Page 4 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
Punch me in the stomach and jab my eyes out because I can’t fucking look away.
But I know he’s full of shit. Am I seriously falling for this?
Omg. My sex-deprived smut-reading brain is romanticizing the fuck out of this situation right now. This is all in my head, and I need something to break the ice because he’s looking at me like… I don’t know.
“Let me guess,” I say, trying to regain my footing. “You’re used to girls falling all over themselves when you flash those blue-green eyes, Liam.”
His eyes fall to my lips like he enjoyed hearing his name from my mouth. “I don’t know. Are you falling all over yourself?”
I press my lips together and shake my head. “Not even a little bit.”
“Good,” he says, and there’s something almost relieved in his voice. “I like a challenge.”
I snort. “Trust me, I’m not a challenge you want to take on.”
“Why not?”
Because I’m allergic to drama and heartbreak, and you scream both, I think. Instead, I say, “Because I’m not interested in whatever it is hockey players are selling.”
“And what exactly do you think we’re selling?”
I tick off on my fingers. “Ego, one-night stands, and commitment issues.”
“Ouch.” But he’s grinning. “That’s quite the generalization.”
“Is it wrong?”
He pretends to consider this, tilting his head in a way that draws my attention to the strong line of his jaw. “Well, the ego part is probably fair. We do spend a lot of time having people cheer for us.”
I laugh, considering, but then I catch myself. “And the rest?”
“What if I told you I was the exception?”
I laugh again. I can’t help it. “I’d say that’s exactly what someone who wasn’t the exception would say.”
“Okay.” He takes a sip of his beer, studying me over the bottle. “So what would it take to convince you?”
“To convince me of what?”
“That I’m worth thirty minutes of your time.”
My heart skips at the way he says it. Not pushy or demanding, but like he’s genuinely curious about my answer.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say, but my voice doesn’t sound as certain as I’d like it to.
“Because I play hockey?”
“Because you’re trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
There’s that smirk again.
I stare at him. He’s the kind of trouble that would have me breaking all my carefully constructed rules. The kind that would have me forgetting why those rules exist in the first place.
“The worst kind,” I say instead.
He moves closer, close enough that I can see the depth of blues and greens in his eyes. Close enough to smell that intoxicating scent again. Close enough to make me forget how to breathe properly.
