Page 4 of At First Smile

CHAPTER TWO

Don’t Let this be the End

Rowan

A n unbridled grin stretches across my face, taking in the shock illuminating Pen’s features.

The gold in her brown eyes was bright, mirroring warm honey, like a punctuation mark to her sweetness.

Her pink heart-shaped mouth forms an “O” and then lifts into that same big smile that blasted me at Tim Hortons.

“Rowan.” She tugs at a piece of glossy hair. A nervous tick that I’d noticed her do a few times in our brief interaction. Each time she did it, I wondered how those dark locks with rich red waves woven through the tresses would feel wrapped around my fingers.

You sound creepy. I clear my throat. “Looks like we’re seatmates,” I say, clicking my seatbelt. A decadent, candied aroma wafts between us, cocooning me in her lush scent. Alright, I am creepy.

“What are the odds?” She crosses one leg over the other, drawing my attention to toned sun-kissed limbs.

I move my gaze back to her face, trying not to think about those legs wrapped around my waist, her body writhing beneath me. “What are the odds, indeed.”

If she only knew. I’d suffered only a moderate amount of shock in finding Pen sitting beside me.

It feels stalkerish, but not completely.

After she offered to pay for my food, I planned to repay her in some way.

My mam may tsk “Rowan Michael Iverson, don’t insult others by not accepting their kindness,” but she also taught me to always take care of a lady.

Glimpsing Pen’s boarding pass while she dug for her wallet at the counter, I knew that was my opportunity.

A way to thank her without seeming like an ungrateful asshole unwilling to accept a stranger paying for their meal. Especially such a pretty one.

No, not pretty – beautiful. A blend of sweetness and strength radiates from Pen.

The loveliness of her voice as she’d said, “I’ve got this,” had thrummed in my ears but her incandescent smile gut-punched me.

If Greg, my agent, hadn’t engaged in his favorite new hobby of blowing up my mobile for the last three days, I could have stayed drinking in her smile for hours.

When Pen scampered away after overhearing my less-than-polite but far too regular conversation with my bulldog agent, he repaid me by having his assistant upgrade her seat to first class.

The plan was never to have her seated beside me, but Greg subscribes to his own brand of agenting.

Doing what he wants for me rather than what I want for myself.

I just want to repay her kindness…and maybe a little part of me doesn’t like the idea of Pen crammed into the last row of the plane for the five-and-a-half-hour flight.

At this moment, watching her bite her lower lip, the tiniest of pink gracing her cheeks, I may up Greg’s percentage, or at the very least send him a gift basket.

“I’m sorry for eavesdropping on your call,” she offers, the color deepening on her cheeks.

“Yeah.” A slight wince covers my features.

It’s not the first time someone has witnessed me lose my temper.

Fuck, there’s an entire Sportscenter gag reel of my bleeped-out outbursts cut to the beat of Taylor’s Swift’s “You Need to Calm Down.” My dad would joke he went to a boxing match and a hockey game broke out.

Somehow in a sport known for its aggression, I get labeled the poster child for anger management.

Still, the thought of Pen witnessing that part of me so soon after meeting churns in my gut. I don’t want to hide who I am from her, but the idea of her seeing me as the world sees me…

“I hope things turned out okay with you and motherfucker,” she says. The sweetest goddamn smile widens on her face.

“Ha!” I bark, unashamed of the booming laugh. “Yeah. He’s fine. Greg can be a lot .”

“Guess he earned the nickname, then.”

“That he did.” I smirk, thinking motherfucker may be my nicest term of endearment for my agent of the last ten years. “I’m sorry you overheard that.”

“No apology needed. I was the one chasing you down.”

“I’m happy you did.”

Even if I don’t like that she witnessed my mini meltdown, something buzzed in my blood seeing her there.

Standing there – bag in hand – her eyes wide with embarrassment, apology, and determination to ensure I got my breakfast sandwich.

How many people would offer to pay for a complete stranger’s breakfast then chase them down in a busy food court to ensure they got it?

Most people wouldn’t. Although, I already know Pen isn’t like most people.

My brother, Gillian, would warn me that I don’t know her, not really. That I’m blinded by a gorgeous smile and stunning personality. He’d say I’m thinking with my cock. He may be right. He generally is about me. But something tells me in this he’s wrong. Very wrong.

“Thank you,” I offer. She’d run off so quickly after bringing me the sandwich that I hadn’t gotten a chance to thank her.

“You’re welcome.” She just beams.

God, I could drown in that smile. Allowing its warm waves to wash over me cleansing away the last week. The sting of a lost championship, thirsty reporters, disappointed yet not surprised family, and a pissed-off coach dwindle to mere shadows in her presence.

She wraps a tendril of auburn hair around her finger. “I didn’t know you were on this flight. I didn’t see you in the gate area.” Her face scrunches in self-deprecation. “Of course, me not seeing something doesn’t mean much.”

“I don’t know if I should laugh at your blind joke or not.” I rub the back of my head.

“You must laugh or no karma points for you.”

A low chuckle rolls out of me at the serious pout puckering her pretty face.

Her lips tug up into a smirk.

“May I…” I shift in my seat, trying to figure out how to word the question without sounding like a dick.

The first few traits of Pen that I cataloged were that brilliant smile, those honey eyes, shapely figure – I am a man after all – and all that hair.

God, my fingers itch to thread into her hair, pulling her close in a deep kiss.

The thought ran on repeat while we’d chatted at Tim Hortons.

It wasn’t until we moved down the counter that I noticed the cane.

“You can ask.” She leans back against the plush leather seat.

“I imagine you have people ask you all the time.”

“Not really.” She shakes her head, a silent laugh sparking in her eyes. “Most people don’t ask me directly.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

“They usually talk at me, spewing whatever misinformation they have about blindness, gush, ‘God bless you’ or, most frequently, ignore me completely. Well, they don’t exactly ignore me completely. I have enough vision to see their stares and pointing fingers.”

“Assholes.” My jaw clenches.

Her palm rests on my hand, its warmth soothing the angry beast inside me.

I fight a strong urge to punch anyone who’d ever looked at this gorgeous creature with pity or indifference.

The same angry beast that came out a week ago as I ignored repeated calls from Greg to fix this or else I’ll find myself wearing yet another new jersey.

“It’s okay, Rowan. My Aunt Bea always said the world is full of assholes, but it’s also full of a lot of good people. People who ask questions rather than assume. People who meet my gaze when they talk to me.”

Placing my other hand atop hers, sandwiching it between my far larger ones, my gaze meets hers. “How much can you see?”

“May I show you?”

An electric zing pulses across my skin with the sensation of her satin hands wrapped around mine. Folding them into small circles, she brings them to my eyes like makeshift glasses. The TV screen and flap with inflight magazines is eclipsed in the tiny holes I look through.

“Like that, but with a layer of fuzziness. I see things; however, the details can be unclear like looking through a fogged-up telescope. My peripheral vision is pretty much MIA, so I use Cane Austen to get around safely,” she explains, releasing her hands from mine.

A shiver slides down my spine at how wrong it feels to lose the contact. Like somehow my body never felt warm until she touched me.

Ice runs in Iverson’s veins. It’s the most common descriptor announcers, reporters and, even, some teammates use for me. For ten years, I’ve been Rowan ‘Iceman’ Iverson, top defenseman in the National Hockey League. I’d been called a ruthless, unfeeling machine with only one goal: defend.

Pushing those thoughts away, I arch an eyebrow. “Cane Austen?”

“My cane.”

“Favorite Austen book?”

“ Mansfield Park .” Her entire face explodes into a grin. “You?”

“ Emma .”

“Tea and Emma .” Smirking, her body shifts, as if she is giddy.

Can someone be both adorable and fucking sexy as hell all at the same time?

I want to pull her into the bathroom, lift her onto the counter, fall to my knees and worship her until she screams my name and have her curl up against me watching a sappy movie.

The dichotomy of each scenario sighs with a satisfying rightness through me.

I want to do depraved things to her, while tucking her close, protecting and cherishing her all at the same time.

“The Colin Firth or Mathew MacFayden version of Pride and Prejudice ?” I ask.

Gasping, she clutches her hand to her chest. “There’s no choice. Any real Austen fan knows the Colin Firth version is superior. Sorry, Mathew MacFayden.”

I chortle. “My mam would agree with you.”

“Your mam?”

“My mother. She’s a professor of English specializing in Austen. She got her PhD when I was a teenager, so there was a lot of Austen-related discussion and compulsory reading in my house growing up.”

“The vile woman…making you read Austen and starting your proper male education,” she teases.

I raise my finger and tsk . “Don’t mock me. It was a real problem. I actually used the word court when dating my first girlfriend in secondary school.”

“Secondary school? Mam?” She tilts her head. “I hear a slight Irish lilt, but it only comes in and out.”