Page 44 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show
“Um...” I look down. “Maybe they sold out of the regular ones in the gift shop?”
“So you bought a $7000 jersey instead?”
Fuck.
I shouldn’t have bought that jersey. But I didn’t mind Luke, even then, not really, and I thought it was so cool that someone I sort of knew had succeeded so much. It was inspirational. I got my job hostingSeeking Mr. Rightshortly after the jersey arrived in the mail and I sort of saw it as a good luck charm. Not that I want to tell him all that. Owning it is embarrassing enough.
“Either you spent a ridiculous amount of money on my jersey, which is not cost-effective, because they have plenty of the regular ones for more normal prices, or you bought it when it first was released.”
He beams, happier than I’ve ever seen him. “Do you hate hockey, Sebastian?”
I shake my head slowly, feeling like a naughty child who hasn’t done my homework. “Not completely.”
He grins. “Not completely.”
He stares into my eyes, and all the molecules that had been building a wall between us on the bus shatter, collapsing into the ether. I feel pulled toward him, like we’re in a whirlpool.
I know that look in men.
I’ve seen it before.
Usually, it’s followed by them yanking me into their arms and kissing me.
But this is different.
Luke is straight.
I wonder if he’s going to ask me about Ashcove. I wonder if he’s going to ask if that’s why I’ve been following his career. My heart speeds. I’m not ready to talk about that and then have to crawl into bed with him.
I see the debate in his eyes, but finally they soften, and he drops his hands and I miss them already, like I’ve been thrust into a blizzard without my coat, without my hat, without my gloves.
But he drops his hands, still smiling, and walks backwards. He picks up my coat from the chair where he left it and hangs it in the closet.
Then he strips off his suit jacket.
“They still made you wear that?” I ask.
“We hockey players always look professional.” He winks.
“You must get confused for investment bankers all the time.”
He snorts, then undoes his tie.
I should probably look away.
I shoulddefinitelylook away.
But he’s still staring right into my eyes, and looking away feels like one of those ridiculous things I don’t want to happen. His hands move steadily over his knot. Maybe bow ties are beyond him, but not these sorts of ties.
“Something wrong?” he asks.
Shit.
I was staring.
He saw I have his jersey, with his number, his name. He knows I must have gotten it right after he joined the Blizzards. And now I’m staring at him while he undresses.
All the words Bryce used to call me shoot through my mind like I have my own personal firing squad, and they’re all attacking me right now.
