Page 90 of Zero Pucks Given (Las Vegas Angels 1)

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Beau

Iescorted Gigi to a few places I thought she’d enjoy. My favorite bakery—I knew the owners and they kept some items nut-free for their allergic clientele—where I bought her a bavarois framboise chocolat blanc. A fluffy, raspberry, mousse-like dessert, with a delicious Bavarian cream center. She ate about a third of it and I gladly finished off the rest.

After that, I looked at my phone and realized we needed to hustle to make her appointment. We went as quickly as we could in the crowd, the whole time Gigi asking me why I was rushing.

When I opened the door to a lingerie shop, she stepped back. “What are you doing?” she asked, the look on her face full of distrust.

“I made you an appointment with a—specialist.”

She shook her head and frowned. “I don’t need anything.”

“Geneviève, you do. Your sports bra died? Madame Trinette specializes in exactly your—” I gazed down to her gorgeous, full breasts, “issues. She’s expecting us. It’s by appointment only and it normally takes months to get in to see her.”

“Then how did you get an appointment?” she asked, her face taking on a quizzical expression that was so cute it made me chuckle.

“Because there are certain advantages to being me. Now get your ass inside, Martin,” I said, motioning with my hand to do just that.

“Fine, but I’m only doing it because it would be rude to skip out and leave her hanging.” Then she marched inside while giving me her version of the evil eye.

I tried really hard not to look around. Too much.

What can I say? I was like a kid at a candy shop. Bras of every color imaginable—and boy, was I imagining some pretty great stuff right now.

Mostly about what Gigi was trying on. And what she looked like in it—and out of it.

The best thing I’d conjured up in my mind was a deep purple satin with black lace accents—on her bra and thong panties. A nice matching set. Fuck, she’d look amazing in purple.

“We are having some luck, Mr. Moreau,” Madame Trinette said to me in French as she rushed out of the back room where Gigi had been held hostage for the last half hour. “Your lady friend is telling me that she will be paying. Is this true? She’s asking prices, but I’ve deferred to you.”

“I’ll be paying for whatever she wants, Madame Trinette, thank you for your help.” Of course, I’d expected Gigi to fight me on this. Why would she make this one task easy?

“Very well, she’ll be out in a moment. I’ll be in touch,” she said, then hurried back where she’d come from.

Not a minute later, Gigi resurfaced from the great beyond, the curtain swishing behind her. “You’re not paying for my bra.”

“Is there anything else you want? Take a look around, we have time,” I suggested, knowing the look on her face did not say she was in the mood to browse.

“I’m serious.”

“Okay, so be serious and see if there’s anything else you might want.”

She stared blankly at me as though I were a brick wall. Then she brushed passed me and headed out the door, the bell ringing as she went.

Once we were outside, she spun on her heel. “You’re not paying for my,” she said, then lowered her voice considerably, “bra.”

“Guess what? I already did,” I said, leaning forward.

“How much was it? I’ll pay you back.”

“You’re not paying me back.”

“Why? Give me one good reason why not?”

“Because, a few nights ago I had a beautiful, sobbing woman in my arms. She cried and told me about all the things that were wrong in her life.” I reached down and grabbed onto her hands. “And out of her massive list, this is the only thing I can fix for her.” I pulled her closer, our bodies touching now. “And I want to fix everything. But I can’t.”

Her face softened—the former anger vanished. “You gave me Coffee Crisp. And ketchup chips.” Her lovely, brown eyes sparkled in the bright sunlight.

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