Page 65 of Daddies on Ice
Our eyes meet and my heart stutters. Jake really is devastatingly handsome.
Tiny gold specks shine in his green eyes, and I find myself mesmerized as he leans forward slowly.
Time seems suspended, but he doesn’t kiss me. Just before our lips touch, he changes course, his cheek brushing mine, mouth close to my ear.
“Ready to leave, Tish?” he asks.
No! I want to stay here, in his arms, feeling his body against mine. B
ut I can’t say that.
I can’t speak at all with my mouth dry and throat constricting. Instead, I just nod.
We leave the dance floor and Jake settles our tab, then we exit the club. We’re stopped repeatedly by fans wanting autographs or conversation with Jake, plus some persistent reporters.
Jake proves the perfect gentleman when we reach the rental car. He opens my door first, waits until I’m settled and buckled in, then goes to the driver’s side.
Our hotel drive passes quietly and thankfully short. I’m grateful he doesn’t attempt conversation because I need time to regain control.
I can’t blame myself for reacting to him. Jake is physically stunning. What woman wouldn’t want him?
His quirky, good-natured, and easy-going personality makes him even more appealing.
But this is work, and regardless of my attraction, I need to remember that.
We reach the hotel and head to our floor.
The entire Thunderwolves team is staying on the same level, so he leads me down the hallway toward my room.
But Jake’s room comes first, and I’m surprised when we stop there.
I expected him to continue being gentlemanly and escort me to my door. Instead, he stops and looks at me.
“The performance isn’t finished yet, Tish,” he says.
I frown up at him, confused.
A slow smile spreads across his handsome face. “You need to come into my room. You know, to make it look authentic.”
22
JAKE
The key card beeps green on the first try and the door opens to reveal a tidy room with two dimmed lamps casting warm light across the city skyline visible through the window.
Tish pauses in the hallway, scanning the corridor before meeting my eyes.
“Come in,” I say. “Five minutes. Then I’ll walk you back.”
Her mouth tightens. Not with fear, but something closer to wariness, then she gives a curt nod and steps inside.
“Drink?” I move to the credenza, lifting the ice bucket lid. Fresh cubes clink against the sides. Two glasses wait on the tray.
“What’ve you got?” She leans against the sofa arm, keeping her jacket on. Light catches the curve of her neck, and I force myself to look elsewhere.
“Soda, water, or the mini-bar they pretend to hide.” I open the small cabinet. “Gin, questionable bourbon, three tiny wines, and something called ‘artisan mezcal’ that might erase tonight—for better or worse.”
“Water’s fine,” she says. “Two limes if you’re showing off.”
