Page 69 of Hockey Halloween

Ligaya

Because we were both banging on the door, our bodies are nearly touching when I face Tristan. I’m at eye level with the deep V between his collarbones, trying to be subtle about inhaling his aroma of mint and sugar. The man is a freaking mojito in a tall glass of muscles.

That doesn’t even make sense! What the hell is wrong with me? Leave it to The Turd to provoke the most incoherent jumble of metaphors.

His insistent hotness muddles the facts: This is Tristan, who put blue food coloring in my makeup so I looked like a faded Smurf for a week. The guy who wrote a fake letter from Liam Anderson who I had a crush on for years . My nemesis who drove me up the wall all of senior year.

If I knew he would be here, I’d have called in sick and meant it.

The rapid pulse at the base of his neck calls my attention.

It is nearly as fast and jagged as my own heartbeat.

I close my eyes and shake my head to break the spell he has over me.

It doesn’t work. The second I open my eyes, they roam over the terrain of Tristan’s sculpted torso, the granite sharpness of his jaw, the pouty shape of his lips, and those darkened hazel eyes .

They stare back at me without mirth or guile. He almost looks... amazed? That can’t be right.

“You’ve changed, but you haven’t changed.”

“In a good way?”

“In a great way,” he says, eyes falling to my lips. “And me? Have I changed?”

“Stop fishing for compliments,” I reprimand. “You know you’re hot.”

He offers a crooked grin and an arched brow. “I hadn’t realized you noticed.”

“But not in a good way,” I quickly add.

“There’s a bad way to be hot?”

“Like Gaston from Beauty and the Beast . Muscles and nothing else.” I point my finger and poke his chest.

“Seriously? I have a bachelor’s degree in business administration. How dare you compare me to an illiterate brute.”

“Fine. You’re not stupid like Gaston,” I concede.

Before I can pull my finger away, his circles my wrist and rests my palm over his chest.

“Thank you,” he responds, reaching for my other hand and likewise placing it on his chest.

“For what?”

“For your compliment. It’s called politeness. You should try it out some time.”

“I take it back. You’re not like Gaston. You’re like the sidekick in Top Gun. Who is he again?” I ramble while my hands remain glued to his body. “Actually, it doesn’t matter. You’re good-looking like all the sidekicks in the Top Gun franchise. Handsome and smart, though ultimately disposable.”

He leans down with a chuckle, and the result is that my arms end up on his mountainous shoulders. Tristan’s forearms bracket my back.

“How am I going to keep my ego in check when I’m around you, Terror?” he rasps lazily, clearly more concerned with the press of our bodies than the hit to his large ego.

It isn’t the only thing that’s large. He rubs his erection against my stomach. Or am I the one doing the rubbing? Does it matter at this point?

“I said don’t fish for compliments.” My fingers massage his neck, basically pulling him down.

He chuckles.

“Do you even know what a compliment is, Ligaya? Because calling me dumb and irrelevant is the farthest thing from one.”

Our foreheads roll together, and somehow it’s more intimate than the last time I had sex.

“I did admit you’re hot,” I concede with a stupid grin on my face.

“You did, didn’t you? Say it again. This time without all the bad movie references,” he insists.

Tristan pulls back, watching me intensely.

“Still fishing . . .” I say breathily.

“You can add my stellar hockey skills.”

“Deep-sea trawling at this point . . .”

His laugh warms me to my core. “Since you’re having a hard time wrapping your mind around the concept of a compliment, allow me to be of further assistance.”

If that announcement didn’t fully grab my attention, Tristan’s finger tipping my chin up does it. Suddenly, the world is made of hazel eyes and thick lashes and tempting mojitos.

“I’m about to give you a compliment.” He pushes a strand of hair behind my ear, thumb lingering on the sensitive skin behind my earlobe.

“I love this badass outfit. If you were my teacher, I don’t think I could focus on anything, you’re so fucking pretty.

You say the nuttiest, funniest things, and you smell great all the damn time. ”

I make an effort to swallow in order to avoid drooling.

“That’s more than one compliment.”

“And so good at counting, too.”

My amused snort surprises both of us. “I smell good all the time? Even when I’m sweating?” I am sweating buckets right now. How can I not, when my blood is on fire?

He shrugs. “Actually, yeah.”

I’m transported back to our kiss. The one that meant nothing. Except that’s not quite true, is it? I had felt something then, and—heaven help me—Tristan’s effect on me remains mysteriously potent.

“You’re making me very self-conscious with this line of conversation.”

“You started it,” he whispers, nuzzling his nose against my ear.

“What exactly did I start?”

Tristan shifts so our mouths are barely an inch apart.

“This.”