Page 8 of Enticing the Enforcer

I nod. “It’s on the set list.”

“I can’t believe I’m missing it.” Something flickers across his face–disappointment, maybe. Then he leans in just slightly, not enough to scare me, just enough to make my breath catch. “I guess you’ll just have to play it for me another time.”

4

Jefferson

“You were right,”she says as I walk her back to the hotel, our shoulders brushing every few steps, “you are very good at air hockey.”

A normal guy would have let the woman he’s interested in win, but I’m not a normal guy. I put myself out there. You either take Jefferson Parks for who he is, or you don’t.

That being said, I can’t tell if Ingrid likes me. Not yet.

Me? Well, my pulse is doing this stupid pounding thing, like I just took a slap shot to the chest. I want to kiss her. Hell, I want to dowaymore than kiss her. I'm living out a decade of locker room daydreams, and late night jerk off sessions. She's right here, laughing at my dumb jokes and stealing my fries like she's not the most famous woman I’ve ever breathed next to.

Like she’s not Ingrid Flockton. Number one on my sex list.

For once, my brain is working better than my dick. Because as much as I want to press her up against any and every available surface to show her just how not-boyfriend-material Icouldbe... I know better.

Ingrid may be famous. She may be experienced. But she’s also ready to run at the first wrong move. Tonight is a one-off for her. A fun little escapade so she can still feel alive. But it’s not real. I can feel it in the way she smiles too quickly, in the way she glances over her shoulder like she’s keeping tally of every exit.

And if I want more than just dinner and a walk across campus–if I wanther–I’ve gotta play it right.

“Okay, I’ve got one,” she starts, “pre-game superstitions. Do you have any?”

We’ve been going back and forth like this all night. Comparing our lives. Ingrid’s a mega-rich and famous rockstar. I’m a popular hockey player on my way to the NHL. Is it even? No, but there are still some things in common, and she’s right, superstitions are part of it.

“I have a few,” I admit. “Nothing drastic like when Axel grew a pornstash earlier in the season during our winning streak.” I grin, thinking about our goalie and his horrific facial hair. I’ll give it to him, he committed. “But yeah, I have a lucky pair of socks, and my mom always texts me before the game, and…”

“And what?”

We’re walking down the sidewalk, and I glance over at her. “No sex the day of the game.”

“Seriously?”

I shrug. “Yep.”

“Wow. Okay.”

“What about you?” I’ve slowed, trying to keep this night from ending. “Any pre-show rituals?”

“Of course,” she says, her pace easing to meet mine. “No speaking for six hours before the show–”

“To anyone?”

She shakes her head. “No one. Not even Madison–my best friend and assistant,” she clarifies. “I have to protect my voice.”

“Makes sense.” We step off a curb and cross the road. The hotel lights are in the distance. “Anything else?”

“Cherry and pineapple gummy bears.”

“Oh,” I laugh. “Got it.”

“What?” she tilts her head.

“You’re one of those musicians. A diva.”

She rolls her eyes, but the little smirk on her red lips tells me she doesn’t mind the title. We’re a half block from the hotel, and with every step I’m trying to work out how I’m going to leave this night, when she suddenly tugs on my sleeve.