Page 8 of Three Pucking Words
She frowns up at me. “Is she your friend? Because the only friends I have are Grandpa Joe, Grandma Helen, you, and Hannah.”
A ping of hurt, and a little bit of jealousy, radiates in my chest when I hear that I’m third on her list. I don’t care what Joe says. I have a lot of friends, but Gemma is undoubtedly the best one out of the bunch.
I don’t want to lie to her about who Coach’s daughter is to me, but I’m not sure how to explain that I’m doing this as a favor for my boss. “She’s more of an acquaintance.” Well, a stranger, but I’m not going to explain that to Gemma knowing fifty questions will follow about how we’re not supposed to talk to strangers. I got that lecture when someone drove by the house while I was out checking the mail and waved at them without knowing who they were. “You know what? Yeah. I guess she is sort of a friend.”
I’m paying attention to Gemma’s thoughtful expression when I hear someone snort. “Real convincing,” a new voice interrupts, snapping my attention up.
Holy shit.The curvy redheaded bombshell standing in front of us is holding onto a leash that’s attached to a golden retriever with a service vest on. It’s hard to pay any mind to her canine companion when she’s wearing a pair of jean shorts that snuggly hug her hips and a faded Rangers T-shirt that looks cut at the neckline to show off more of her cleavage.
And there is alotof cleavage to be seen.
I really hope this isn’t Erikson’s daughter, because my dick is on full attention right now staring at her full chest.
All hopes are dashed when she asks, “You’re Bodhi, right?” Her eyes, which are some shade of brown that I can’t tell in the sunlight, give me a thorough onceover.
Familiarity hits me when her eyes land on mine, but I can’t place it. I take her in, really take her in, and try figuring out where I’ve seen her before. Maybe there are pictures at Coach’s place. He’s hosted the team plenty of times, so it isn’t unlikely that I walked by one of her.
Although, I can’t say I would have forgotten a face like hers. Her lips are full in a pouty kind of way, and her eyes are round and bright despite the color being darker and cautious. Her cheeks are rounder, her facial features soft, but I can sense a barrier around her as she stares at me.
Silently willing my dick to calm down, I stick my hand out. “That’s me. Bodhi Hoffman. And you’re…?” Erikson never actually told me his daughter’s name. Did he? I was too busy thinking about getting Gemma, beating traffic, and faceplanting in bed when he was talking about the favor he wanted from me.
Damn, I feel like an idiot.
Coach’s daughter stares down at my hand with a small frown tilting her full lips. Is she a germaphobe? The city is probably the last place she’d want to be considering the garbage, used needles, and piss littering a lot of the sidewalks and streets.
Her tongue drags across her lip as if she’s contemplating something before shaking her head and putting her hand in mine. Her grasp seems limp, like she doesn’t want to be touching me. “Go figure my father didn’t even tell you my name after dragging you out here to babysit me.”
My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. “He didn’t ask me to—”
Gemma tugs on my shirt again. “Daddy, I thought only little kids get babysat? You says I can’t stay home alone and that Grandma and Grandpa has to watch me.”
“It’s ‘said’ not ‘says’, Gemma,” I correct her, ruffling the hair I haphazardly put into pigtails before we left. She told me they need work. I told her I’d make sure to watch a video tutorial on it next time. It seemed to appease her. “And you’re way too young to be home alone. Ask me again in fifteen years.”
Erikson’s daughter laughs lightly, still holding onto my hand that I’d forgotten I extended. “You sound like my dad.” She lets go first, turning to my daughter. “Some parents don’t understand boundaries. You’ll get used to it.”
Gemma frowns at her. “What are bou…boun-dar-ies?”
I sigh at the perpetual stranger. She may be hot, but it’s obvious she has some unresolved issues with her dad that I don’t want to be dumped onto my kid.
“Can you not instill advice like that on my six-year-old, please?” I ask her dryly.
She flinches, then holds up her free hand in surrender. “I wasn’t trying to do anything,” she promises, lowering her hand down to scratch between her dog’s ears. Her chest rises with a silent inhale before exhaling slowly. “I’m Honor, by the way, and this is Puck. Before you say anything, I named him after the Shakespeare character,notafter hockey.”
I nod my chin toward her shirt. “So you’re not a fan of the game then?”
She makes a twisted face, like the question offends her. Her eyes, which I decide are a caramel color, dull. “Not really. I only wore this to make myself stand out since I was meeting you. It’s been in my dresser for forever.”
Not a fan of the game I play professionally.
Got it.
Today should be fun.
“Can I pet your dog?” Gemma asks, already walking toward Puck.
I stop her. “He’s a working dog, Gem. We can’t touch dogs while they’re working.”
Looking up, I meet Honor’s eyes to see if I’m right. She’s smiling. “He’s right, you always need to ask before touching a working dog because some handlers can’t have them distracted. But you can go ahead and pet Puck. He loves attention.”
