Page 65 of The Puck Stops Here

‘Make sure you do.’

She wanted to fist bump the air and shove it through her chest in one. The conflict, a total mind-fuck. Good vs bad. Karma vs article. Who the real man was.

She waited for him to leave then quit the recording on her phone and raced to the rest room, cursing when she saw the state of herself in the mirror.

Red cheeks. Eyes overbright. Hair already in disarray. As for her jeans… she looked like she’d wet herself. No, no, no.

Blake was going to show up any minute and… this!

Desperate, she spun on the spot. Spied the hand drier. Thank heavens for small mercies. Shrugging out of her suit jacket, she hooked it on the open door and propped her leg up on the vanity unit. If she could just tilt her hips high enough to activate the blower, she could… nope! The damn thing wouldn’t respond.

She thrust higher. Nothing. Fanned her hand beneath the sensors. Power at last. Thank the?—

‘Need a hand with that?’

She froze mid-thrust.Oh good God, no!

‘I’ve heard of a shower head offering up the perfect stimulation, but a hand drier?’

She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Blake…’

It came out like a curse uttered between her teeth but the only person she was truly cursing was her Twinkle Toe self.

10

It had to be the oddest sight Blake had ever seen.

Andthe most evocative.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or…

No, he shut that thought down before it could take hold, because those hips, that ass, those curves –dammit, the damage was done.

She dropped her foot to the floor and spun to face him. ‘I was – I didn’t – it was… Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ She threw her hands out, eyes wild, hair askew. ‘I spilled my water. I was just drying off my jeans. I wasn’t doing whatever you’re suggesting!’

He had to grit his teeth against the almighty laugh that wanted to erupt along with the words,More’s the pity.

‘Whatever you say, Twinkle Toes. I’ll be right out here when you’re done.’

Because everything he wanted to do would only make her wetter… and he needed to ditch those thoughts, stat!

He strode up to the glass, putting as much distance between them as possible, and focused on the Zamboni gliding across the ice. Its steady back-and-forth hypnotic as Luke, the caretaker, erased all trace of their training, leaving behind a surface so pristine it practically dared him to lace up and carve right through it.

‘Drink?’

He turned to find her at the bar. Jeans now dry, sleeves rolled up, her glossy dark hair pulled back, save for one stray curl that seemed forever on the loose. He wondered if it had a mind of its own or whether she left it free to tease… a taunt his fingers were more than happy to respond to as they tingled within his fists.

He’d never met a woman capable of evoking such a reaction by look alone.

And today’s choice of clothing – the white shirt, the chequered waistcoat, the jeans and trainers – did it for him big time. Had that been her plan all along? Had the skirt and heels failed another of her tests and she was mixing it up? Aiming to seduce the man, win the story…

Had his brother liked it too?

He’d bet his life he had.

‘Blake?’ She swept the curl behind her ear. ‘It’s going to be difficult to interview you if you’ve stopped talking to me altogether.’

He thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘I’ll take a beer.’

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