Page 8

Chapter Eight

Christina

I’ve been avoiding Cam all night, but it seems like that’s about to end. A burst of laughter comes from the cluster of guys at the two tables closest to the bar and I look over without thinking.

He’s standing and starts toward me as soon as we lock eyes, eating up the dance floor with his long-legged gait.

Does he know who I am now? Does it matter?

Greg is chatting to someone beside me but I can’t focus on anything but Cam. His intense gaze, the dimple brought out with his grin, those broad shoulders.

He stops in front of me and nods. “Christina. Fancy meeting you here.”

Greg looks over, surprised. “Oh, you two know each other?”

I’m stumped as to how to answer that.

Cam turns so half his face is hidden from Greg’s view and winks at me then says easily, “Yes. In fact, I was coming over to ask her to dance.”

I start to shake my head but Greg answers, making me grit my teeth and fist my hands to avoid thumping him. “Oh, Christina was a dancer on the competitive circuit. She loves to dance, but you’d better be sure you can lead.”

Cam holds out a hand. “I’m ready to try. How about it, Christina?”

My brother is chuckling, and I swear I’m going to pummel him later in private.

Knowing appearances are key for this inaugural event, I acquiesce. He leads me to the edge of the dance floor and asks me to wait while he confers with the DJ.

He arrives back as the first notes of There’s Nothing Holdin’ Me Back by Shawn Mendes begin, with a smirk at his teammates. Apparently, he’s taking the lyrics to heart.

“You ready? We don’t have to do the lift,” he asks.

“We absolutely should not do a lift when we haven’t even warmed up. But yes, let’s dance, then.”

And he swings me out onto the floor.

Greg hoots and comes to stand at the edge, as do Cam’s teammates. Although he’s a conscientious dancer and keeps us in an open area, other dancers soon step back or stop to watch. We’ve suddenly become the evening’s entertainment. Fortunately, the press was limited to the red carpet with only a hired photographer in the event, and Saylet’s approval on all released images. The Donovans have been in the public eye enough that I’m immune to publicity in the instances I can’t avoid it, but it’s a relief to not have to worry about any extra gossip about my connection to one of our players. Saylet will be able to control the narrative should anyone raise a question.

I dip, twirl out from Cam’s extended arms, pirouette under his hand, and everything else he leads me through for just over three minutes. We end with our arms extended, side by side, to applause. He sweeps a hand to me. After I curtsy, he bows then sweeps his arm back toward me.

This has apparently been a team bonding opportunity as the guys are stamping their feet, clapping and calling for another.

Saylet hurries up to the microphone and thanks us, introducing us to the crowd in case people didn’t know our names.

As she says my last name, Cam’s jaw goes slack and he whips his head around to stare.

Apparently no one told him I was one of the team owners. I sigh.

A few of the players start howling with laughter, bending over. He shoots them an angry look, then blinks twice and sends a furtive glance to where Greg stands on the other side of the floor. His shoulders drop a smidge when he sees my brother clapping.

Saylet is still at the mike, talking over the hooting and hollering players. “No way, folks. If you want another performance by Christina and Cam, you’ll have to ante up. We’re here to raise money for the Tornadoes Foundation, and you only get one free show tonight. So what’ll it be?”

I frown. She hasn’t even asked us, and she’s auctioning us off to the highest bidder.

Cam tugs me in. “Are you okay with another dance?”

Well, at least someone cares if I am. He skipped over his own reaction to me being a Donovan to check if I’m all right. I try to ignore the little twist my heart gives at his thoughtfulness, which is another reason I shouldn’t try for anything casual with him. As if the rules of the org weren’t enough, it would be too easy to fall for this kind man who probably wants children, when those aren’t in my future. I nod.

“Phew,” he says, nodding over to his team.

They’re waving dollar bills. Hundreds if I’m not mistaken.

He calls, “Yo, Jack, didn’t you say this afternoon you’d pay to see me dance? Ante up, roomie!”

I roll my eyes at him. “Hockey players.”

He shrugs with that oh-shucks grin that might kill me one day. That dimple is a weapon if ever I saw one.

“Guilty,” he replies.

The guys are talking among themselves. Buzz has a hand up in the air with his first finger raised as to ask Saylet to wait. They break and he calls out, “$5,000 from this group. Who else is in?”

He looks over directly at Greg. Ballsy .

My brother probably has no idea what he’s gotten himself into. He laughs. “Matched!”

And it’s on. The testosterone in here might yet poison me.

Cam tugs me toward a door. “Come on, let’s plan it a bit if we’re going to have to put on a show.”

As we leave, Greg is at the mike saying, “No one else has to shout out their bid, but if you come sign up with Saylet—or heck, bring a check—I will personally match every one of these particular donations.”

Cam snickers. “Ah, brothers. He’s egging them on.”

“Do you have brothers?”

He raises a shoulder. “Not really.”

I frown. One either has brothers or they don’t. But now is not the time to talk about it, and Cam’s response makes it clear it isn’t a favorite subject anyway. I shift into choreography mode, still unsure how the night unraveled so quickly.

He’s already on it, scanning his phone. “How about the rumba? To this?”

“That’s fast for a rumba.”

“The DJ could step it down a hair. But we can handle it. I was thinking…” He plays the first few seconds of Rihanna’s Don’t Stop the Music . A hard drumbeat comes in halfway through the first line. “We walk out to this, getting people clapping to the beat. It drops off after a few dance steps, which will work for the crowd.”

When he glances up at me from the phone, I nod.

“I’d like to incorporate our lift.” When I open my mouth to respond, he adds, “Please?”

I balk. We have only practiced it for a week. Wanting to fairly evaluate his request, I ask, “Why?”

“Look, the guys put me up to asking you to dance, obviously without telling me who you were.”

Growing up, Greg’s friends would make him do all sorts of stupid stuff, but Greg would shrug and say that’s what guys do. I’ll never understand it. “I should probably explain—”

Cam interrupts me. “You can tell me how the owner of a team ends up teaching in a dance studio another time, but I took their challenge to make sure the owners and coaches know who I am. Anything I can do to stand out and get the nod as starting goalie is worth an effort. This isn’t only a great way to stay flexible but can also show my new team both my suppleness and my team spirit by raising money.”

I can understand his logic. Heck, I might have done the same thing. Warmed from the dance and his proximity, my body is primed for closer touches and ready to ignore the fact that this is a work event. But I still have one worry. “Are you sure? I’ve fallen in competitions. But”—I tilt my head back toward the ballroom—“you’ll never hear the end of it if that happens tonight.”

He jerks straighter. “I meant what I told you. I’ll never drop you. Fumble, maybe, and I’ll deal with the fallout if that happens. But hockey players have fast reflexes, goalies especially. I promise you’re safe with me.”

Ha! If only he knew how much I wanted him to be dangerous rather than safe. But not on a dance floor. Refocusing, I listen to the song, talking us through the steps, and point. “After she references your hands around my waist and chest to chest, you swing me out, then I step back in and on that third round of not stopping the music, I’m up. Let’s not try the second part of what you saw. Instead, you’re taking me high with the elbow grip. When you bring me back down, loosen your elbow a little as you straighten, allowing my leg to straighten. Then do your plié, aka side lunge Mr. Hockey Player, and I’ll go into the slanted split.”

He’s squinting as if trying to picture it, so I bring my phone out and show him the last part of the move again from the video.

He nods.

“Let’s do the whole routine a couple of times. I’ll find an empty room for us to warm up and practice. You go in and make sure the DJ has the music, can adjust the pace down a notch, and tell them we’ll be in in…fifteen minutes?” I ask.

He nods again and we turn in different directions.

After we run through it a couple times and he’s nailed the second part of the fish combination, Cam pauses it when the singer starts referencing Michael Jackson. “We should get the crowd involved again at this point. And then do a last twirl or something and end it on her next refrain, as it’s a quieter point and the DJ can fade it down.”

“Yeah. That sounds good,” I reply. “It’s almost a five-minute song otherwise. I’m not sure they’ve earned that long a show.”

“Oh, I don’t know. They were at $30,000 when I was in there.”

My eyes go wide. “Before my brother’s matching donation?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter?” he asks with a little laugh.

I wave a hand, my mind elsewhere. “I still don’t want to go too long after the lift, as that should be the high point of the dance. But I do have one idea. How stretchy are those pants?”

His brows shoot up. “I have them tailored to dance in, so they’re fine for most things. What do you have in mind? Because I really will never hear the end of it if I split my pants.”

I giggle at that image. “If we warm up a bit more, could you do a split in them? Forward split, not side.”

“I think so, but I confess I haven’t tried. Let’s do the warmups anyway. If I injure myself tonight, it’s all for nothing—aside from the good cause, of course,” he adds quickly, glancing at me with a hint of fear in his eyes.

And that’s a perfect example of why I can no longer pursue the idea of even a casual fling with him, delicious though he may be. While I have little to no input into the Tornadoes organization, it remains an unbalanced power dynamic.

In short order, we’re on the edge of the dance floor again, and the pop song’s first line and beats boom out. The players have assorted reactions, from raised brows of appreciation, to elbows in each others’ ribs.

With our encouragement, they clap along, and we rumba. My skirt swishes with the hip movements as Cam’s hand directs me. We do a couple tight turns and I want to moan at his leg between mine, his hips and cock brushing me. It’s maddening. But I won’t embarrass him in front of his teammates, so I refocus. He tugs me out then in, his hand hot against my belly and on my thigh as he lifts me. Thankfully, my skirt is not only flared but knee length and allows for all these movements without showing anything untoward.

The guys are hooting and hollering again when I’m airborne, but their shouts sound like praise and perhaps surprise at their teammate, rather than jeers. Saylet looks on with an open mouth.

Cam takes his three-step turn with my lower leg bent, toe touching the shin in his grip. He lowers me and takes me into the tilted split.

Applause breaks out as he takes me down to standing and out. I’d forgotten how fun it can be to dance in front of an audience. The crowd changes to rhythmic clapping the repeated mantra at the song’s end comes on, and a rush goes through me.

He grabs me and twirls me then supports my waist as I drop into a split on the second-to-last line. He is lined up behind my forward thigh when he does one last spin and drops into his own split behind me. The music fades to silence.

For a beat, there is only quiet, then a whispered, “That was fucking hot as hell,” from the back of the group of players. Rowdy applause and cheers break out.

Saylet hurries to the podium. “Give it up for Cam and Christina! Thank you both, you helped us raise over $50,000 more for the Foundation.” My mouth goes dry at that figure. Greg really didn’t know what he was getting himself into.

Saylet gives the clapping a minute to die down again and then says into the mike, “The bar is open for another hour, but that concludes our entertainment for the evening. Frankly, I don’t think anything could top that. Thank you to everyone who attended tonight. Go Tornadoes!”

Cam has risen and tugged me up with what seems like zero effort on his part.

He’s placed his foot in front of mine to provide a stop so I don’t slide when he tugs me up, and I come up flush against him.

In the instant before I step back, my eyes flutter shut and I catalog every inch of where we touch for later. His arms encircle me ensuring I don’t fall back, and my hands rest on his mouth-watering biceps under his shirt, his jacket long ago discarded. My breasts brush his shirt on either side of his tie, providing the most delicious friction, and his impressive bulge is nestled between my hips on my lower stomach. This might be the first time in my life that I’ve wished I was taller, because even in heels our groins don’t quite align.

He steps back and sketches a shallow bow to me, saying, “Thank you, ma’am.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “No ma’ams, please.”

“You’re like my boss’s boss’s boss’s boss or something.”

“So, no more lessons?”

“Oh no, definitely more lessons.”

“Not if you call me ma’am again.”

“Sheesh. Okay, I’ll do my best. Christina. Thank you and good night.” With a grin, he saunters back toward the bar.

I collect my purse and head toward the exit with a very specific plan for what I’ll be doing within the hour. My body is so primed I’ll never sleep without some release.

* * * *

The next morning I’m in my home office enjoying my herbal tea and a good day on the stock market when my phone buzzes with an incoming text from my sister.

Amy

Are you coming into the Tornadoes offices today?

Wasn’t planning on it. Why, what’s up?

Saylet is looking for you.

??

I dunno, but I figured I’d give you a heads up.

You gonna be there long enough to grab lunch with me?

Yeah, I’ll be here for a bit. The community site walkthrough has been delayed again.

You should get Greg on that. I have no idea how he kept the facility construction on time.

No thanks. I prefer to do this on my own.

I get it. heart emoji cya in a couple hrs.

I wrap up a few trades I’ve been mulling over, look over the quarterly reports from two REITs, then talk myself out of going to the office in yoga pants and force myself to change.

I text Amy when I’m downstairs for lunch and we head to Torchy’s Tacos to feed my ongoing addiction.

She waits until we’ve ordered before bringing me up to date on the gossip. “Everyone in the office is talking about your performance last night.”

I groan around a mouthful of taco al pastor.

“How did that all happen, anyway? You disappeared right after that second dance. But even you can’t dance like that with a partner you don’t know.”

I explain how I know Cam, trying to keep it innocuous, but something in my voice or words must give me away.

She arches a brow. “You do recall how awkward things are with Travis, right? And the company policy regarding relationships?”

“I do.” I’m not going to tell her we broke up in part because of him sneering at my “flower child” sister.

“But…a quiet fling never hurt anyone, if you wanted to ride that cowboy.”

I snort. “Like a bull. But I’m not going to. Until I have a clearer picture of what my future involvement in the team looks like, I need to steer clear.”

Back at the new building, I pull up my notes and the roster again to continue my evaluation of who might be most open to accepting financial advice.

Saylet pops her head in my door. “There you are!”

Her energy is always so much bigger than her five-foot-three frame. And too much for my introverted self to be comfortable in one-on-one interactions. I brace myself and give a half-hearted wave. “Here I am. In my office.”

She makes herself comfortable in one of my visitor chairs.

I don’t ask why she’s here. I’m too busy wishing she’d forget why she wanted to meet me and go away. Or maybe she just wants to chat. I can do that. But I’m not going to start it off.

“So, that dance.” She fans herself.

Oh no .

“Yeah, um. You knew I danced competitively, right? And Cam—” I clear my throat. “Mr. Hill has apparently been dancing since college.”

“Y’all earned us over a hundred-k last night. The fifty I announced was before the match, as I wanted to give Greg an out given how quickly it had escalated. He didn’t take it.” She looks smug.

“You’re welcome?” I say as a half-question.

“No, no.” She waves off my thanks. It’s a bad sign. “You don’t get off that easy. If we could raise that much in twenty minutes last night, imagine what we could raise with some promotion around it? One of our players and an owner doing a spotlight dance at the Holiday Ball? I was going to wait to create posters for a few key on-ice plays along with the team photos, but I asked the photographer to send me a couple shots of your dances, and they’re brilliant.”

I sigh. She wouldn’t be good at her job if she didn’t think like this, but as soon as Amy told me she was looking for me, I feared she’d push for more dancing. I hadn’t wanted to breech Cam’s privacy by confessing the dance lessons, but now she believes we put that together in a quick huddle last night.

“This is not to be shared as I don’t know what he is comfortable with—” I give her a stern look. “But Cam took some private lessons from me at Maria’s studio.” She knows Maria from social gatherings we had as we built our staff.

“Even better. So with time, you could do something even more showy.” Saylet somehow makes every statement sound like it ends in an exclamation point.

I’m already tired and looking for a reason to excuse myself from my own office. “No. I have my financial meetings with the team, and Cam obviously won’t have free time once the season starts. To say nothing of Greg’s and Coach’s comfort with him throwing me around and risking injury.”

“You do have enough time. You already told us you’ll continue to help Maria at the studio until she gets it on its feet.”

She’s grabbing her phone and scrolling. Her pointer finger stabs the screen triumphantly before I can tell her she hasn’t addressed my other statements.

An indistinct male voice answers the phone as she brings it to her ear.

Saylet holds my gaze and grins as she says, “Hey Cam, how are you?”

I set my jaw. Dammit. Before last night, he’d mentioned continuing lessons as his schedule allowed, stating only that he’d be traveling a lot for his new job. It all makes sense to me now. The NHL travel schedule can be brutal. His statements last night about ensuring management saw him as a team player mean he’ll likely agree to Saylet’s publicity scheme.

“Oh, sorry. You have to get back to training. I’m lucky I caught you in a break. My question is quick—would you be willing to perform another fancy dance with Christina to raise more charity funds at the Holiday Ball mid-season?…Yes?…I know it’s in the contracts, but to confirm, it’s ok to use a photo of your dance last night to promote the event?…Great! Thank you so much.”

She hangs up and drops her phone in her lap, looking at me expectantly.

“Alright. I get approval over any shots used for promo.” As an owner of the team, I won’t have one with me in a split, my skirt half up my legs. Nor do I want one where my desire to suck him like a Slurpee is apparent. It’s bad enough I’m going to be in close contact with our goalie with the godlike body and the flexibility of Gumby for the next four months.

I have no idea how I’ll keep my hands and lips off him now. A fling is starting to look inevitable, even though it’s still a terrible idea. Heat zings through me at the thought.