Page 41 of Enticing the Enforcer
“Let me see what I can work out,” she says finally.
“Don’t go to any trouble. We’ll figure it out. Road trip, right?”
“Sounds good.”
In the background of her side of the call, I hear faint movement, maybe the hum of the road under the bus tires. Then she notices the noise bleeding into mine. “Is that Axel again?”
I roll my eyes, glancing toward the window where the house lights flare with shadows. “Eh, the guys are throwing a party.”
“Why aren’t you down there?”
“Guess talking to you seemed like the better way to go.” I stretch out, propping up on my elbow, making it clear I’m in no rush to leave. “I mean, you’re alone, I’m alone…we could make this interesting.”
“Smooth,” she says dryly.
My eyebrow arches. “You travel for a living, and it’s well documented that you’ve been in relationships. Don’t tell me you’ve never had phone sex.”
“Fair,” she admits, though her voice softens like she’s not sure she should give me that. “But something tells me you have other, real-life opportunities to hook up at the moment.”
I can hear the faint thump of bass as the rhythm changes and the squeals of girls when their favorite song comes on. She knows they’re here. Knows they’re available.
“I’m not interested in them,” I say with more intent than I plan.
Her brows lift, skeptical. “No?”
I remember what Shelby said, how if I’m going to make a play for Ingrid, I need to be serious. So why the hell am I beating around the bush? “I got a taste of you, Angel. I’m not going to be satisfied until I get more.”
Her lips part, just slightly, her chest rising as though the air has been stolen right out of her. “Is that how this works? Jefferson Parks always gets what he wants?”
“Pretty much.”
The flush runs up her throat, blooming across her cheeks. It’s impossible not to picture it spreading lower, down her collarbone, over the pale swell of her breasts, painting every inch of her in that same delicate pink. The image makes my mouth dry and my pulse hammer.
She catches the way I’m looking at her and gives me that grin–wicked, teasing, like she’s the one with control here. She is. We both know it. “Good thing I’ve made a career out of not giving guys what they want.”
My laugh comes out low, rougher than I mean it to. “Guess I’ll just have to convince you I’m not like the other guys.”
Her eyes narrow, amused, sparking with challenge. “Good luck with that, Parks.”
And damn if the way she says my name doesn’t make me want her even more.
The season is over,and we’ve got the trophy, the rings, the bragging rights. I’m certain that I should be coasting on a high, not sitting outside Coach Bryant’s office with Reese, both of us staring at the door like it’s about to eat us alive.
“Any clue what this is about?” I ask, leaning back in the chair with my legs sprawled out.
“Nope,” Reese says, twirling my championship cap in his hands. “But if it’s bad, it’s your fault.”
I snort, but when Coach calls us in, neither of us is laughing.
The office has looked the same since I got here freshman year: plaques, photos, the faint smell of coffee that’s been sitting too long in the pot. Bryant gestures to the chairs across from his desk. We sit.
He studies us a moment, then clears his throat. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called you in here, and no, you’re not in trouble.”
He’s joking and we both know it, but old behaviors die hard.
“I’ve been a member of the board of a non-profit designed to identify and cultivate young athletes coming from high-riskenvironments. Over the years, I’ve linked many of the young men up with local hockey programs.”
“You mean like the foster care program that Reid was in.”
