But in the back of his mind, he knew he couldn’t be too…much. In order to make good on the promise to Michaels, he had to hide a little bit of himself. Al had taken care of the physical—the blue streaks were gone for the night. It was up to him to take care of the emotional, and he’d been doing a pretty good job.
But then he’d managed to bump his drink against the back of a hot chick’s dress. Not that he’d deliberately done it, but if he’d actually been planning, he would have chosen someone like her. Dammit, she was cute. And maybe a cute girl was just what he needed. Maybe….
No. He had to concentrate. This season demanded all of his concentration. There was potential for something, and no he was not going to think about the cup. Maybe after everything was over, he might be able to investigate some hot chick’s ass. No. Not now. Not in the middle of the kind of season where everything seemed to click.
Speaking of potential, the sound of a gathering crowd broke through his thoughts; footsteps on marble, the deep intake of breath and the silence. He felt himself head towards the building commotion, almost as if driven by an outside force. His stomach clenched, the reflexive concern that he’d somehow caused the problem eating through his bones. Shit. At least with the blue streaks, people would recognize him for the brash, bold persona he usually played, but like this? He felt like the wannabe-academic-farmboy he was underneath it all. Dammit.
He found himself stopping just outside the main group, watching carefully, not pushing. “What happened?” he asked someone.
“Some chick tripped on the stairs coming down from the bathroom, and gave everybody a show.”
*****
So a guy with a cute ass and gorgeous eyes, not to mention a beautiful accent, wanted to buy her a drink because he thought he’d made her feel uncomfortable? These were all benefits of being on good behavior. Unfortunately, she decided, as she stared at her unfamiliar, unadorned reflection in the bathroom mirror, this sweet, subdued guy probably wouldn’t be able to deal with all of her foibles. She wanted to be herself, her real self, with a guy who’d get it, at least once. Sighing, she realized that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, so she reapplied her lipstick until it looked about as right as she could make it, then took a deep breath and headed out the door.
She needed to be careful, but confident. Good behavior did not mean doormat, or the dormouse that was afraid of everything. It just meant no screaming dragon bitch all over the place. She could do that. She could be gracious and graceful. Including while going down the gorgeous flight of stairs that separated the bathrooms from the rest of the ball room. And descending those stairs made Mel feel as if she were in a Marilyn Monroe movie or the corresponding Madonna video. It was perfect, glamorous, with the uncharacteristically comfortable pair of Jimmy Choo’s…
She knew the moment her heel came out from under her, catching the stairs, that this was going to hurt. Falling on her ass, in this gorgeous dress. Dammit. Of course.
If she was making a public appearance as the infamous spokeswoman for romance novels she’d become, wearing her trademark corset and kick ass boots, she’d know how to deal with this. She’d be able to brazen it out, make some pithy remark and everything would be fine. But in an elegant cocktail dress, in an even more elegant location, she was clueless. Fish out of water, daughter of a famous critic and even more famous journalist. Confused as to where she belonged and desperately wanting to hide.
Then she looked down. Just as she’d predicted, the girls had joined the party. Despite the fact she’d worn a bra underneath her dress. Ohshitohshitoshit.
She scrambled, wishing for the stole…something… anything to hide herself with. Her stomach twisted with concern, with ‘dear God this was going to be all over the place and she was just…’
“Hey lady…I’d play with those melons any day…..”
“You can’t,” she said as she pulled the front of her dress up, standing tall, and glaring at the son of a bitch who’d been drooling at something he had no right to lust over. “You’re too busy playing with your own.”
The sudden hush that fell over the crowd made her swallow, reminding her all too quickly that she’d broken the night’s one commandment. Except she’d been defending herself against someone she knew wouldn’t stop. Unfortunately, she recognized the type—the slobbering jock who believed he deserved the world, worthy of attention from the peons who populated the rest of civilization. The good in all of this is that she was just the sort of girl to remind him that not everybody was going to come at his beck and call. That gave her the courage to stand at her full height, full of pride and glaring at every single person in that entire group who contributed to the fact she felt two inches tall.
*****
“You can’t because you’re too busy playing with your own…”
The tone of the woman’s voice and the words she used echoed in his head. They were familiar. From where? He racked his brain. And then he remembered…
“Yeah,” she’d said, her voice calm, joking and relaxed, “cock, ass, cunt. They’re words. They’re easy words to write, easy words to say. They can have their place in a romance novel. But the more important words, the ones that mean the most no matter how many times you write ‘fuck me’, are three little words. And if you don’t get them right, all the big cocks in the world won’t save you.”
“And what are those?” The radio shock jock seemed confident. “Fuck me in the ass?”
She laughed, this time bigger, throatier. “Four words, and though that might be in some, they’re not the ones I was talking about. You ready?”
“Ready.”
“They’re the crux of every single romance novel, and if they don’t work, the whole book is shit. They’re I. Love. You.”
Melanie. Emily-the-blogger’s big sister. In that dress, without the corset and the boots, he hadn’t recognized her and was going to buy her a drink. She and her ass were cute but she was ‘The Girl in the Lace Corset’—too loud for someone who was trying to hide, to be incognito for once in his life. He couldn’t be anywhere near her cute little ass and keep his place on the team. He just couldn’t.
“Silly little bitch, spending too much time writing about balls like mine than actually scoring.”
Fuck. With a shock, he recognized the voice of Chuck ‘Alsto’ Allston. Womanizer, screwball, sonofabitch and all-round asshole. Nobody on the team liked him, not even Miller, and he was the man’s defense partner. And yet there Alsto was, at the bottom of the stairs, taunting her.
This could get dangerous because neither of them would back down. She’d goad him, he’d continue because god forbid he get bested by a girl and, clearly, she had no tolerance for assholes. Who knew where that would lead. Nowhere good, that was for damn sure. He had to do something.
So, he took a deep breath and started to make his way through the crowd. “Put your cucumber back where it belongs Alsto,” he shouted. “And leave the lady alone.”
*****
“Put your cucumber back where it belongs, Alsto and leave the lady alone.”
The crowd parted in a mix of astonishment and awe at the loud booming voice. Mel found herself wondering who, aside from her, would say something like that? She couldn’t see a damn thing beyond the people at the foot of the stairs and the asshole’s stunned face, a problem chalked up to her height deficiency.
But as the presumed speaker came closer, Melanie recognized a pair of gorgeous grey eyes, a build that was tight, with the promise of a twelve pack beneath his tuxedo shirt. He was the hottie she was supposed to meet at the bar. But instead of a slightly shy smile, there was a brashness to his expression, a dangerous light in his eyes that made him look familiar despite the fact that his dark hair was only one color.
“Emerson. What do you think about the so called ‘Avery rule’ and the clarification of goalie screening?”
“I think the league was right in doing what it needed to. There’s screening and then there’s modern dance. Not that th
ere isn’t a place for modern dance, but it definitely doesn’t belong in the middle of a hockey game.”
“Emerson? Emerson? Were you complaining about anti-Semitism in the NHL back in November when you talked about a lack of matzoh Ball soup in Orange County?
A laugh, a sigh. A look in his eyes like there he was again. “Anybody who knows me, knew that I really wanted a bowl of matzoh ball soup. I wasn’t feeling well and it’s become a comfort food for this Regina farm boy when he’s sick. But at the same time, prejudice is something we all have to deal with, because you can’t sweep it under a rug. Nor can you prioritize which is more important. Whether it’s against someone’s race, sex or something you can’t see, like religion or sexual orientation, it has to stop.” A big sigh of relief and a shake of his head. “But all the same, I’m glad to be back here in the Big Apple.”
Chris ‘Emo’ Emerson. Hot, known more for his off-ice antics than the fact he was heading for a thirty goal season and on a scoring streak to boot. He’d come to rescue her. Shit.
She had to think fast. “You really…”
“All right,” Uncle Arnie interjected, interrupting it all. “There’s nothing to see, nothing to do here. Go back and play and enjoy yourselves.” As the crowd began to disband, he turned to Emerson. “Get her out of here, will you?”
Unfortunately, in a situation like that, she knew he couldn’t say no. “It’ll be my pleasure,” he said, as he gestured towards the coat room. And, as if she had any choice in the matter, she smiled at him, rolled her eyes at Uncle Arnie and left the room.
*****
“You really don’t have to.”
It wasn’t exactly the first thing he’d expected to hear from the hot chick, Melanie, a.k.a. Emily-the-blogger’s sister, once they’d gotten into the safety and relative quiet of the cloak room. But all the same, he raised an eyebrow. “I don’t have to what?”
“Take me anywhere. I can just go home. Really.” She blushed. “You did enough. I can deal with this on my own.”
He shrugged. “I never doubted your ability to deal…”
“Once you figured out who I was.”
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. But, if I had to guess, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, had you not figured out who I was.”
The shock went across her face in a wave. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” he replied. “Before all of this happened, you were meeting me for a drink. Afterwards, you’re running as far from me as you can get.” He considered the irony as the words came out of his mouth. Quiet was not what she and her cute little ass would bring him. And now, as she was telling him she wasn’t interested, saving him from the trouble of the noise and the cameras, he was trying to get her to come with him? He was simply certifiable.
“That would be after my uncle, your team owner, practically forced the issue. Last thing I need is a pity drink.”
She was conflicted. Emotions seemed to alter the planes of her face in a way that reminded him of one of his brother’s early attempts at a mural. Colors all over the place. Anger, embarrassment, nerves, and even a little bit of hope. He shrugged. Despite how bad she was for him, he understood. And he’d bet that he’d be able to find his way around the path she’d been walking. He shrugged. “Well here’s the deal. I need a drink, and I owe you one. No pressure.” Hands up palms out, as though he wanted to squeeze her ass. “You come with me, I buy you that drink. You don’t, well then we’ll have to do it another time.”
“But,” she interjected, sighing. “That really assumes you actually owe me a drink. Really. No harm, no foul. I’m fine, no worries. It’s okay.”
“Okay,” he said, trying to behave, to be good, to act like a normal guy for once. “Fine. Whatever. I’d like to buy you a drink whether you think I owe you one or not. I like you. And…well, the rest is up to you.”
He turned, and clear on his course, headed towards the door.
“Wait.”
He stopped, waiting, wondering.
“No funny business?”
He would have laughed, except he knew she was serious. The sarcasm waiting in the wings got swallowed down. “All I’m doing is going for a drink. I’d prefer if you came with me, but I’ve got no problems going by myself.” Whether he actually would go and have a drink by himself was debatable, but she didn’t need to know what.
And she nodded. “Fine. I want you to know. I’m not going out of obligation, or a sense I think you owe me a drink. I just…want one and I don’t want to drink by myself.”
He’d take that. He’d really take that. “So come on. Let’s go.” Then he offered her his hand. Miracle of miracles, she took it.
Chapter Three
Melanie held his hand, but she felt like she was jumping off a cliff instead of holding something that would keep her afloat. “I just want peace,” she said, staring down at the shoes that had caused her so much trouble. “Really. I just want…to go away and hide for a while.”
When she looked back up, he was looking back at her. And that half joking, half indulgent expression was gone. Instead, there was something else, and she wondered if there was more to him. If there was something inside him that really could understand her.
“Yeah. I know.”
And it wasn’t rude, or as if he was repeating himself. His words sounded weary, bereft of the façade he’d worn in front of everybody that night. This was the version of Chris Emerson who she wanted to have a drink with, the one who’d managed to get her to agree to meet him at the bar in the middle of the insanity. So she nodded, smiled, not full on flat out glow, but a real one.
He nodded back, a small smile of his own meeting hers, as he led her to an underground garage. “I left my car here,” he explained, opening the passenger side door of an expensive German car that looked like a sedan had swallowed an ATV. “If you don’t mind me driving…”
She shook her head. “Not really. I haven’t driven in Manhattan in years.” And then, as she let him close the door behind her, she thought about it further.
“Even more importantly,” she said, as he got into the car on the driver’s side. “I haven’t driven at all in about as long, so it’s fine either way.”
“Now before we head out,” he began, his voice soft and clear, “I’m taking you seriously.”
What did he say? Had he not been taking her seriously before then? Did the sudden change of mind require a declaration? Fucking asshole.
“Hold up, let me finish before you let loose the firing squad.”
His eyes met hers, and she took a calming breath. “Okay.”
“So you want to hide for a while, have some peace, right?”
She nodded. “That’s right.” Then she paused, adjusting her seat belt, waiting for him to continue. “That’s what you’re taking me seriously on?”
“Yeah.” He ran his hands through his hair before turning towards her, focusing over the gear shift. “But I’m taking you somewhere special, somewhere private, so you have to promise me…well you’ll just relax and enjoy yourself. Just be yourself, is all I ask.”
She smirked at him. “Leave the corset at the doorstep?”
He shook his head, which surprised her. “Just be yourself. You don’t have to feel like you’re on good behavior or that you’re ‘on’. I want you to be you tonight. Because? Fair warning? I’ll be me.”
She hoped, she prayed that he meant it. Because more than anything else in the world, she wanted someone to get her. And maybe, possibly, there might be a chance he could.
*****
She looked comfortable sitting in his car, Chris thought as he drove down through the windy and traffic-filled streets of the city. He probably shouldn’t feel comfortable as he drove, but he’d been one of those weirdoes who had to have a car in Manhattan and so he’d learned to just deal with the crazy. He’d also driven this way so many times, he could do it in his sleep.
More importantly, there was space in his special parking lot, located tw
o blocks away from Razor’s Ink. He’d be able to tip the guy extra to keep the car overnight and pick it up the next day. Life was good, and contrary to what most people said, Manhattan was really a collection of small towns disguised as a big city.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll walk the rest of the way,” and found himself smiling at her horrified expression. It was, in fact, February, and he had to remind himself that not only was she unused to Regina winters the way he was, she also wasn’t wearing very much. “It’s not far. Block or two from here.”
She nodded, apparently willing to trust him that far. “Okay.”
“And,” he added, as he got out of the car and went to open her door. “If you need another layer, I’ve got my coat and a jacket I don’t need.”
She raised an eyebrow and he couldn’t help but smirk back. “I’m from Saskatchewan,” he replied. “This is nothing.” He offered a hand and helped her out of the car. “Not to mention your clothing is less winter friendly than mine is.”
That got a laugh out of her. A throaty, strong, beautiful laugh, only slightly obscured by the beeping of the car as he locked it and set the alarm. “I’ll give you the FWS,” she said.
It was his turn to raise an eyebrow, and he did so as they started to walk down the small, cobblestoned street. “FWS?”
“Freeze Warning System.” She shrugged. “In case of freezing, before my teeth start to chatter, I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you,” he replied. They fell into a companionable silence, and he put his arm around her. She didn’t pull away, but she did look at him.
“Ice,” he replied. And it was true; he’d seen the telltale signs of black ice on the cobblestones, and on the sidewalk. “I’m probably better equipped to deal with ice.”
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