thought, because the room was empty… Did you lose track of the time?” She’d heard that happened to some people when they were working out or competing. She herself could not confirm that. She and sports weren’t on the same wavelength, either.

“No.”

“Oh,” she repeated, hating how stupid she sounded. But, good God, how else should she react? After all, it sounded like he’d missed the appointment on purpose.

“Mr. Temple,” she started again, trying to filter the impatience from her voice. “It doesn’t matter if you missed the appointment or not. Thank God I found you and we can discuss the press conference here.”

“Thank God,” he repeated woodenly, looking absent-mindedly at a spot on the floor. “I’m fairly certain that should beThank Matt,but whatever. I’m not going to question your faith.”

Automatically, Lucy followed Dax Temple’s gaze… and she paused. In front of the treadmill sat a fruit tart. A tart that looked like it had wandered into a dark alley in the wrong part of the city, because it had apparently fallen victim to some gang violence. Or, at least, to a fist.

Mouth agape, Lucy stared first at the smashed mess of cream, then at Temple. “Did you beat up that tart?” she asked, confused.

“No, of course not. That would be crazy. And I’m obviously not crazy,” he replied without batting an eyelash.

“Then why is there a fist mark in…”

“Jeez, lady,” he interrupted, annoyed. “Why are you still here?”

She swallowed and hugged the clipboard to her chest. “Like I said, I’m here to go over the press conference that’s in an hour—”

“Yeah, I’ve got ears, I know why you’re here! My question is why you don’t scram!”

“Because of the press conference,” she insisted, louder this time, since he was obviously having some problems with those ears. “We need to go over which topics you should avoid and which you should address in more detail. And besides, my name’s notLady.I’m Lucy James, PR assistant.”

He sighed heavily and, for what felt like the first time, looked at her directly. His eyes were blue, she noticed—ice blue. His gaze was so intense and dark that she almost stumbled back a step. However, hers were no shoes for stumbling in, unless she wanted to break an ankle, so she stood firm.

“Lucy James,” he repeated, drawing out the syllables as though letting her name melt on his tongue before deciding whether to swallow it whole. “Fine, Lucy James. Let me ask you a question: What do I have to do to make you leave me in peace?”

“Well, as I was saying,” she remarked in surprise. “I’m supposed to prepare for the upcoming press conference with you. I wanted to brief you on what you can and can’t say.”

“Can I say that you’re annoying?”

She laughed nervously. “No. I have a list here that says exactly what…”

“What I can and can’t say, I get it,” he interjected before scrutinizing her figure with narrowed eyes. “You’re repeating yourself. You’ve been saying the same thing for five minutes now. Should I call a doctor? Maybe you’re having a stroke.”

---