Page 12

Chapter Twelve

Lucy

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing myself.

The hotel bathroom is bathed in warm light so flattering it should probably come with a warning label. My skin glows. My eyes are popping. My lips are glossy, stained dark red, like they belong to someone who eats men for breakfast.

"Hold still," Natalie orders, dragging a liquid liner across my lash line like she’s defusing a bomb. "Unless you’re going for ‘chic panda’ tonight."

Sophia rifles through a garment bag on the king-sized bed—the same bed Connor and I are supposed to share tonight. My stomach flips at the thought.

"These are your options." Sophia lays out three dresses. "The red says 'notice me,' the blue says 'I'm sophisticated,' and the black says 'I might eat you alive.'"

I reach for the black one without hesitation. "I'll take 'eat you alive', hands down."

Twenty minutes later, I'm transformed for the Icehawk's first team dinner of the offseason tour.

The black dress I've chosen hugs every curve like it was painted on, with a slit that climbs dangerously high up my thigh. My dark hair tumbles past my shoulders in effortless waves that would make my usual messy bun weep with jealousy.

When I tilt my head, the intoxicating blend of jasmine and vanilla from Natalie's fancy styling products wraps around me like an invisible cloud, making me feel like I just rolled through a sun-warmed meadow of wildflowers.

"Connor's going to swallow his tongue," Natalie whispers, adjusting the thin strap on my shoulder.

"That's the plan," I mutter, though I'm not entirely sure what my plan actually is anymore.

When I step out of the bedroom, Connor is adjusting his watch by the door. He looks up, and his expression freezes. His eyes darken as they travel from my face down to my stilettos and back up again, lingering on the places where the fabric clings tightest.

"Stop staring, Walsh." I grab my clutch from the side table, pretending my heart isn't racing.

"Not my fault you look like that," he says, voice thick and low. “Jesus, Lucy.”

I grab my clutch like it might save me and head for the door. “Let’s go before someone bursts into flames.”

The Uber ride to the restaurant is torture.

The backseat forces us together, his muscled thigh pressed against mine. When we hit a pothole, his hand lands on my lower back to steady me, fingers splaying wide, heat seeping through the thin fabric.

The restaurant is exactly the kind of place I've spent years avoiding—all crystal chandeliers and white tablecloths. The hostess leads us to a private room where a hockey stick ice sculpture gleams beside a tower of champagne glasses.

"Huh. What a surprise..." I whisper as Connor pulls my chair out. "They've gone all out"

His fingertips brush my waist as I sit, so briefly I could almost believe I imagined it.

"Only the best for the Stanley Cup champions," he murmurs close to my ear.

The team’s already gathered around a long table near the windows, the city skyline glittering behind them like a backdrop made of diamonds. Blake’s halfway through a speech when we join—raising a glass of something amber and expensive.

“To surviving our first day in LA without dying at the hands of Coach Brody’s latest fitness regime,” he says.

“Speak for yourself,” Logan mutters. “My quads are still crying.”

The room vibrates with deep, exhausted laughter from the guys.

Connor groans under his breath as he sits beside me. “I haven’t been this sore since training camp my rookie year.”

“Poor baby,” I whisper, resting my hand on his thigh under the table. “Should I call the massage therapist?”

He exhales like he’s trying not to combust. “If you start talking about deep tissue in that voice, I swear to God—”

“Behave,” I say sweetly.

Dinner is a blur of truffle everything and a dessert that tastes like edible gold. Connor and I play the part perfectly—our bodies angled toward each other, fingers brushing when we reach for the same water glass, his hand grazing the bare skin of my shoulder more than once.

Each touch lights me up like I’ve swallowed a match. It's dangerous, and completely impossible to ignore as the dinner flashes before my eyes.

By the time dessert plates are cleared and the wine glasses start running low, Blake leans back in his chair with a lazy grin.

"Rooftop bar for a nightcap?"

Connor looks at me, one eyebrow raised in silent question.

I should say no. I should retreat to our room and build a pillow wall down the middle of that king-sized bed.

Instead, I hear myself say, "I'm in."

The rooftop bar pulses with energy as we step out into the warm LA night. String lights crisscross overhead like a web of stars, competing with the city skyline that stretches endlessly in every direction.

A DJ spins in the corner, bass thrumming through the wooden deck beneath my heels.

Blake and Connor peel off toward the bar, already working their magic. Within minutes, a velvet rope appears around the best section of the room—complete with plush lounges and a dedicated server to provide our every need.

"Now this is what I call service," Sophia says, linking her arm through mine as we claim the prime spot overlooking downtown LA.

Natalie waves over our server. "Three Sunset Spritzes, please."

The drinks arrive in delicate copper cups, garnished with fresh flowers and citrus. They're gorgeous and probably too pretty to drink. Once upon a time, this scene would have made me roll my eyes—the pretension, the excess, the beautiful people preening for attention.

But tonight feels different.

Maybe it's the way the breeze carries the scent of something different. Maybe it's how the city lights make everything glow golden.

Or maybe it's—

My stomach drops.

Across the bar, Connor's surrounded by three women who look like they just stepped off a runway. One of them—a leggy blonde in a red dress—touches his arm as she laughs. Another tosses her dark hair, leaning in close to be heard over the music.

I grip my drink tighter, the copper suddenly cold against my palm.

"Lucy?" Natalie's voice breaks through my spiral. "You okay?"

"Super." The word comes out sharper than I intend.

I drain my second drink, then signal for another as it hits me.

Shit.

This is Connor's natural habitat, isn't it? The spotlight, the attention, the gorgeous women vying for his attention.

I watch as the blonde tosses her head back laughing at something Connor says. My fingers tighten around my glass until my knuckles turn white.

The rational part of my brain knows I have no right to feel this way—we're not actually dating.

But the irrational part?

It's currently plotting three very creative ways to "accidentally" spill my drink on that red dress.

I'm halfway through drink number three when Connor's eyes find mine across the crowded roof. His gaze locks onto me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

"Lucy!" Connor's voice cuts through the crowd. He's grinning, waving me over. "C'mere, I want you to meet my sisters."

My brain screeches to a halt.

Sisters?

I blink, frozen, as Connor wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me into their circle. "This is Maeve, Katie, and Teagan—my incredibly annoying older sisters."

"We prefer 'delightfully meddlesome,'" the blonde in red—Maeve—corrects, pulling me into a hug. "God, you're gorgeous. No wonder he won't shut up about you."

Katie elbows Connor. "Remember when he used to check your Instagram stories every—"

"And we're done with that conversation," Connor interrupts, his ears turning pink.

Teagan leans in close. "You're even prettier in person. You know he's been a pain in the ass about you."

"Have you seen Insta today?" Katie pulls out her phone. "There's this whole conspiracy theory that you two have been secretly dating for years."

"My favorite video is the one where they slow-mo'd your kiss at the gala," Maeve adds. "Set it to Taylor Swift and everything."

I'm still processing when Connor steers me toward the bar later, his breath warm against my ear. "Three girls around me and you go full murder-face? I'm flattered, sweetheart."

"I did not—" I sputter, but his knowing smirk stops me cold. "Oh, shut up."

He laughs softly, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear in a simple movement that's devastating to my ovaries.

"You never told me you had three sisters," I say, watching as he signals the bartender with two fingers.

"There's a lot you don’t know about me." He leans an elbow on the bar, his body turned toward mine, fully present.

The city lights catch the hint of color in his eyes, and for a second, I forget how to speak.

I swallow slowly. “Like what?”

Connor orders me something fruity and pink that matches the LA sunset. His fingers brush mine as he hands me the glass.

"My sisters basically raised me," he says, his voice softening. "Dad worked double shifts at the firehouse, Mom pulled night rotations at the hospital. Maeve taught me how to skate. Katie showed me how to throw a punch. And Teagan..." He pauses, amusement flickering across his face. "She made sure I did my homework."

I lean closer, drawn in by this glimpse beneath his usual cocky exterior. "That explains why you handle strong women so well."

His thumb slides across my bare shoulder. "They never let me get away with anything. Still don't."

Two drinks later, Connor's telling me about the time his sisters dressed him up as a princess for Halloween when he was six. His hand has migrated to my lower back, warm and steady as it hovers just above my ass.

"Did they at least let you keep your hockey stick with the tutu?" I giggle, the alcohol making everything delightfully fuzzy.

"It was my magic wand." He grins, pulling me closer as I sway slightly. "You good there, Lucy Lou?"

"I'm perfect," I say, smiling up at Connor.

Three more cocktails and countless stories later, I'm learning how Maeve used to sneak him into her high school's ice rink after hours so he could practice. The city lights below have started to blur together, and I'm definitely past my limit, but I don't want to stop hearing about teenage Connor with his hand-me-down pads and desperate determination.

"We should probably get you some water," Connor says as the nightclub starts to clear out, steadying me as I lean heavily into his chest.

"But I want to hear more about little Connor in his tutu." My words slur slightly, and I feel his chest rumble with laughter.

He huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah, you’re definitely cut off.”

He doesn’t let go of me as he guides me toward the elevator. His arm is firm around my waist, grounding me, and I don’t know what to make of it. Of any of this.

The rest of the team is still going strong, Blake and Sophia dancing while Ryder holds court with a group of women by the bar.

Connor hugs each of his sisters goodbye, and I attempt a curtsy that nearly sends me face-first into Maeve's chest.

"Your brother's tutu game was strong," I announce, making Katie snort-laugh into her martini.

Connor wraps an arm around my waist before I can demonstrate my own tutu-twirling abilities, already pulling up the Uber app on his phone.

"Time to get you horizontal," he murmurs, then immediately flushes as his sisters burst into synchronized cackling. "To sleep! Jesus, you three are worse than my teammates."

The Uber ride back to the hotel is a blur of giggles, tangled limbs, and me slowly melting into Connor like warm butter on toast.

“You’re warm,” I mumble, curling into his side as he helps me into the back seat. “I’m keeping you.”

The driver snorts. “That’s a first. Usually I hear people threatening to leave their partners behind.”

“I’m not leaving him,” I say, completely serious, my cheek smooshed against his shoulder. “He smells good. And he’s got big hands.”

Connor chokes on a laugh. “Okay, sunshine. Time to stop talking.”

“But it’s true,” I protest, not moving an inch. “You’re like... a personal heater with muscles.”

A soft sigh escapes before I can stop it, and I wrap my arm around his middle, hugging him like a drunk koala. He doesn’t even flinch. Just smiles and leans into the seat, one hand settling on my hip like it belongs there. Like I belong there.

And God help me, it feels that way too.

I feel his arm tighten around my shoulders.

"Oh! You have to hear about what Ryder did with the oysters at dinner." I sit up, or try to. The world tilts slightly. "So he was trying to impress this girl and he... wait. No, first he ordered the champagne. Or was it after?"

Our Uber driver chuckles from the front seat. "Sounds like someone had a good night."

“Yeah, we are officially done with shellfish stories,” he murmurs.

“Party pooper.”

When we reach the suite, I wobble on my heels and Connor swoops in like some muscled guardian angel.

“Whoa there,” he says, steadying me with both hands. “You trying to faceplant before you hit the bed?”

“Beds are overrated,” I mutter, flopping down like a starfish the second we get inside. “The floor has no expectations.”

“Except gravity,” he deadpans, crouching to tug off my heel.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I say as he gently removes the other. “But this might be the sexiest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

He chuckles under his breath and pulls the throw blanket over me. I sigh, eyes half-lidded as I sink deeper into the mattress.

“You okay?” he asks, brushing a curl from my face.

“Perfect,” I whisper. “Possibly horizontal forever.”

He smiles. It’s soft. Real. And when he turns to go, something tugs at me.

“Hey, Connor?” I say, voice barely above a whisper.

He pauses and looks down at me with his handsome face.

“You’re really good at this.”

“At what?”

“Making it hard to remember this is all pretend.”

His expression shifts.

Then, slowly—carefully—he leans down so we’re eye to eye.

“Sometimes I forget too, Lucy Lou.”

My pulse stumbles.

“Remind me,” I whisper, my voice fuzzy and slow. “Why are we pretending?”

His answer comes quiet. Careful.

“…I don’t know anymore.”

The air between us stretches, heavy with everything we’re not saying.

And for once, I don’t hide.

“Me neither,” I whisper.