Page 49 of My Lucky Charm

My father’s rules.

For those few moments, those brief, delicious, exciting moments, I wasn’t Grayson Hawke, the pro hockey player. I wasn’t a guy with a tumultuous past, or someone who refuses to even entertain the idea of a relationship.

I was just a guy who wanted to kiss a beautiful girl.

And it felt good. It felt right. She felt right.

In the dim light, I see her stir, and I quickly escape into the hallway and close the door, wondering how I’m going to sleep knowing she’s right down the hall.

Chapter Twelve

Eloise

The moment I wake up, I will myself back to sleep.

It doesn’t work, of course.

I’m not sure I’ve ever been as comfortable as I am right now.

I draw in a breath before I even open my eyes and smell the sweet apple cinnamon scent of . . . candles. Not muffins or donuts or fresh bread.

Wait. I’m not at home.

I sit straight up and look around the room.

Gray’s room.

I fell asleep on his bed. I came in here to add the vase and the new afghan and the throw pillow that’s now staring at me from the armchair in the corner, and then I turned on the TV to see if the Comets were still playing.

They’d just finished, but there was a press conference, and I watched Gray lose it on one of the reporters. To be fair, the reporter was kind of a jerk, but Gray did a bad job of staying calm.

I stood and watched, inches from the TV screen, willing him all the serenity I could muster, but he didn’t get the message. He looked so angry, a storm raging behind his bright blue eyes.

I reached out and touched his image on the screen, whispering, “Who hurt you, Grayson Hawke?” I got roped into the commentary after that, trying to follow along as people in the know discussed the state of the Comets roster now that Gray was a part of it.

The consensus was basically, “Mark Rosen is probably rethinking this trade right about now. Because Grayson Hawke has gone from the guy who gets it done to the guy who’s not doing a thing.”

It wasn’t quippy or catchy or clever, and they all dissected the game at Gray’s expense. My heart sank. I couldn’t imagine my workplace mistakes being splashed all over the television for people to comment on and judge. I don’t know if it upset him or if “upset” is simply his natural state, but regardless, it stunk.

At some point in watching the chatter, I must’ve laid down, and at some point I must’ve realized Gray has the most comfortable mattress I’ve ever laid on, and at some point I must’ve . . . unfolded the afghan and spread it on my sleeping body? I reach down and touch the blanket. How did this get here?

I turn fast to make sure no one is lying next to me, and feel relief and disappointment simultaneously.

He was due home last night.

Is he here? And if so . . . where did he sleep?!

I slip out from under the blanket and pull the baggy sweatshirt I stole from Gray’s dresser down over my leggings. I really need a toothbrush and a shower. And my own clothes.

So many violations!

I open the door and tiptoe out into the hallway. I filled the place with apple cinnamon candles, lit them until I got a headache, then blew them all out. But the spicy fragrance lingers in the air.

As I approach the kitchen, I hear a low, deep voice.

I freeze.

There’s no way this isn’t going to be awkward. Everything about it feels wrong. I wish I could grab my shoes and run straight out the door.

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