Page 24

I barely make it a few steps before a voice cuts through the morning. “You stalking someone?”

I flinch so hard I nearly drop my tablet.

Standing next to the black car is a man who might as well have been carved out of attitude and shadows.

Oh no…of course it’s him.

He’s in a T-shirt now—black, snug, stretching over his chest like it was custom made for his sins, with tattoos that tease down one arm—wrapping his forearm like they’re guarding secrets.

Not to mention the annoyingly smug look on his face like he knows exactly what you’re thinking and is judging you for it.

It isn’t fair that someone this attractive has the personality of wet cement.

His dark eyes pin me in place.

I straighten. “What?”

He shrugs, all lazy menace. “You’ve been sitting there for fifteen minutes just staring into space. Seemed like stalking.”

“I wasn’t—” I snap my mouth shut and regroup. “I was mentally preparing for my meeting.”

His brows lift. “So… stalking. Cool.”

I grit my teeth. “You’re impossible.”

He takes a step closer, and I catch the clean scent of his aftershave—something crisp and stupidly expensive that makes my brain short-circuit.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, “it becomes my business when you crash into my car and then lurk like a creeper the next morning.”

“Oh my god.” I throw my hands up. “Barely! you said it yourself, 'don't worry about it,' I slice my eye's. “Drama king. there wasn’t even any paint transfer.”

“You came backing out like you were trying to outrun a scandal. Or maybe you just drive like someone who thinks looking in your rearview before you back out is optional.”

“Yeah? And you were parked halfway into the turn lane like you thought it was your driveway.”

We’re toe-to-toe now.

His eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second. Just enough to make me forget my name.

And I hate that.

He’s hot. Objectively. But hot doesn’t cancel out arrogant. Or insufferable. Or the very real possibility that he spends more time in front of a mirror than I do.

The fact that I feel a sliver of attraction to him annoys me. I know it shouldn’t. Attractiveness has no correlation to personality. It’s only natural for me to notice his height and his solid build.

“I could’ve reported you,” he says, voice low and even.

I arch a brow. “You didn’t…you chased me instead. Let me guess,” I add. “Big car, bigger ego, zero self-awareness?”

He eyes the badge clipped to my tote. “You work here or something?”

“Starting today,” I bite out. “Team nutritionist. For the Cyclones.”

His gaze sharpens. “Of course you are.”

I smile sweetly. “Didn’t know hockey players had this much time to be nosy.”

He looks mildly amused. “Didn’t know nutritionists had that much attitude.”