Page 13 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
“So you’d carry her tampons and warn her if there was a thunderstorm coming?” Les says with a chuckle.
Eden lifts her brows at me as she waits for my response.
“Um, no. I’m pretty sure Eden can carry her own hygiene products, and that she’s more than capable of interpreting her weather app. It’s more about protecting our female clients from unwanted male attention, sexual advances, or even assault. And when I say atmospheric conditions, what I mean is when a person is outside of their normal environment, it can create issues if the individual isn’t accustomed to the altitude, humidity, even jet lag due to changing time zones. All of these factors can cause a person’s critical thinking skills and physical performance to suffer, making them a more vulnerable target. We’re trained to keep an eye on things like that.”
Les nods thoughtfully. “I see.”
Most people have no idea what security guards do. It’s a lot more than just watching for bad guys and talking into walkie-talkies.
Although the walkie-talkies are pretty cool.
“Sounds like a plan to me, son. We could use the peace of mind that our fearless leader here is safe.” Les stands up and extends his hand toward me. “I have to get going. My wife has me trying this new thing—couples yoga. Says I need to open up more. Find my inner balance.” He rolls his eyes.
I return his handshake. “Enjoy, sir.”
And then Les is gone, leaving Eden and me alone together in her office.
I try to keep my gaze on hers. I certainly can’t let it stray to check out her tits like I want to. It’s surreal to be sitting across from her after all these years.
Unable to take the silence, I pull a business card from my pocket. “If at any time you feel unsafe, this is my personal cell number.”
She takes the card and sets it on the table in front of her, frowning as she stares down at it for a moment. “Les is right. Everything you’ve said sounds good.”
“But?”
She looks up and smiles. “But I don’t know . . . isn’t this going to be weird? Shouldn’t we talk about things?”
“Things?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Our past,” she says to clarify, tucking her long hair behind one ear.
My heart rate jumps. “It’s really not much of a past. It was a one-time . . .”
I can’t help my mind from flashing back to that night in my room. The way she kissed me, the soft moans of pleasure she made when my mouth latched onto her—
Eden holds up a hand, jolting me out of my memory. “I know. And I just left. You probably wondered what happened, why I . . .”
Fuck yeah, I wondered. I’ve done nothing but wonder for six long years.
But I shrug, trying to act as casual as she seems to be about this whole thing. “I get it. I was a temporary stop, princess. What’s done is done. You don’t have to try to make me feel better about it.”
She flinches at my use of the word princess.
Shit. I don’t mean to be an asshole. I guess it just comes naturally for me.
Sitting up straighter, she says, “But I—”
I lean back, feigning a casual posture as I interrupt her. “It’s in the past. Let’s move on.”
“Okay,” she says softly. “I can do that if you can.”
“I’m a professional.”
Her lips tilt up in a smile again, and her gaze roams briefly across the expanse of my shoulders, and the athletic black knit polo I’m wearing with my company’s logo over my left pec. “I can see that.”
5
* * *
EDEN
I wasn’t much more than knee high when Grandpa Pete bought the Boston Titans. One of my earliest memories is walking into the arena hand in hand with him the day he signed the papers.
From that day forward, hockey and the Wynn family have been intertwined, and Elite Airlines Arena has become like a second home to me. A different company had the naming rights back then, back when the Boston Titans were claiming regular championship titles. There were more than a few legendary games in those years, or so I’m told.
As I got older, I was always much more interested in the catering options than the score. That and the fact that having access to the owner’s box of a nationally acclaimed hockey team made me popular with the boys at my prep school, regardless of whether I watched the games or not.
But all that changed when I started dating Alex. When the man you love is at risk of getting his teeth knocked in, you learn to keep your eyes on the ice. Falling in love with the game was merely a lucky side effect.
I came to crave the smell of the arena, that musky mix of icy air and sweat, and even the hollow feeling of a loss was better than not watching a game at all. I guess I’ll always have Alex to thank for that, although I’d rather not give him credit for any part of my life. Not since he walked out of it in favor of sowing his wild oats.
