“Is that some kind of sexual inuendo?” I tilt my head to the side, trying to forget the way my core vibrates with each stroke of his fingers. “Show me hot as in…”
“As in I’m intrigued. I think it’s cool.” His expression exudes sincerity. It’s in his eyes. The color azure, similar to my nails. Only his eyes are straight out of Van Gogh’s A Starry Night. Dark, light, with gray flecks. Complicated, yet completely open.
“Then you should see what my ring does.” I smirk.
“No way. Is it a mood ring?” He studies the blue stone surrounded by white topaz on my left ring finger. “Nope, that’s not a mood ring. Oh, let me guess. It’s color change. I read about a gem that does it. The stone changes from blue to purple. Am I right?”
Surprisingly, he is right. This gift, this fluorite ring, means more to me than anyone knows. It was a gift from my mom. Because of the stone’s healing properties, and because it represents her unwavering acceptance of me. I wear it on my left ring finger. It’s not like I’m ever getting married. Besides, it fits, and I never wanted to resize it. It was the last thing I got from her. This guy is suddenly studying it like it’s buried treasure.
“The stone…what’s it called? Fluorite, I think. Or fluorspar. I remember that it’s derived from a Latin word meaning flow. It’s a protective crystal that purifies and heals your body.” Who would have thought Nick George would have knowledge of stones and their healing properties? He’s a walking encyclopedia.
“Wow, you are impressive. And you’re right. That’s why my mom gifted it to me.” It’s all I can say. Suddenly and without warning I’m swallowing hard against a large lump in my throat that’s all but choking me.
“Why did your mom choose the color change? Each fluorite color has a meaning.” Nick knows his stuff and he’s not letting this go. Because he is genuinely interested.
I choose to answer, without getting too personal. “She thought a multipurpose stone would be best. Blue for its calming effect—for letting go of disappointments—and purple for healing emotional and physical scars.”
Crap. I said too much. Studying Nick, I wait for the inevitable questions such as Why do you need healing? Or Healing from what? Seconds tick by in my mind, but no inquisition follows. This guy gets me. He doesn’t think I’m weird, doesn’t find the fact that I wear a ring for protection strange. He’s respecting my boundaries, which makes me like him even more.
“So, you’re complicated. Join the club.” His grin is his approval and his tone is one of sincerity. “You’re tough, and you’re a survivor. You also wear glitter and invite chaperones to our first date. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect that you’re afraid to be alone with me.”
Of course I’m afraid to be alone with him. He’s a triple threat: witty, intelligent, and sexier than I ever imagined. I can’t admit any of that to Nick, in spite of how sweet he is. Instead, I choose my words carefully. “I wonder if you’re for real. I mean, you’re interested in my nails, not to mention my ring. You’re a hockey stud—” Shit! “Star. You’re a hockey star. Stuff like nails and jewelry shouldn’t interest you.”
“Nope, I’m a stud. Freudian slip or not, you think I’m a stud and you’re afraid to be alone with me because you find me irresistible.” He rubs my palm now. Tracing lazy circles that send my every nerve on alert. “Let’s be clear: you interest me.”
His emphasis on you ignites my senses until they hum for him. It’s a sharp ringing in my ears, mixed with vibrations coursing through my body. His hands are warm, and they’re holding mine, still tracing those lazy circles that weaken my resolve and cause me to wonder why I’m fighting this attraction between us. Yes, I’m attracted to him but, when he caresses me like this, he’s more than sex on a stick. He’s genuine, and unlike any man I’ve ever met, let alone dated. I don’t know how much longer I can resist his charms. Or, maybe, I don’t want to resist him. Not anymore.
“You’re afraid to be alone with me. Can’t say I blame you. I am frightening.” His grimace is only half serious. Not even. Maybe thirty-five percent serious at most. I can’t help but laugh.
“You’re right. I find you so terrifying that I’ve even set up a code word. Like they do for blind dates. I did meet you on a dating app, after all. Anything can go wrong.” Two can play the game of pretend. Little does Nick know that I’ve been a master of it for a long time.
“A code word?” Nick cocks his head to the side. “Do tell.”
“Nope. It’s my little secret.” I’m smiling. So much it hurts. Damn, he is smooth, I’ll give him that.
Placing my hand back on the table, he reaches for his beer. A feeling of disappointment floods my system. All because he released my hand. I’m in trouble. That’s the last thing I wanted tonight.
“Let me guess. Dung beetle.” Nick takes a swig from the bottle, staring at me. I’m confused, he must get that. What he doesn’t comprehend is that emotionally, I’m in complete turmoil.
“Your code word is dung beetle, though technically, that’s two words, I suppose.” His clarification eases some tension. It was meant to be funny, that much is obvious. Bad joke aside, he’s putting me at ease. Nick senses that he hit a nerve and is trying to salvage my pride.
I can’t help but smile, as my sass returns in record time. “Though I can seamlessly weave that into a sentence, my code word is not ‘dung beetle.’ Who comes up with that as a code word? Is that a guy thing?”
“Not that I know of. I watched a documentary about them when we were in Cleveland.” His blue eyes hold mine again. He’s testing me now, and I don’t like being under a microscope. There are too many flaws.
“What did you learn about them?” Did I just ask that? This has to be the worst first non-date. Ever. We’re seriously discussing dung beetles.
“Their life span is between one and three years, they can be found on every continent except Antarctica, and the world would be a smellier place without them.” Nick winks at me again. “In case you haven’t noticed, I read a lot. Impressive for a dumb jock, right?”
“Forget being a human encyclopedia, you’re a Google bot.”
“Honey, I’m no bot,” Nick replies, his dark brows arched in a challenge.
All joking aside, he’s kind, funny, can read me, and has a self-deprecating humor akin to mine. That’s a lethal combination, at least where my defenses are concerned. Especially when he’s still so close that I’m tantalized by his scent. It reminds me of pines and woods. There goes my heartbeat again. Just when I’d gotten it to slow down, Nick has awakened it once more. Awakened me. “My point is, you’re anything but dumb. How did you wind up playing hockey professionally? I know your stepdad is a coach. Why did you make it your life’s work? Other than the thrill of the sport, it’s hard on your body, and has risks—health risks. You’re not in it for fame, so why?”
It’s a question straight out of left field, but it’s been on my mind. This man isn’t suave in the professional jock way. No, he’s quirky in a sexy, I-want-him-to-rip-my-clothes-off way. Who comes up with dung beetles? The same guy who loves Neil Diamond. This guy. I want to know more about him. It’s my turn to lean into him. My gaze holds his, with an unspoken challenge. Answer me.
“My father wanted me to run the family business, and hockey was as far away as I could get. I didn’t need his money. I had my own. I’ve worked since I was eleven. Mowing lawns, shoveling snow, you name it. By the time I went to college, I sold my successful landscaping business and ensured I would have a stake in future profits.” His eyes hold mine through all of his admissions. This is a man who had the promise of riches, yet still made it his own way in the world.
“You’re not at all what I expected.” The words tumble from my lips. I’m flustered, unable to filter myself. Releasing a ragged sigh, I’m forced to admit, at least to myself, that Nick is tempting, is seductive, and I’m hooked.
“I like e
xceeding expectations. Especially yours.” He emphasizes his last word. Yours. His smooth baritone drips with an intimacy that seems too personal, an intimacy I suddenly want more than anything.
Rising with a jolt, I sit upright, averting my eyes, breaking the hold he seems to have over me. I don’t know who is currently inhabiting my body, but it isn’t me. Not the hardened, cynical me. That me crumbled somewhere around our beetle discussion. Gross, but nonetheless true.
“I figured this wasn’t supposed to be a typical date when we walked into your cousin’s garage.” Nick hasn’t moved. Though I don’t meet his eyes, I feel his presence. He’s still leaning into me, his scent stronger than before. “How’s that working out for you? This being a non-date, that is. Have you convinced yourself yet?”
His last words are a breathless murmur, and they cause my heart to skip a beat. Maybe two. I’m not sure. Forget coffee, this man is a double shot of espresso to my system. I all but vibrate in his presence.
“No. I’m doubting the whole damn thing.” I just said that aloud. I’m making a fool of myself.
“I wanted a date, Camille.” Nick’s rich baritone is low, smooth, decadent. The meaning of his words—the full meaning of them—send a shock through my system. Like an electrical current, I’m on alert, senses tingling, as I meet his intense gaze. He means every word. It’s in those baby blues that are brimming with emotion.
“Everyone calls me Cami.” Breathless, my soft-spoken whisper hovers in the charged air surrounding us.
His full lips widen into a seductive grin. “I’m not everyone.”
Truer words have never been spoken. He is unique. Otherwise, I’d be immune to his charms. No, he is different and that’s what’s drawing me closer to him. His brawny, muscular body.
I’m in trouble and oh, so tempted. Too tempted.
“Camille…” He murmurs my name. It’s throaty, and sensual. It makes me lean closer still.
His lips are close, too close, and I’m tempted to claim them. One kiss. Would it be that bad? Nick wants it, too. I see it, emanating from the depths of his gaze, with an intensity even I can’t deny.
I’m tempted to kiss him. Here and now. I’m also tempted to run. That wouldn’t be the least bit humiliating, right? Not even I can convince myself of that as a loud clang jolts me from my inner struggle. I search the interior of the bar to find that Sally has left and taken everyone with her.
We’re alone. Me and Nick. My cousin has abandoned me, my non-date is officially a failure, I’m hot for the hockey stud, and we haven’t even begun karaoke yet.
I’d say I’m screwed, but I’m beginning to think that with Nick, a hot night of sex is just what I want. God help me, this is going to be a long night.
Chapter 5
Nick
Camille and I are finally alone. With the old-school song “I’m Not in Love” blaring from the speakers. The original 10cc version, not one of the newer crappy versions. This is one of my favorite songs. I always thought it held a deeper meaning—the silly phase the band sings about—so I researched it once. The meaning of the lyrics permeates this moment. Here. With Camille.
The song was written about the songwriter’s wife. That silly phase he refers to—it’s their marriage, and it’s lasted over fifty years last I checked. As I study Camille’s profile, I notice she won’t turn to meet my eyes. Not anymore. So, instead, I study her angular cheekbones, noting that they’re tinged a faint pink. Following the planes and contours of her face, I notice that her jawline is taut. She’s clearly rattled, yet I feel…calm.
A shudder travels up my spine at the realization that I feel calm with Camille. It’s not often that I can be myself—my true self—on a date. That I can discuss documentaries, or insects. That was a joke, but also a test. My test. Because that’s me, the me that most women don’t want to date. Yet, Camille wasn’t bored or uninterested.
This woman is more than I ever hoped to find on some fucking dating app. She’s definitely more than someone I want to hook up with. Granted, I want her bad, but I don’t want just sex. No, I want more. She makes me want more than I ever thought I wanted.
The realization terrifies me. Isn’t this what I was hoping to find? A deeper connection with someone. Like Chris and Serena have. They’re forever. I know it, so do they. Like the songwriter of the song that plays like foreshadowing, amplifying this moment between me and Camille, sings about. Is it really this easy to fall for someone?
The song is most certainly foreshadowing, but I don’t want to wait a long time for Camille. No. I want instant gratification and, given her date no hockey players mantra, Camille is probably looking for the right time to bolt. I wouldn’t blame her. Not if she knew the things I’m feeling. This is way too fast, and much too soon. I wanted a date to the wedding. I didn’t expect…
“You’re staring.” Camille points out even before she turns. Instinctively, she knows I’m studying her.
I have no words. There are no words to describe the feelings that are overtaking me as Camille faces me, her eyes a smoky amber, meeting mine at last. I swallow hard. My throat is parched and rough like sandpaper. Do I have a voice anymore? I decide to remain silent, try not to embarrass myself.
She studies me, her gaze radiating a warmth, a ferocity I can’t explain. Whatever I’m feeling, her eyes betray that she’s feeling it, too, and it has thrown her just as off-kilter as it has me.
I’m not in love. But I wanted something meaningful with someone meaningful. I wanted…her. Long before I ever met her, long before tonight, I wanted Camille.
Reaching for Cami, I flatten my palm against her cheek. It’s warm, and she leans into me. For a second, maybe two, maybe more. The softness of her cheek sends my sense of time reeling.
“This was supposed to be a non-date,” she whispers.
“Was it?” Though I ask the question, I don’t care how she wants to classify it. Not when she’s resting her cheek against my hand. That tells me she doesn’t want me to pull away. Neither do I.
She exhales. “I thought if I tested you, that you’d bolt. I hoped that you would. It would have made things easier.”
It’s just as I suspected, though I’m surprised she admitted it.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” I say. Though it’s a joke, my tone reveals my relief. I’ve got a shot. That’s what I want because I’m not in love, but I could be. With Camille. I see it clearly, as I lean in to kiss her.
Her lips part, and her warm breath entices me, claiming my lips, a promise of what could come. I’m close…so very close to kissing her, when the song changes to Fall Out Boy’s “This Ain’t a Scene, It’s an Arms Race.” The explicit version. Camille turns away, just as my lips touch her free cheek. Exhaling a deep breath, I rest my forehead on her shoulder.
Fall Out Boy. That’s all it takes to break our connection. Fucking Fall Out Boy. Still, despite the fact that “this ain’t a scene, it’s a goddamn arms race,” Camille doesn’t pull away. We’re frozen in place.
I’m close enough to make another move. I could easily nip her earlobe with my teeth, which sounds like a great idea, but I don’t do it. Hell, we could rip each other’s clothes off and have sex on the table. Or the bar. Or wherever. But I don’t pursue that either.
This is more than a lay. She is more, and I want a date. A real, honest-to-God date. That’s why I ignore her intoxicating exotic perfume, and the fact that her warmth is making me hard. That’s why I ignore the fact that she’s frozen in place, as if waiting for me to make another move. Because I want more than mind-blowing sex. She’s not a one-and-done. Not for me.
The song blares, slowly winding its way through the fog of attraction and longing that had overtaken us.
Camille shoves a strand of her long straight hair out of her eyes. “Karaoke?” she suggests, her voice rough. So much so that she clears her throat.
Since I can’t take my mind off what almost happened, or the hunger she’s evoked in me, I nod before thinking. In my irrational state of mind, I just agreed to karaoke. The problem is that I don’t sing in public. Not ever. I’m tone deaf. Agreeing to karaoke just isn’t me. I’m possessed, I’m certain of it. There’s no other explanation for my ridiculous reply, or the fact that I’m agreeing to karaoke when all I want to do is kiss Camille and never let her go.
My rational train of thought leads me to the fact that Camille needs to get to know me. The real me, and not the professional hockey player she thinks I am. That’s my profession, it’s a passion, but it’s not the man inside. It’s time I show her who I really am.
It’s a risk. Most women want the confident professional athlete. As for the real me…the dorky guy who loves Neil Diamond…not so much. Camille is different. If I want her to open up, I must do the same. “Okay. Karaoke it is.”
Camille squeezes my hand, the one that’s still cupping her face, before pulling away. An emptiness overwhelms me when she rises from the table. “Bourbon, too. Definitely bourbon.”
She pours us each a tumbler, then downs hers like a pro.
I hold my glass in the air. “I have one condition: I pick the songs.”
“Oh, come on!” Camille tosses her head back, feigning a whimper. “With your taste in music?”
“I pick the songs, or no deal.” My tone is teasing. I’m taking great pains to be natural, funny, to place no pressure on her. That’s my plan. The fucking plan that is stressful enough to make me pour another glass, or ten. I don’t, though. Camille deserves my full attention. Besides, I never drink for the sake of getting drunk. That’s another thing about me she’s yet to learn.
As it turns out, I’m not the only dork in attendance tonight. It’s evident when I start Taylor Swift’s “Shake it Off.”
“A little Tay Tay? I’ve so got this.” Camille stretches, like we’re in a boxing ring and she’s about to knock me out. Sure enough, she does. Cami knows all the moves and lyrics. She swings her dark hair this way and that. She shimmies her hips and gets lost in the music. She’s dressed in black. A body-hugging black top, skinny jeans, and boots. Not the practical ones. Knee-high, leather, and hotter than hot. Every time she raises her hands in the air, her top rises just enough to show a hint of her belly. I want to touch her. I want her to get lost with me, as much as she does in the music.
Ice Hard Page 6