Page 23 of Dirty As Puck
“Has it? I thought journalists lived for nights like this. Big win, dramatic finish, plenty of material for your story.”
She huffs. “I got what I needed.”
“Did you? Because it seems like you’ve been avoiding the one person who actually won the game.”
Rochelle’s chin lifts in that defiant way I’m starting to recognize. “I don’t think you want to be interviewed right now.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ve been drinking, and you’re looking at me like...” She stops, like she caught herself before saying something she shouldn’t.
“Like what?”
She whispers, “Like you want to finish what we started last night.”
She’s right. That’s exactly how I’m looking at her. Like I want to drag her back to our hotel room and pick up where we left off, professional boundaries be damned.
She knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
“Maybe I do,” I say, stepping closer until I can smell her perfume. “Maybe I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
She looks around and takes a step back. “This is a bad idea.”
“You said that last night too. Right before you kissed me back.”
Color rises in her cheeks, but she doesn’t back down. “That was a mistake.”
“Well, you didn’t seem to think so at the time.”
I’m crowding her space now, using my size to my advantage, and I can see her pulse jumping at the base of her throat. She’s affected by my proximity, no matter how much she tries to hide it. Her eyes look around the room, paranoid of being caught.
“You think you have me figured out,” I say, my voice lower than it needs to be. I finally have her attention back. “You think you know exactly what story you’re going to write about me.”
“I think you’re exactly what you appear to be,” Rochelle says, but there’s a breathless quality to her voice that undermines her words. “Trouble.”
“Maybe you like trouble,” I grin, and my voice is rough with want and whiskey.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The bar continues around us, teammates laughing and drinking and celebrating, but all I can see is Rochelle looking up at me with heat in her green eyes.
Then she blinks, and the moment breaks.
“I should go,” she says, grabbing her bag and recorder.
She walks away without another word, leaving me standing by the bar with the taste of possibility and frustration burning in my throat.
Let her go. This is for the best. Nothing good can come from getting involved with a journalist.
But as I watch Rochelle disappear through the bar’s entrance, all I can think about is how much I want her.
I order another whiskey and settle in for what’s going to be a very long night of trying to forget the way Rochelle Winters tastes and failing completely.
We’re playing with fire. Both of us.
And the problem is, I’m starting to like the burn.
7
I choose a seat in the very back of the plane for the flight home to Seattle, as far from Kai as physically possible without actually getting off the aircraft. The distance doesn’t stop me from being hyperaware of his presence six rows ahead, or from stealing glances at the way his shoulders fill out his team-issued travel shirt.
