Page 122 of The Fine Line
And just like that, every bit of effort to pull myself together disappears.
Caroline is standing in my kitchen—ourkitchen—wearing a white satin cocktail dress that floats over her like it was stitched by moonlight. The neckline dips just enough to catch the eye—and to make me question why I never thought of collarbones as sexy before.
The fabric clings to her waist, then parts at her thigh in a slit that feels like an invitation—or a dare.
I grit my teeth.
No. Not now. Keep it together.
I force my gaze upward, to her face.
Her short, ice-blonde hair is curled in soft waves, one side pinned back with a silver clip dotted with pearls. Her eyelids shimmer faintly, catching the light like frost. Her cheeks and lips are dusted in the palest pink, like winter kissed her on the way out the door.
She’s glowing. Fucking radiant. A goddamn snow angel.
And all I want to do is melt into her.
“Are you okay?”
Her voice cuts through the haze.
I run a hand over my mouth, steadying myself.
“You look incredible.”
Three more words. Nowhere near enough.
She glances down. “Oh. Thank you.”
She may have stared straight into my soul that night on the plane, but since then, she’s barely looked at me. Like eye contact might break whatever walls she’s managed to rebuild between us in the last seven days. I don’t know if it’s her intention—but it feels like she’s punishing me.
I stay quiet, hoping she’ll look at me again. Hoping something will shift in those glassy blue eyes, and I’ll finally see what she’s not saying.
But instead, she fusses with her tiny white handbag, rearranging things that don’t need rearranging.
“Ready to go?” she asks.
“Whenever you are.”
After an almost entirely silent car ride—Caroline staring out the window, me playing through a whole period of hockey in my head just to keep myself in check—we pull up to the Texas Storm’s annual charity gala.
“Wait a sec,” I say as the valet moves to open our doors.
Caroline’s brows knit, but she pauses, letting me walk around the front of the Rover and offer her my hand.
The cameras flash the second she steps out. Her cheeks look a little pinker now than they did in the apartment—though it might just be the lights. Either way, she doesn’t let go of my hand.
“Nice touch, Sutton,” she mutters behind her photo-op smile.
We stay linked long enough to get inside.
The gala has always made for an interesting night. It’s basically a fancy party that donors and rich fans pay a small fortune to get into so that they can dress up, play socialite, and hang around with the Storm players for the night while they wine, dine, and throw money at a good cause.
All the other years I’ve been here, I just had to show up, smile for photos, schmooze, and let donors’ wives and daughters try to find out how bendable the “no touching” rule really was. It usually only took about five minutes before I had to start dodging numbers being dropped into my pocket—or my drink.
But this year’s different.
This year, I’m the team captain. The guy everyone’s looking for. And the most beautiful girl in the building is already going home with me. But something tells me that won’t stop others from trying.
