Wylde

by Sawyer Bennett

CHAPTER 2

  Clarke

  If the man weren’t so damn attractive and easy on the eyes, I’d wind the conversation down so he’d leave. Just because he’s about the best-looking thing I’ve ever seen doesn’t mean he’s a good person, and I know better than anyone that looks don’t have a damn thing to do with what’s inside.

  On the contrary, it’s probably a good indication he’s an egotistical asshole.

  At least in my experience, which is proven and true.

  And God… he’s a bit weird. Struggling to come up with conversation, appearing a bit nervous, and with behavior that’s just downright awkward. If he weren’t so polite, I’d actually be feeling a little wary, but, as it is, I think he’s just weird.

  “Actually… I don’t have much time for reading these days,” the man says in response to my question about books. What did he say his name was? Ervin? Allen?

  Aaron?

  My eyes do a quick rake over his body. He’s clearly what I’d peg as a part-time jock. He’s wearing high-end athletic gear for his run. His watch is expensive-looking, which means he makes a good living—maybe a financial advisor? One of those guys who likes to stay in shape, so he looks good in his three-piece suit. I bet he’s a member of an exclusive country club where he golfs five days a week and probably plays flag football on the side.

  I give him a polite smile, because I want to roll my eyes at anyone who says they don’t have time to read. If a person loves books the way I do, they’ll find time to read. If they don’t read, it’s because they don’t like to do it, which makes them something of a moron in my mind.

  I mean… who doesn’t like books? They give knowledge, elicit tears or laughter, and transport people to faraway places.

  The dude is definitely weird.

  “I’ll go ahead and get this rung up—”

  “Another wedding,” he blurts out, then slaps his forehead as if he’d just remembered something critical to life on earth. “I actually have another wedding weekend after this, and I’ll need a gift for that. And come to think of it, one in July, too. So I’ll need two more.”

  “Oh… okay,” I murmur, setting the wrapped wine opener on the counter and moving out from behind it. Dude is totally weird. “Let’s see if we can find you something.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we have picked out a vase for one lucky couple and a table book of southwestern photography for the other. The man asks me to wrap those as well, which I do quickly before finally moving to ring him up.

  “I know this might be coming out of left field,” the man says with a bit of hesitation, “but would you have any interest in joining me as my date to the wedding this weekend? There’s going to be a really great reception after with some awesome barbeque and a band.”

  I give him a smile, hoping it’s appropriately polite and regretful. “That’s very sweet of you to offer, but no thank you.”

  “Got a boyfriend?” he asks.

  “No,” I reply, then immediately curse myself. I should have said yes.

  “Married?”

  Damn you, truth. I shake my head. “No, but—”

  “Then say yes,” he pushes with oozing confidence, leaning on the counter and leveling an impish smile. I have to say, it’s a really great smile, replete with dimples and everything.

  “I’m sorry, Ervin—”

  Annoyance flashes across his face. “Aaron.”

  “Aaron,” I confirm, trying not to laugh. “But… um, well… you’re not my type.”

  He blinks in surprise, and I can tell in this moment that no woman ever has told this man that.

  “What exactly is your type?” he asks with a frown.

  I really don’t have one. I’ve dated a variety of men—a DJ, a sommelier, and a roof inspector just in the last few months. But something about this man has danger bells ringing faintly in the background—not from a safety perspective, but rather he just seems as if he has complication written all over him.

  I always listen to my gut, so I pull forth somewhat of a lie, which I know will work based on what little he’s revealed of himself. “I’m actually more into the brainy, nerdy types. You know… the ones who always have their noses buried in a book and can quote Proust on a whim.”

  He blinks, clearly not understanding a word I just said. Definitely a jock.

  I seem to have shocked him into silence, as he doesn’t say a word as I ring up his purchases. After I punch in the appropriate codes, I scan the tags and tally the total cost with tax. “That will be $179.32.”

  Aaron reaches into his side pocket, then pulls out a small clip securing some cash along with a single credit card. I slide it through the reader, then complete the transaction.

  It’s as I’m placing his gifts in a bag that he decides to take another stab at a date. “How about a little wager or competition? If I win, then you have to go to the wedding with me.”

  He’s persistent, I’ll give him that, and well… I have to admit he has my curiosity all riled up. I tilt my head. “Like what?”

  “Well… I used to be a reader,” he says quickly, now leaning on the counter again with both forearms resting there. His eyes are sparkling, filled with challenge. “You know… back in high school and such. How about you give me a well-known quote from your favorite classic and if I can guess what book it’s from, you have to go to the wedding with me this weekend?”

  I regard him, wondering if this is some type of trap. But no… he has no interest in books. I can tell by the fact he didn’t bother perusing one shelf in my store that houses all kinds of amazing literature.

  He’s taking a shot in the dark, and no matter what quote I give him, he’ll probably blurt out Melville’s Moby Dick or something with a phallic reference.

  “Okay,” I muse, gaze traveling up to the ceiling where I ponder a moment all the wonderful classics I love. I dismiss a few he might take an easy guess at—The Call of the Wild, To Kill A Mockingbird, Gulliver’s Travels.

  But one comes to mind… it seems fitting in this moment.

  I give him a sly smile. “The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one.”

  Aaron’s face is like a blank art canvas. He doesn’t even try to search his memory as there’s no furrowing of his brow or rubbing at his jaw in consternation.

  I drop the receipt into his bag, push it across the counter, and try to keep all traces of smugness out of my expression.

  “That’s Salinger,” Aaron says in a neutral tone. “Catcher in the Rye, I believe.”

  I’m surprised my jaw doesn’t hit the counter it drops so low in disbelief, and I realize I’ve seriously misjudged this man. I completely characterized him as a rube, an unenlightened individual, and made that judgment based on his appearance and his current lack of time to read.

  Or… he’s playing me somehow.

  I narrow my eyes with suspicion, which only amuses him.

  “Want to go double or nothing?” he suggests. “I need a date to the wedding the weekend after this one, too.”

  It was a lucky guess. It had to be. Catcher in the Rye was too obvious. Anyone who graduated high school or college probably could have figured that out. I went far too easy on him.

  “Deal,” I reply, confident he’ll never go two for two. I consider the possibilities again, deciding to focus on a piece of literature that tends to be favored by women over men.

  Something romantic.

  And pertinent.

  I lift my chin. “We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him.”

  I’m glad to see Aaron has a sense of humor and isn’t offended, for he tips his head back and laughs before bringing his gaze back to mine. He shakes his head, as if to say, “Touché,” and wags a finger.

  A flush of triumph rolls through me, only to be quickly killed when he says, “Pride and Prejudice. Jane Austen.”

  “What
in the absolute hell?” I mutter. “Are you cheating somehow?”

  He holds his arms out, making a show of turning slowly. When facing me again, he asks, “With what? My secret quote book stashed somewhere on me?”

  “You intentionally set me up,” I accuse.

  “No,” he drawls, correcting my misstatement. “I presented a challenge. You accepted it.”

  “I feel played,” I mutter.

  “Had you just asked if I were well-read first, you might have declined my challenge,” he points out. “Not my fault my dad was an English professor and I’m pretty sure I can quote more classics than you—a bookstore owner—can.”

  Before I can even respond, the door to my shop flies open, the tinkling bells going berserk and the wooden frame encasing glass rattling hard when it hits a table. The woman who enters immediately ducks her head in embarrassment, offering me an apologetic shrug and mouthing the words, “Sorry.”

  That woman would be my best friend, Veronica. She’s everything I’m not in the looks department. Long legs, busty, and with California golden-blonde hair. She’s sporting a designer workout outfit, and she’s carrying a specialty coffee from a shop down the street.

  Aaron glances at her, but he doesn’t linger, giving his attention right back. Pulling his phone off the strap around his bicep, he orders, “Give me your phone number.”

  Everything within me wants to deny him, but that’s mostly self-loathing I’d misjudged him so much and let myself fall right into a date with a man I still have all kinds of danger alarms going off about.

  With a grudge in my tone, I rattle off my number. He types it into his phone, then immediately dials me. My phone is in my purse, under the counter behind me, but I ignore it. He’s only calling to ensure I have his number, too. I’ll input his contact info, then come up with some excuse to back out later. A simple text should suffice.

  “I can see what’s going on in that pretty head of yours,” he teases, and my cheeks fire up. “And I get it… you could easily just text me to cancel after I leave, but that will be a matter for your conscience. I won fair and square, so I guess I’ll just have to see how much honor you have.”

  A tiny growl wells in my throat that he would dare throw the gauntlet down. Integrity is important to me, so I know there’s no way in hell I’ll cancel now.

  “You can text me your address, though,” he says with a wink as he grabs the bag from the counter. “So I know where to pick you up on Saturday. Be ready around five PM.”

  I dart my glance behind him to Veronica. She’s acting like she’s only perusing my merchandise, but she’s totally listening in.

  Turning my attention to Aaron, I tilt my chin upward. “Not about to hand my address out to a perfect stranger. You can send me the address of where the wedding is taking place, and I’ll meet you there.”

  “Fair enough,” he replies as he turns away from me, heading toward the door. Veronica is in his way, but he just gives her a polite nod and moves around her. She fans herself dramatically behind his back to indicate she thinks he’s hot as hell, and I can’t wait to tell her I’m sure he can see her reflection in the glass of the door.

  When Aaron grabs the handle to pull it open, he looks back. “If you want to get to know me better before the wedding, give me a call. We can go out for a drink or dinner. Or we can just talk about classic literature if you’d like.”

  My face gets even hotter, another pointed reminder I’d totally misjudged him and we actually have something in common.

  Stupid jock who isn’t a jock, apparently.

  The bells tinkle merrily as he pulls the door open and disappears onto the sidewalk. Veronica leans to the side, craning her neck so she can watch him walk down the street as long as possible. When he’s out of her line of sight, she straightens and turns with an expression of wonder.

  “Clarke Angelica Webber,” she accuses as she saunters up to the counter. “You little minx. Flirting with the customers and scoring a date with an Adonis. Just look at you, girl.”

  “Shut up,” I growl, not an ounce of teasing in my tone. I can get away with it because we’ve been friends for most of our lives, starting all the way back in preschool.

  “No, you shut up,” she replies automatically in an exaggeratedly snippy tone. Then she laughs, waving a hand. “Actually, don’t shut up. Tell me everything from start to finish.”

  So I do, from the moment he walked in.

  “Oh, damn,” she murmurs in awe, snapping her fingers. “And he just threw out J.D. Salinger as if it were nothing. Wow.”

  “I should have sensed it was a trap,” I grumble.

  “Why are you so upset?” Veronica asks, taking a sip of her coffee before offering me a taste. I take the cup, lift it to my mouth, and smell cinnamon.

  Delicious.

  I swallow, keeping her coffee in my hand as I move around the counter. We move over to a pair of Victorian-styled chairs in the corner, which I’d set up for customers who might want to peruse a book for a bit. When she takes a seat, I do the same, lifting her coffee for another sip before handing it back to her.

  “He’s just not my type,” I say, hoping she won’t dig further.

  But this is Veronica. She knows me inside and out, warts, weaknesses, and ugly anxieties. “You mean he’s confident, gorgeous, and gregarious.”

  “I like confident men,” I argue, but even I hear the lie in those words.

  Her patronizing glare settles on me. “Please, girlfriend. You’re a solid beta dater.”

  I wave her off. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “Yes, you do,” Veronica asserts. “It’s everything an alpha isn’t, and you tend to associate with men who aren’t very assertive. Let’s face it—you play it way too safe.”

  “With reason,” I point out.

  Her face softens. Veronica has seen me at my lowest, and all at the hands of a man who ruined my life.

  She reaches a hand out, touching mine. So I don’t end up crying like a baby over her empathy, I snatch her coffee back with my free hand, even as our fingers squeeze in solidarity.

  “Next time,” I grumble. “Bring me some coffee, and I won’t have to steal yours.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Wylde

  Over the course of our first season here in Phoenix, the team started hanging out at The Sneaky Saguaro. It’s a restaurant and beer garden, boasting well over a hundred different types of beer on tap. A two-story monstrosity with a massive saguaro cactus at least twenty-five-feet tall running up the center of the building, it’s usually packed every night of the week.

  I like coming here because the food is spicy, the beer cold, and the waitresses scantily dressed in cut-off jean shorts and plaid western shirts tied off under their breasts. The cowboy hats and boots are cute but unimportant.

  The first floor is for regular diners while the second is for the drinkers. The Vengeance has claimed this establishment as our official hangout, so we get preferential treatment. Because we just won the Cup championship, that extends into the off-season as well. A call ahead tonight ensured we had a table reserved just off the massive upstairs bar for my teammates and me.

  “Cheers,” I exclaim, holding up a mug of Narragansett lager. Four mugs join mine, then we each drink deeply to get this party started.

  Well, not exactly a party.

  Just dinner and beers with some of my teammates.

  Single teammates, I should say. Definitely not my closest friends on the Vengeance, but we’re all brothers by virtue of the bond we have as players.

  My closest friends are the guys I play on the first line with. The ones I spend the most time with. The dudes I can anticipate both their thoughts and moves.

  But those guys are leading new lives with their lady loves, which means my time with them has become limited. I don’t hold any grudges because of these circumstances and, quite the contrary, I couldn’t be happier for my buds. They are leading their best lives, which is the way it should be.<
br />
  I invited these guys out, some who are new to the team and others I need to try to get to know better. To my left sits Kane Bellan. He is our newest member, having been traded to us from the Cold Fury during the playoffs for our player, Rafe Simmons. Rafe wanted to return home to North Carolina because his dad was dying of cancer and our illustrious owner, Dominik Carlson, made it happen.

  Kane’s a great acquisition. As a center, he’s instrumental in keeping stability on the second line. The team all affectionately started calling him Superman, not only because of his amazing skills on the ice, but also because he has that whole Clark Kent thing going on with his midnight-black hair, piercing blue eyes, and a jaw that looks like it’s built from granite.

  Next to him is James Steele, the left-winger on the second line. He came to the team in the expansion draft last year from the Quebec Royals, and he’s one of the older players at thirty-three. The fans call him by his last name of Steele, but we just call him Jim. While he’s not technically single, he’s been separated from his wife for the last few months. I’d invited him out because if I hadn’t, he’d stagnate at home.

  Beside Jim and sitting opposite me at our round table is Jett Olsson, a twenty-seven-year-old Swede who is as fast on his skates as his name implies. He’s the second line’s right-winger and quite the lady’s man. He’s been eye-fucking our waitress since she first came to take our orders, and I’m pretty sure he’ll be going home with her at the end of the night.

  Finally, Baden Oulett, our backup goalie, is to my right. Weirdly, he’s perhaps the steadiest and most reliable member of our team as a whole. He plays second fiddle to one of the best goalies ever, our own Legend Bay. It means Baden has to be in prime condition at all times, ready to step on the ice at a moment’s notice and expected to play at a level equal to or greater than Legend. It’s a huge responsibility for a backup goalie—the pressure to perform is immense. While Legend took the vast majority of games this season and was never injured—knock on wood—Baden guarded the net on several occasions and was quite remarkable earning a .927 save percentage by the end of the season. It meant our team was formidable because we had a goalie who could easily carry us through should something happen to Legend, which was a commodity many teams would kill for.