Page 8 of Dirty Devil

Fuck. My. Life.

Phone in hand, I slowly push away from the steering wheel, hoping the car logo isn’t pressed into the side of my face.

“You okay in there, Princess?”

His accent washes over me, and that’s all it takes to have my cheeks burning. Only Foster can make me feel like a boy-crazed teenage girl with five words.

He probably doesn’t even need that many.

Wait—did he say Princess?

Ah, hell, I’m dressed as Cinderella.

Totally forgot about that.

“Avery?”

I take a deep breath and plaster on the biggest smile I’ve got before turning to face him.I can and will talk to him like a normal person. Most of the time I am a normal person. His accent does nothing to my lady bits, and this innocent crush is just that. Innocent.

The first thing I see is leg. Lots and lots of hairy leg. And then the best costume I’ve ever seen in my entire life comes into focus. All the heart flutters and pussy palpitations I thought I’d have are nowhere in sight.

It’s like a bucket of cold water.

It’s like walking in on my nana getting out of the bath.

It’s like realizing you forgot to point your baby’s thing down and now you’re covered in pee.

Basically, it’s a boner killer, and I’m not mad at it.

I haven’t seen Foster since Mason was born in August, and I was really worried that my little crush on him would be back in full force as soon as I laid eyes on him. Then, of course, I’d have to spend my first night out as a single, un-pregnant adult, convincing myself not to stare at him all night like a stalker.

But that baby is nowhere in sight.

I can have a carefree evening.

“Stop staring at my legs,” Foster grits out as he knocks on the window again, this time with a scowl.

He leans down, peering at me, and a lock of his blonde hair falls across his forehead. I have the urge to brush it away, and if I were working on my romance novel like I wanted to tonight, I’d put that in there.

Ilovea good hair touch.

But I’m not working on it, and he has two functional hands. He can sweep his own hair off his forehead.

Ignoring his gaze, I slip my phone into my sparkly silver clutch and open the car door. Foster takes a step back, making room for me and my enormous dress, and holds out his hand.

“Princess.”

I shake my head, but put my gloved hand in his and let him help me from the car. “I’m not sure what to call you. With those sexy little shorts, I’m not sure that Prince Charming fits.”

Hell, I’m not sure his dick fits either. Or at least, judging by the tight bulge in his groin area, it doesn’t look comfortable.

And now I’m making eye contact with it.

Dammit, Avery, stop looking at the man’s dick. He is not a piece of meat. He is ahockey player. Hockey players are off limits. That means no dick.

None.

Not even another glance.

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