Page 11 of In My Hockey Era
“And if I like it?”
His grin sharpens.“Then you owe me a drink.”
I stare at him.“That’s the dumbest bet I’ve ever heard.”
“Yet you haven’t said no.”
My mouth snaps shut.He’s baiting me.And worse, Iwantto take it, just to prove a point.
Vivian, sensing victory, slides a book across the table.“I took the liberty of picking a good one for you.”
I glance down.The cover is all abs and swoony typography.
I don’t even have to crack the book open to know I’ll hate it.There’s probably not one lick of substance in the whole thing.Bor-ing.
My gaze flicks back to Bennett, who’s watching me like he already knows I’m going to cave.I hate that it makes my pulse do something stupid.
I grab the book.“Fine.One book.One meeting.And when I hate it, I expect you to publicly admit this entire PR stunt is a joke.”
His grin is all confidence.“Deal.”
I hate him.I hate how smug he is.I hate that he’sprobablyright.
And I really, really hate that part of me is looking forward to proving him wrong.
• • •
Two days later, I stomp into the breakroom, and toss my bag onto the counter with way more force than necessary.
Ethan looks up from where he’s stirring sugar into his coffee, one eyebrow lifting.“Well,somebody’sin a mood.”
I ignore him, yanking open the fridge and grabbing a water bottle.I twist the cap, take a long gulp, and try to drown out the memory ofBennett freaking Wildersitting across from me, looking all smug and huge and—ugh.
Ethan leans a hip against the counter, watching me like he’s waiting for me to explode.“So… how’d your big secret meeting go?”
I groan, dragging a hand down my face.“It was aset-up.”
His brows shoot up.“What, like amobset-up?Aromanticset-up?A—”
“A PR set-up,” I cut in, glaring.“They ambushed me with Bennett Wilder.”
I swear, my head’s still spinning…
He whistles, clearly entertained.“Damn.And you survived?Thought you hated that guy.”
“I don’thatehim,” I mutter.
Ethan smirks, because we both know that’s a lie.Or, at least, Ithoughtit was true until I met him and my body decided to betray me by noticing things it had no business noticing.
Like his eyes—they’re a deep, endless blue fringed in dark, enviable lashes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles—which he does often.The kind of eyes that make it impossible to tell if he’s actually being sincere or just enjoys riling me up.And how his grin was all cocky and playful, with a hint of a dimple.And when he smirks?Infuriating.
Ihateall of it.Clearly.Not attractiveat all.Nope.
“Lemme guess,” he says, tapping his chin.“He was all ‘Lucy Quinn, I’ve heard so much about you’ in that annoyingly charming way of his?”
I freeze mid-sip.“Basically, but how’d you—”
“Because you’re predictable,” he interrupts.“Iknewyou’d get all flustered the second you met him.”
