Irresistible You

by Kate Meader

  Cade laid his hand on Remy’s shoulder. “This ex­­plains a lot.”

  “Fuck you,” he muttered, then turned on his noncursing mouth to smile at his five-year-old niece, Colette.

  “Uncle Remy, you kicked butt on the ice!”

  He cupped her freckled cheek. Damn, he couldn’t wait to have little ones of his own. “I sure did, chérie. Glad you caught me on a good night.”

  More like an amazing night. The puck was as big as a dinner plate, his eyes tracking Grand Canyon–sized gaps through the defense, crafting perfect angles like he’d majored in geometry.

  Waking up alone after the best sex of his life would normally have put a stutter in his skate, but not today. That great sex with a hot woman—who admittedly he should be skating away from—had left him feeling so good that not even her sneak-out this morning could dull the experience.

  Sure, he’d been disappointed. Then he’d read her note.

  That note had cheered him right the fuck up because in it he sensed her fear, and while that shouldn’t make him happy, it did. She was frightened because it was that good.

  Remy, the note had said. Last night was wonderful, but I really need to get back to the hotel. Have a great game!

  See? Terrified.

  Meanwhile, back in the real world, his sisters were currently ogling everything within ogling distance, never mind that two of them were happily married. Hardly an example to set for his nieces. He pulled on his suit jacket and entered the fray.

  “Where’s Poppa?” he asked Marie, who was trying to restrain Mignon from folding dirty towels. This was his niece’s latest. Tidying up.

  “You know he has to watch the game in the bar. He’s probably buying rounds for everyone after your performance.” His father drove his momma nuts when they watched the games together because he liked to shout at the screen. Marie touched Remy’s cheek, and they shared something unspoken. The past year had been tough on this woman, the DuPre pillar of strength. Now that he had his mojo back, Remy was more determined than ever to bring home that hardware.

  “Bar? Did I hear a bar mentioned?” Jorgenson stepped forward and held out his hand to his mother. “You must be Remy’s sister.”

  “Marie DuPre,” his momma said, allowing Fish to kiss her knuckles while Remy rolled his eyes. “And yes, we’re headed to a local bar. Good food, music.” She turned to Remy. “Your father will pretend he doesn’t want to sing.”

  Yep, that sounded like Poppa. The cancer had stolen his joy in music, but in the last couple of months, it had returned by bars and chords. Erik called out to the team. “Guys, Remy is buying drinks at his sister’s bar.” He cocked his head at Remy. “Lead the way.”

  Remy sighed. “I’ll meet you outside.” As soon as his woman showed.

  His skin tingled, awareness creeping over him. About time.

  She stood at the door in her usual hot-shit suit, tonight’s version a navy pinstripe over a pink blouse that would look better on the floor of his apartment. Her hair was piled up on her head, held together with what looked like a chopstick but on closer inspection was a tiny hockey stick. There was a whimsy to it he would never have associated with Harper. His gaze took inventory, moving down, down—damn, she was wearing those red shoes, the ones he’d put on her feet like some freaky-deaky Prince Charming.

  Strutting in, she didn’t spare him a glance. “Gentlemen, great game tonight. Coach Calhoun and I couldn’t be prouder.”

  Murmurs of thanks floated through the locker room. As she walked in his direction, he braced with his best we-didn’t-sleep-together face, but she did a fine job of passing over him, instead speaking to his momma. “Marie, you left your purse in the box.”

  “Oh, thanks, Harper,” his mom said before she spied one of his nieces getting a little too familiar with a jock strap. “Jeanette, put that down.” She took off to wrestle the offending garment from the girl’s innocent hands.

  Remy eyed the team’s owner. “Ms. Chase.”

  “Mr. DuPre. You played well tonight.” She slid a furtive glance left and right, and seeing they were unobserved, said, “We should talk.”

  “Or we could pass notes back and forth.”

  She grimaced. “About that . . .”

  “It’s okay, Harper. This is dicey and you have to be careful. We both do.”

  Relief relaxed her shoulders. “Thanks for understanding. A pleasant diversion that can’t be repeated.”

  Before he could protest, one of his nieces popped up like a whack-a-mole and stared at Harper in awe. Yep, know what that’s like. “Colette, go find your grand-mère.”

  “Oh, she’s fine right here,” Harper said, placing her hands on Colette’s shoulders and moving behind her.

  Using his niece as a human shield? For shame.

  Leaning in, he inhaled this woman’s sexy scent and whispered, “I’d say it was a bit more than a pleasant diversion, wouldn’t you?”

  “Perhaps,” she conceded begrudgingly.

  “That will be repeated.”

  Her eyes flew wide in shock. “Are you kidding? We can’t—”

  He peered down at his niece. “Colette, chérie, do me a favor and tell that big guy over there that he played well tonight. He could do with some cheering up.” He turned her in the direction of Bren, who was sitting on a bench tying his laces. Lately Colette had been obsessed with the parable of the Good Samaritan, and she skipped off, ready to do a good deed.

  He lowered his voice. “Well, you see, Ms. Chase, we have a problem. For some reason, I’ve suddenly started playing better. It could be down to a growing cohesiveness with the team. Or the fact I’m in my hometown and the food makes me feel right. Or it could be I’m feeling inspired because the boss had her lips wrapped around my dick last night.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Did you just accuse me of being your . . . your . . . muse?” She hissed it like he’d said something truly filthy. For a woman as guarded as Harper, maybe it was.

  He really should not be enjoying himself this much, but Poppa was on the mend, they’d won a hard-fought-for game in his hometown, and he’d had a night of awesome sex with a gorgeous woman.

  “Yes, I did. So if you want me to continue playing this well, you’d better figure out how to keep me happy.”

  “More blackmail?”

  He grinned. “That’s how I roll, minou.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to be?”

  Violet canted her head and took in the half-formed—­penis? elephant trunk? nuclear reactor?—spinning like a top on Isobel’s ceramics wheel.

  “I call it Wishful Thinking.” Isobel dipped her hands in water and applied another lascivious stroke to the phallic lump before her. “It’s been that long that I truly don’t remember what one looks like.”

  Harper grabbed her wineglass with clay-covered fingers. The Sister Bonding sessions had been continuing on as regular a schedule as they could manage. Indoor rock climbing was more fun than Harper expected. She’d vetoed trapeze (Isobel’s idea), so this week they were doing something a little less active and a bit more . . . drunken. Pottery and Pinot, a class for people with no clue about ceramics and no intention of getting one, had seemed like a great addition to the rotation. Get dirty. Drink wine. Make clay penises. A laugh riot.

  Of course Harper wasn’t making a clay penis. She was—well, she was waiting for inspiration. Inspiration was choosing to stay the hell away, so all Harper had on her wheel was a disc that could possibly pass as a puck. Because she lived and breathed hockey, obvs.

  But at least she had wine. One more gulp into the abyss.

  The creative sort, Violet was crafting something that looked like a really nice mug that could actually be drunk from without producing an unladylike drool. The ceramics class was her bright idea. She’d claimed she’d never done it before, which was patently a lie.

&nbs
p; “Why has it been so long since you saw a penis?”

  Said just loud enough to draw Church Lady glances from their classmates as well as from Debbie, the instructor who preferred to devote her attention to the people who spent more time with their hands on the wheel than wrapped around a wineglass.

  Uh, Pinot is in the class title, Debbie.

  Isobel sighed. “Look at me.”

  Harper and Violet obeyed. Then exchanged puzzled glances with each other because looking at Isobel provided no enlightenment whatsoever.

  “I’m six feet tall and have better musculature than any of the guys I’ve ever dated.”

  Violet frowned. “Not getting the problem.”

  “I’m a jock. Guys, or at least the guys I like, don’t date jocks.”

  Harper took another pull of her wine. She wondered if drinking and ceramics was such a good idea. Throwing under the influence. “What’s your type?”

  “Guys who make me look like I’m not going to flatten them.”

  “So, tall and built.” Remy made Harper look small, but she felt ten feet tall when in his arms. A week since that night in New Orleans, and her body was still on fire with want.

  No wonder her ceramics efforts were garbage when all she could think of was his hard body sliding against hers. The halt he’d pulled when she asked, just testing his resolve and respect. His fun turnabout as he ordered, Now ride me, minou. The man had known exactly the right combination of words and actions to smooth away her nerves and turn her into a full-fledged sex bomb. With Remy, she felt like she’d reclaimed a missing part of herself.

  She was now engaged in what could only be termed anticappointment. A week had passed with Remy not pushing for more, and though a part of her might have liked him to push, the sensible—team-owning, sexless—­part was grateful that he respected her decision. So what if she wanted him? That was not the point. She wanted to eat cupcakes for lunch and lie in bed reading romance novels all day. That didn’t mean she could just throw her responsibilities out the window and indulge.

  “I also like guys who dress sharp,” Isobel added to her list of exceedingly low requirements.

  Violet chuckled. “So, a hockey player on game day.” She shot a pointed look at Harper. “But we all know what a terrible idea that is. At least, according to no-fun Harper.”

  If they only knew. Harper put the pedal to the metal on the potter’s wheel and applied herself to shaping a plant pot.

  “I’ve bagged a couple of hockey players in my time, and frankly . . .” Isobel shrugged. “Overrated.”

  “Ooh, details,” Violet said.

  “I’m just saying, I lost my virginity to one who had—who still has—a rep for being a god in the sack. And he sucked.”

  “If he’s any good he will.” Harper giggled at her own lame joke, then quieted on seeing that Isobel wasn’t laughing. “Sorry, too soon?”

  Both of her sisters stared at her.

  “What?”

  “Ladies! How are we doing?” Debbie cut in, ready to assess their progress with a critical eye. Her gaze was first drawn to Violet’s mug. “Nice! Wonderful jollying technique.”

  “Thanks, Debs. I try.”

  She switched to Isobel, but before she could offer a critique, Isobel spoke up. “It’s the Stanley Cup.” At Debbie’s blank look, Izzy elaborated. “The hockey trophy? Ice hockey? You see, it’s broader at the base and gets narrower until it blooms into the cup.”

  “Right,” Debbie said, though she clearly thought what she was seeing was all wrong. Evidently not an NHL fan. “And how about you?”

  Harper looked down at the lump of clay, which had somehow become something in the last five minutes. All this talk of penises must have crossbred with her own X-rated reminiscences of Remy.

  Her clay was now shaped like a long, thrusting appendage, complete with bulbous head. It even had a slight lean to the left, just like—oh, my God, what was wrong with her?

  A shocked Debbie looked like she might have to ban someone for the first time in Pottery and Pinot’s history.

  “It’s—it’s—a mug tree,” Harper said quickly. She pinched at the side of the inappropriately erotic sculpture, drawing out a nubbin. With a little massaging, she shaped a feeble clay branch you could hang a mug on. “See?”

  Debbie saw perfectly. “Well—”

  Someone called her over from the other side of the room, and with one last glare, she took her judgment with her.

  The sisters broke into unrestrained laughter.

  “Jesus, Harper, are you trying to get us thrown out?” Violet asked. “More important, though, is there something you want to tell us?”

  “I’m not sure how it happened. One minute, it was a lump of nothing, the next I’m channeling this.”

  “More like channeling PornHub meets Ghost,” Isobel muttered.

  Harper cocked her head, taking in her new mug tree. “I’m going to call it Well Hung.”

  Instead of appreciating that for the comedic gem it was, her sisters exchanged a look.

  “You seem . . .” Violet said, “different.”

  “Yeah, lighter.” Isobel squinted at her, eyes filled with suspicion. “More relaxed.”

  She felt more relaxed. That experience with Remy couldn’t be repeated, but it had been so liberating to let all the expectations she had for herself melt away, if only for a night.

  “Wine. Three-game winning streak. And a spa day in New Orleans. It was a good idea to go out a day early.” Harper raised her glass. “Did me a world of good.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Harper hung up the phone in her office—formerly her father’s office—and stared at it accusingly, thinking on what she’d just heard from Curtis Deacon at the Sun-Times.

  Care to comment on the news that your sister Isobel has left her coaching job in Montreal?

  Apparently it happened three days ago and Isobel had elected to keep it to herself. What the hell was wrong with her, letting the organization get blindsided like this? They had PR people who could have issued a statement and handled it much better than Harper, who had assured Curtis, after a five-second pause to collect herself, that Isobel’s separation from Montreal was all part of the plan.

  What plan, Harper? Curtis had pounced.

  I’m not at liberty to say, Curtis. Just rest assured that everything happens for a reason.

  Then she’d hung up and unleashed a yell she hoped Isobel could hear two miles away in Lake Forest.

  “Now, that sounds like a mighty frustrated woman.”

  Well, the prodigal returns. Remy stood in the open door to her office, looking too sinfully delicious to exist. A brief flash of dread seized her chest. Sure it was after seven in the evening and everyone in the Rebels’ front office would have left by now, but she was still very conscious that she and Remy in the same small space together was a PR sex-disaster in the making.

  “Can we pretend you didn’t just hear me screaming my head off like a banshee?”

  He leaned against the door, all casual devil-don’t-care. “That depends.”

  “Oh?”

  “On how hungry you are.”

  Not falling for that. “I’m fine. I’ll grab something on my way home.”

  She turned back to the reports Paul Carson, the Rebels’ chief scout, had delivered earlier, her entire body in heightened awareness. How could it not be after coming alive for the first time in years in Remy’s arms? Now it itched to be ignited again.

  “Or you could have something now.” He held up a bag she hadn’t noticed before. “Muffuletta sandwich.”

  The mouthwatering scent of salami and olives hit her hard. Her stomach betrayed her and made its demand: Feed me.

  “How did you know I was here? Or are you usually roving the halls of Rebels HQ, sandwiches in tow, on the off chance you’ll find someone
who needs feeding?”

  He grinned, and clearly taking her question for permission, stepped into her office.

  “Amazing what can be learned by sweet-talking the GM’s assistant. I might have learned a certain team owner has been staying late every night there’s no game this past week.” He placed a sandwich at the edge of the desk, slightly out of reach. Such a tease.

  “You shouldn’t be here.” She may as well have been talking to the food.

  “Worried you can’t resist me?”

  “Remy—”

  He held up a hand. “It’s just a sandwich, Harper. Take a break, and then let me walk you to your car. Don’t like the idea of you working so late.”

  There he was, playing at gentleman again. Not playing, though. Remy DuPre was the genuine article. She wished she didn’t want him so much. But right now, she wanted the sandwich more. So sue her.

  He unwrapped the sandwich, its tantalizing scents growing stronger with each unfurl of the paper. The man was using it in a foodie striptease—and it was working!

  She picked up the roll and took a bite. Pleasure as the combination of olives, mayonnaise, meats, and cheeses hit her tongue drew her moan.

  “You made this?” she asked after her first swallow. Jesus, it was amazing.

  “Uh-huh. That there is my mawmaw’s recipe, passed down through six generations of Acadians.”

  “I thought muffuletta was Sicilian.”

  “Italian immigrants made their way into the Bayou and left their mark. Like all good Louisianans, we take what we like and make it our own.”

  “Thieves and hoodlums.”

  “Pirates and poets.” His gaze strayed to the reports. “So how goes it in the high-powered world of hockey franchise management?”

  “Well, I’m always on the lookout for the next big thing. And I have to replace you.”

  “I’m irreplaceable, but do what you must.”

  She hoped that wasn’t true, though she acknowledged that he brought a real coherency to the team that she’d have trouble emulating with someone else. He worked well with Callaghan, but they needed a stronger left-winger to round out the line.