Page 2 of The Pucker and the Princess
But this summer, I barely even touched a basketball, too bummed over another failure, another relationship that I thought was real—or at least had the possibility of being real—only to find out that I was getting scammed yet again.
What is it about me that attracts those types of women? Why can’t I find a nice woman who likes me for who I am? Who sees my tendency to attach quickly and strongly as a strength instead of a weakness to be exploited for their own social and financial gain?
Nick got lucky, finding that in Tina before he made it big. They’ve been together since college. He knew he was going places even then, though he waited to enter the NHL draft until he was twenty, managing to keep playing for Boston and finish his degree before getting called up to The Show.
Maybe I’m destined to end up more like Troy Easton. He didn’t meet anyone he could be serious about until after he retired. Of course it wasrightafter, but maybe without the prospect of continued fame, the wrong kind of women weed themselves out?
I can see that being true.
My mind slips back to the gorgeous woman moving into my building. What’s her deal? How is she affording to live here? She looks young. Maybe her parents are footing the bill? Or a sugar daddy?
Who cares? I shouldn’t. I’m supposed to be focusing on myself, on hockey, on staying at my best. I’m on the wrong side of thirty now, and while guys like Abernathy keep going longer, the clock is ticking on how much time I have left in the NHL. A body can only take on so much abuse, and at thirty-three, I’m already starting to feel my age.
It wasn’t the magical 3-0 that did it, surprisingly. Those milestone birthdays kinda mess with your head, but once it passed, I didn’t feel any different.
It was last season when I really started feeling my age. They called up one of the guys from my old junior hockey team. He was so young and puppyish, trying to play pranks on everyone—though I got him back for his most egregious offenses and put him in his place. But he wasn’t even old enough to play in the junior levels by the time I entered the draft.
It just made me feel ancient, even though I’m as fit as ever.
At the end of my run, I walk the last few blocks, going ever more slowly, hoping that the new neighbor and her moving truck will be gone.
No such luck, though. They’re still here, the front door propped open while the movers bring furniture inside.
I grunt at the sight, irrationally irritated—because of course they have to prop the door open to move furniture in. My movers did the same thing when I moved in. It’s happened plenty of times over the last few years I’ve lived here.
But with Jenny managing to sneak in a few times since I kicked her out, I don’t like the idea of the building just being open like this.
Stopping, I stand with my hands on my hips, watching the activity.
Then the brunette appears in the doorway, at first watching the movers, but then she catches sight of me. Her eyes narrow, but I ignore her, waiting for the movers to clear the door before moving to follow them in.
But she blocks me, filling the doorway surprisingly well. Holding up a hand in the universal sign for stop, she presses her lips together, kicks the doorstop up, and yanks the door closed before I can get to it.
Then she gives me a dramatic shrug through the glass. “Security!” she yells loud enough there’s no way I wouldn’t be able to hear her. Then she spins on her heel and strides away, leaving me standing on the other side, frozen in place until her swaying ass is out of sight.
I let out a bark of laughter, grudgingly liking her more than I should.
But on top of everything else, that fiery temper is a neon warning sign. This woman is bad news.
CHAPTER TWO
Marissa
Marching awayafter closing the door in that douchebag’s face feels more amazing than I expected.
Vindication has me keeping my head high as I make my way to the elevator, taking it to the fifth floor. The views aren’t super amazing since I’m not that high up, but it’s not on the ground floor, it’s a nice building close to my office, and I love the layout. Plus, there’s parking for my getting-around-town car, which will also help me get to the storage garage I’ve rented in one of the nearby cities to house my project car once it arrives.
I’m restoring a 1969 Chevy Malibu. I got the body for a song a few years ago, and I’ve been slowly rebuilding it from the ground up—rebuilding the engine, sourcing vintage seats, the works. It’s my pet project, and I haven’t had nearly as much time to work on it since I started working for Garrison Automotive Distributing about five years ago.
My dad thinks I’m ridiculous for bringing a non-working car with me to Seattle, but at least he helped me get it ready to go onthe car carrier to make the trek from Dallas. Of course, my dad also thought I was ridiculous for quitting my job working for his auto shop and taking a sales position with one of his suppliers.
I couldn’t handle working there anymore, though. Not when I was a glorified receptionist—though he started calling me an office manager after I finally completed my degree.
The real issue was that I wanted to work on cars, not just manage the office. Dad had always planned on having my younger brother Lance take over from him eventually, despite the fact that I’m the oldest. And even though that galled me as a teenager, I came to accept it, like I came to accept so many things I shouldn’t have over the years.
It’s my dad’s fault that I love cars as much as I do, honestly. He’s the one who had me out there with him from the time I was old enough to hand him tools, buying me my own little safety glasses and coveralls, showing me how to do the basics as I got older, and more complicated things by the time I was sixteen.
Then one day, it all just stopped. He’d shoo me out of the garage instead of welcoming me in.
