Page 12 of Breaking Point (IceHawks #1)

Bella

BELLA

* bunny with puck meme *

LAYLA

I’m cursing that hefty NDA

I am utterly DYING to know what this means

BELLA

trust me

you would pass out if I told you

T his is torture.

Pure, unadulterated torture, and for various reasons.

First, and the most painful of all, Grayson is attractive. Wildly attractive. I’m talking GQ cover model, face crafted and molded by the hands of Greek gods attractive.

He’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen and he’s my boss .

Just the sound of his voice has my stomach flip-flopping. Which is odd, considering I’ve despised every male who I’ve come in contact with since my mother’s ovarian cancer diagnosis. After facing the reality of the type of man my father is.

But then Grayson Crawford had to walk down in a towel and suddenly my mind completely forgot that men can’t be trusted.

Couldn’t I have gotten an ugly hockey player?

Don’t they all get their teeth knocked out and have crooked noses from fist fights?

I thought once he put clothes on and covered up the six-pack, I would be able to concentrate on my job and not the way his skin seemed to glisten and glow.

Then the bastard came downstairs in gray sweatpants—I repeat, gray sweatpants.

Doesn’t he know that’s every woman’s kryptonite?

Top all that off with the blush that creeps along his cheeks and the lone dimple that continues to show when he gives me a shy smile, and I’m done for.

Truly.

I cannot even begin to decipher the emotions wreaking havoc through my body. My libido is well and truly alive and it’s going to take a miracle to shove her back in the box I’ve been containing her in.

But then, oddly enough, I’m reminded why I took this job in the first place, why exactly Grayson Crawford is my boss.

My mom’s face pops into my mind, along with the way it crumbled when she found the scribbled, two-lined note my father left her on the kitchen counter, and suddenly all those feelings vanish within the blink of an eye.

You can never trust men.

Ever.

You can believe you’ve been happily married for twenty years but then suddenly you have cancer and the love of your life—your best friend—is packing up their belongings and running away.

I’m thankful for the godawful reminder, allowing me to focus on the next torturous aspect of this day.

This man doesn’t know where any of his belongings are…and we’re in his house. How doesn’t he know where his stuff is?

There’s multiple words sitting on the tip of my tongue, ones with an attitude I shouldn’t be serving my new boss, but every time he opens a cupboard and swears under his breath the flush in his cheeks deepens and there is no way I can kick this man while he’s down.

He’s a hot mess.

Perhaps I’ve been taking care of my mom for too long or it’s a natural instinct from being around Layla all these years, but something deep within me clicks and switches into drive. Every part of me is screaming to make the embarrassment vanish from his features.

“It’s okay, you can email me everything. I’ll grab a whiteboard calendar this afternoon. That way if you don’t feel like texting, you can write down updates on the board.”

His shoulders, which were hiked up to his ears, drop. He takes a steadying breath before murmuring, “That’s a good idea.” He turns, the flush in his cheeks gone as he winks. “I guess I’m getting your number after all.”

I can’t help it, I burst out laughing.

The switch from this man being embarrassed and shy within his own home to suddenly full of confidence gives me whiplash.

“Perhaps all communication should go through the board,” I say once I contain my laughter.

He shrugs, grabbing two bottles of waters from the fridge. “Whatever makes you more comfortable. I was joking, though. I hope you don’t think I’m a sleaze or something.”

“What would make me think you are?” I ask innocently, blinking.

“The two naked puck bunnies sure would do the trick.”

“You said it, not me.”

That blush makes a reappearance, along with his lone dimple as his lips slowly spread into a smile.

Adverting my eyes, I pull up my email. “Okay, I need your training schedule, game schedule, and any physio or private training.” I pause, pursing my lips. “Basically, I need everything.”

He whips out his phone. “On it, along with my number.” He holds up his free hand in mock surrender. “Only for business purposes, of course.”

Ignoring the cheeky glint in his gaze, I shove down the fluttering in my stomach. Men are not trustworthy , I remind myself. Especially not attractive NHL players.

“Can you also forward the number to your chef? I don’t want to think there’s an intruder in the house or something.”

I’m typing away furiously on my keyboard as I go through everything that he’s sending me through email, until I realize that the notifications have stopped rolling in and Grayson hasn’t said anything in a while.

Lifting my head, I find him looking out toward the backyard where I notice a pool and a hot tub for the first time.

But the faraway look in his gaze tells me he isn’t thinking about soaking in either of them.

“Grayson?” I probe.

He straightens. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Okay…” Shaking off the odd sensation, I ask, “Is there anything you need from me today? Any errands, cleaning? Scheduling?”

“Not particularly.”

His tone has gone flat, his eyes no longer sparking with that mischievous look.

Did I say something to offend him?

I’m raking my brain when he suddenly announces, “I usually schedule my assistants to have their days off when I have mine.”

“Is today an off day?”

His nod is clipped. “One of the rare ones, yes.”

My lips pinch. I want to give him his privacy but I also live nearly forty minutes away. There’s still so much to sort out, not to mention how he can’t seem to find his own belongings. Then an idea comes to mind.

“I’m great at reorganizing,” I admit, not disclosing that I actually just have OCD and if this house is all out of whack, my anxiety will rear its ugly head and I’ll no doubt begin to touch everything in threes.

I’ve found that if I don’t start in a new location, I can keep the counting away…

for a short period of time. “How about I start helping you reorganize some rooms? I noticed there’s a junk room”—that’s putting it mildly—“upstairs. I could start there?”

He blinks a few times, life slowly returning to his gaze.

“Oh, okay.” He flashes me a smile and I don’t know why but my heart leaps at the fact that the somber mood he fell into has been pushed away with my idea.

“I’d love that, actually. There’s a charity event next weekend and I’d love to donate clothes as well. ”

My brows rise high. “A charity event?” Most men with his bank account just write a check and call it a day.

“Yes, it’s for children in the foster system, specifically those that are older than most people want to adopt.”

I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading even if I tried.

Where did this man come from? And why couldn’t I have met him before my father showed me that you can never trust a man with your heart? Perhaps then he would have burrowed too deep into my emotions I couldn’t let him go.

I rise from the stool. “I’ll get started on the room upstairs?—”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Oh, I can sort items into piles for you to assess later on whether you want to donate?—”

Grayson ignores my protests, already heading for the stairs as he says, “I have two hands. I’m more than capable of helping.”

He stops in his tracks when he realizes I’m not following. I frown at him. “But it’s my job. I’m here to assist, not suggest a workload for you to do.”

He snorts as he turns on his heel, climbing the stairs. “You’ll find out very quickly how much of a stubborn man I can be, Bella.”

My name rolling off his tongue with that cheeky tone forces me to bite my lip to hide my grin.

Because I can’t help but think there’s a double meaning to his statement.

T aking in the sight before me, I release a breath of frustration before I can stop myself.

The room is overwhelming. It’s a standard-size guest room and yet the wardrobe, bed, and floor are covered in random items. Clothing, skis, ski boots, duffel bags, and hockey equipment, along with other random sports equipment.

This isn’t a junk room. Sport paraphilia is more accurate .

Grayson rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah… Once I couldn’t see the floor, I got too overwhelmed with it and now it’s like this.”

“It’s okay. We’ll find a place for all of it. Your house is large enough and has lots of storage.”

Grayson stops beside me, his gaze slowly sliding to mine.

I shrug. “What? You weren’t here to give me a tour and I figured if I can clean up used condoms off the floor, then I can look around my new place of work.”

His body visibly shudders. “That’s disgusting.”

“It was in your house.”

“Yeah, and you best believe that wasn’t my condom.” He shakes his head. “I’m surprised you’re not being more judgmental.”

I give him my sweetest smile. “Oh, I am…on the inside.” Clapping my hands, I declare, “Let’s get started.”

I move to walk into the room before realizing he’s right, there’s nowhere to step on the floor. Sighing, I begin at the entrance, sorting clothes from paperwork and random objects while Grayson lifts the heavy sports equipment out of the room.

“I must admit, this is a first.”

“Cleaning?” I ask incredulously.

“God no. My mom raised me right, if you can believe despite the state of this room.” His voice grows quiet before he clears his throat. “The fact you have an attitude with me.”

That stumps me. “I don’t have an attitude—” At least, I’m trying not to. Fuck, I cannot lose this job . I clear my throat. “I apologize if I do. Today has just been an unusual first day and?—”

“I don’t want you to apologize. You’re not being rude. On the contrary, it’s refreshing.”

“What is?”