Page 38 of Pucking Sweet

Heart racing, I lift a hand, placing it over his on my cheek. “I don’t date my players,” I say, my tone solemn. “Colton, I’m so sorry. It’s my one rule.”

He just smiles, his thumb brushing my cheek. “I’m not asking to date you. I’m just letting you know that you need to be kissed more often, and I’m willing to be the man to do it.” He drops his hand away from me, leaving me reeling. “Any time of the day or night. You need kissing? You come to me. Understand?”

Somehow, I find myself nodding, my hands settling back on the armrests.

The seatbelt sign dings, and he immediately unbuckles. “Not to force an early end to this moment, but I really did come back here to use the lavatory. And I need to get back to my seat for when they serve dinner. But you just remember what I said, okay?”

Which part? The part where he called me intoxicating? The part where he admitted he pressed his hard dick against me in my kitchen? Or the part where he said I need to be kissed every day and he wants to be the man to do it?

All of it.I’m going to remember everything he just said. I’ll be adding it to the ever-lengthening list of reasons why Colton Morrow is my dreamboat. This man I can’t let myself have is quickly becoming the only thing I think about.

And I teased Lukas earlier about living in the land of delusion?

Gazing up at Colton, I just nod again.

“Have a good night, Poppy.” He moves away down the aisle, leaving me clutching the armrests for a reason we both know has nothing to do with my fear of flying.

14

Somehow, I survive two weeks on the road without any major public relations disasters from the players or staff. The guys have all been perfect gentlemen, using their time off the ice to try various coffee shops and restaurants.

It turns out Jake Compton is a social media gold mine. He meticulously documents almost every meal he eats. He even managed to snag a few shots of Caleb Sanford looking like the surly eye candy he is.

I’m pleased to say he seems to be keeping Lukas out of trouble too. The men dine together most nights, along with Colton and Jean-Luc. So long as the most seductive photos they post are of the soy sauce dripping from their sushi rolls, I’m a happy PR director.

Honestly, for most of this trip, the team and I have felt like two ships passing in the night. I’ve attended all the games, making some good inroads on future endorsement deals, but I’ve also been hard at work in each of the cities, attending various meetings and charity events.

Mark Talbot has a vision for his philanthropy beyond what he can accomplish with the Rays. It’s my hope that as the charity end of things grows, I might transition away from PR and into more of a philanthropic foundation role. But I have to prove myself first. Mark isn’t going to trust me with his legacy if he can’t trust me to handle basic PR for his hockey team.

At the moment, public relations and philanthropy are the furthest things from my mind, because I’m sitting in the back of a cab, heading over to The Hay-Adams hotel for my obligatory family lunch. Standing a literal stone’s throw from the front steps of the White House, the hotel boasts of having one of the swankiest restaurants in the capital, The Lafayette.

My dad is Hank St. James. In this town, they call him “The Kingmaker.” He’s deep in the pocket of virtually every lobbying group and politician in town. He’s the kind of man-in-the-shadows who can say, “Get me the president on the phone,” and a secretary will actually call the sitting president. He often takes working lunches at this hotel with power-hungry senators and bored billionaires.

By extension, my mom sees herself as a modern-day Jackie Kennedy. She’s tried to raise us girls to be just the same. Behind every powerful politician, there’s a good woman in pearls ready to help him shine. She attends weekly afternoon tea here at The Hay-Adams with her society friends.

My phone buzzes in my hand. I glance down to see a new message from a number I don’t have saved:

UNKNOWN: Did you get my contracts?

POPPY: Who is this?

I smile, watching the three little dots dance at the bottom of my screen. Yes, Lukas sent me a fresh batch of contracts on Sunday night. I have to hand it to him, he’s getting more inventive. This time, he had a ménage à trois with Marie Antoinette and Miss Piggy—both of whom are alsowayout of his league.

Despite my better judgment, I save his number in my phone.

LUKAS: Are you asking me for nudes, Poppy? A bit forward don’t you think?

I laugh, typing back a response.

POPPY: Is that the only way women can recognize you? Probably because there’s not much happening in the face department, right?

LUKAS: Ouch. Your wounding words always cut the deepest.

POPPY: Walk it off, Lukas. And lose this number. I never gave it to you.

There’s a bit of a delay before his answer buzzes in my hand.

LUKAS: Seriously? I could be having a PR crisis right now. I could be in jail, Poppy. Don’t you want me to have a way to contact you if I land myself in jail in a foreign country?

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