Page 1 of Three Pucking Words
PROLOGUE
Honor
The phone screenin front of me is on its last twenty percent as I stare at the unanswered text message.
Honor:Do you know when you’ll be home?
It’s a simple question that Max shouldn’t get stumped on, but it was delivered an hour ago and read thirty minutes after that with no response.
I’m not mad at my husband being out with his friends, since it’s common occurrence whenever there’s a hockey game on. Usually, they go to a pub, like this one, and watch it on the big screen with at least fifty other drunk sports fans. But he told me this afternoon that his coworkers got tickets for them to see it live, and not to wait up for him.
Fiddling with the pop socket that I’ve spent far too long toying with, I heft out a long sigh and turn my screen off. The game has been over for at least an hour according to google, which is the only reason I wanted to know when he’d be home so I can pay for my tab, get a taxi, and meet him there.
But after a long day at work and a disappointing evening of cancelled plans with my neighbor, I can’t seem to gather the energy to be upset with my husband for not getting back to me. What’s new anyway?
Rubbing my temples to try massaging away the headache I’ve had all day, I weigh my options. I could go home to an emptyhouse and worry about Max getting home safely, or I could stay here and let the noise of the people lingering at the bar distract me.
I’m startled out of the thought when a tall, thin glass of dark amber liquid is set onto the table across from me. I’d chosen a spot in the furthest corner from the door, nestled into the shadows and far, far away from the televisions that were all broadcasting tonight’s game for an enthusiastic crowd that has since died down once the Blackhawks lost to the Rangers. Since the dive bar is nestled in the middle of Chicago, it was a crushing defeat that most of the patrons did not take kindly to.
I spot the other glass full of something clear as it gets pushed toward me. My eyes move from the water up the long, tan arm with thick veins to a broad set of shoulders where a very attractive head sits. The stranger is tall and muscular in ways that I can’t fathom. He’s the exact opposite of the man I married—blond hair to Max’s brown. A firm, square jawline to my husband’s soft rounded one. And his eyes… I swallow as I study the beautiful shade of blue that are locked on me and nothing like Max’s brown color.
“Uh…” I glance around, wondering if he meant to sit here. “Hi?”
His lips quirk up at one side. “Hi.”
All I can do is blink. Does he think I’m someone else? Maybe he’s here to meet up with a blind date. The bar isn’t well lit, and the girl could have given him a generic description of herself. An honest mistake.
“I think you—”
“The bartender said you were drinking water,” he says, dipping his chin toward the glass he set in front of me. “Looked like you were almost out.”
I close my mouth and stare at him, still confused about what’s happening here. “Thank you?” It comes out as a hesitant question, which makes his smile grow.
It’s a pretty smile that lights up his whole face. He’s got long, blond hair that looks a little damp, like he just got out of the shower. It goes to his shoulders, which look like they want to rip out of the T-shirt he’s wearing that seems loose around his torso but tight everywhere else. Andhello biceps.
Maybe he works here? Although, if he did, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be drinking on the job. When he lifts his glass to his lips, it barely hides the bemusement dancing in his eyes.
“Has anyone told you that you look like Chris Hemsworth?” I ask him, cocking my head as I imagine him in a Thor costume.
The image I conjure is way too good.
His chuckle echoes in the glass before he lowers it. “A time or two.”
We fall to silence as he traces the rim of his glass. It’s beer, I realize. An IPA if I had to guess. Probably something on tap.
I lower my gaze to the water he got me, frowning at it.
“What? Did you want something else?”
Wetting my lips, I sit up straighter in my chair and cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t know you. You could have drugged this or something.”
He offers me an understanding nod. “Fair point,” he replies, his eyes dipping to my chest for a moment before reaching over and taking the glass. He guzzles half of it without coming up for air, then he sets it down in front of me. “See? Not drugged.”
He extends his hand out to me. “I’m Bodhi,” he tells me, waiting for me to return the shake.
Brows knitting together, I stare at the size of his hand. It’s huge. His fingers are long, and his nails are trimmed and clean. Can hands be nice? Because his are.
Swallowing, I let his massive palm engulf my own. “Honor.”
