Page 30 of Hockey Player Seeking Fan (Billionaires Seeking Wives Club #2)

Chapter Twenty

T yler

The gallery is crowded as we make our way in, and I'm happily surprised to see that people aren't turning to me and pointing.

Normally, wherever I go, all I hear are whispers of, "That's Tyler Kane, the hockey player," or "That's Tyler Kane, the millionaire.

" But no one cares—because in New York City, in the art scene, I’m no one. And I love it.

As soon as we walk in, a young lady with a tray of several glasses of champagne walks up to us.

“Would you like a drink?” she asks.

I grab two. “Thank you,” I say, handing one to a beaming Erica and taking the other for myself.

“You're welcome. We have hors d'oeuvres, as well. Others will be walking around, if you want anything to eat. Enjoy the art show.”

“We will,” I say.

I watch as Erica takes a sip. “This is good. I’m not normally one for champagne, but this must be a higher quality than what my friends and I normally get. I'm surprised y’all don't always get Dom Pérignon or something, right?”

“You must be mistaken if you think my friends and I are balling like that.”

“I guess I was mistaken then.” She smiles. “So, thank you for joining me this evening.”

I wondered if it was going to be weird between us, especially after the first time.

I’d been nervous and tense the entire night that we'd slept together.

I'd been nervous that she'd leave. I'd been nervous that she wouldn't talk to me. But everything has been great the last twenty-four hours. It was like magic—and I don’t believe in magic, so that has me kind of scared.

“These pieces are amazing,” she says. “Do you have a favorite?”

“No, I don't think so. I'm not even sure who's exhibiting.”

I haven't told her that one of my pieces is going to be exhibited. I don’t know why. Maybe because I didn’t want her to think I’m boastful. Maybe because I want to see if she would recognize herself.

But then I see Pierre Mangione walking up to us, and my heart thuds.

“Ah, there you are, Tyler. So good to see you—and you, too,” he says. “We are about to put your piece up, but we have two. Which one would you like?”

“The Brooklyn Bridge,” I say quickly.

“Ah, the bridge.” He frowns slightly and then looks over at Erica. His eyes widen, and he smiles. He looks back at me, and I'm nervous about what he’s going to say next.

“Not the heart piece?”

“No, not the heart piece.” I give him a look, and he nods.

“ Très bien ,” he says. “Let me tell them we will put up the bridge piece. It is stunning, of course.”

“Thank you.”

I look over at Erica, who looks like she's trying to figure out a puzzle.

“You didn’t tell me that you had a piece in the exhibit.”

“I didn’t know until just now that one of my pieces would actually be put up,” I say.

“Cool. That’s awesome. I can’t wait to see it. So, you completed the piece from when we went to the Brooklyn Bridge?”

“Yeah. You might remember that I didn’t actually start the piece.”

“Oh, yeah,” she says, laughing. “I kind of forgot that part. So what was the other one? What was the heart piece?”

“Oh, it was an anatomical drawing of a heart. I thought that maybe it wouldn’t be as appreciated.”

“Oh, wow. I didn’t know you did anatomical drawings. I didn’t realize you were that precise. For some reason, I thought you were just into... actually, I don’t know what I thought, but that’s cool. Can I see the heart piece, as well?”

“Maybe another time,” I say quickly. “We should mingle and see what else is out there. There must be much better artists than me here tonight.”

I grab her hand, and she looks at me in surprise.

“What? Can I not hold your hand?”

“I mean, you can. But I didn’t think you’d want to.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because then I might think this is a date.”

“Is it not?” I ask her softly.

“Is it?” she asks, and her eyes flutter for a second. “Because you don’t have to say it is if it isn’t.”

“I mean, we’ve already done the deed. This is a date if you are willing,” I say. “And just because we’ve done the deed doesn’t mean I don’t want to do it again. And it doesn’t mean I don’t want to get to know you better, even though you know me in all the ways.”

“I don’t know you in all the ways. I mean, I know you in some ways.” I wink at her. “And I love those ways. But I don’t know you in all the ways, nor all the ways that matter.”

“Oh, Mr. Kane, I do think you’re trying to get to my heart,” she says, fluttering her eyelashes and moving her head back and forth. “I do declare that if you continue charming me so, I may quite fall for you.”

I stare at her and wonder if she’s joking. She bursts out laughing.

“Oh my gosh, your face! If you could see your face right now.”

“What about my face?”

“You look nervous as heck?—”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You sure about that?” she says, giggling. “You do know that I don’t think that just because we slept together it means anything.”

“Well, it doesn’t mean nothing,” I say.

“Then what does it mean?”

“I think we both know that neither one of us really knows,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.

I like being with her. I enjoy spending time with her.

She’s beautiful and fun, and she makes me feel light and happy.

But I don’t want to commit myself to something else without fully understanding who I am and where I’m going.

I’d done that once in my life before, and I’d held resentment toward my sister and my mom—and I’d let it out.

I know I hurt their feelings. I know Muriel told my mom and my other sister about our conversation based on how tense the last call had been.

And I don’t want anyone else in my life feeling like I resent them or that I feel used, when I love them.

I loved them. And yet, because I hadn’t put myself first in so long, I’d harbored something that I hadn’t even realized was beneath the surface.

“Oh my gosh. Look at this piece,” Erica says, distracting me from my reverie.

She points at a painting. “It’s a seashell, and it looks realistic. I feel like I could touch it,” she says. “I feel like I could pick it up and put it against my ear and hear the ocean.” She smiles. “Man, if I could paint, I’d love to be able to paint something like that.”

“You can paint.”

“Not realistic images. They are hard.”

“Yeah, that’s true. So, you like going to the ocean, then?” I ask as she continues staring at the painting.

“I feel like I could touch each granule of sand and wade into the ocean.”

Her eyes are bright with happiness.

“To answer your question, I used to love the ocean. Really love it. I used to swim as far as I could and lie on my back and let the waves carry me. I used to close my eyes, then just open them and stare up at the sky, and I would feel like I was connected with God. When I was younger, sometimes I would speak to Him. I would tell Him all my dreams and hopes.” She smiles. “You must think I’m crazy.”

“Not at all,” I say. “You don’t feel that way now?”

“I still look up at the sky,” she says, “and I still talk to Him—when there’s a full moon or I see a certain galaxy or constellations. I just think how wondrous the world is. How great. But... I’m scared of the ocean now, if I’m honest.”

“Oh?”

She nods slowly. “I mean, I shouldn’t. I personally never had any bad situations. But a friend of a friend—he died.”

Her eyes are overcast for a few seconds, and she offers me a wry smile.

“Riptide. He was a strong swimmer, too. And whenever I think of him, I just think how nature is a cruel beast. And who am I to know how to survive if I’m in the midst of it?

I guess I’m a scaredy cat by nature. I try not to put myself into situations that I think could lead to something negative.

And... that’s how I feel about the ocean now.

I still love it. I’ll still walk along the sand and maybe wade my feet in. But I don’t go swimming far anymore.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” I say, feeling like I’ve gotten another piece of the Erica Carrington puzzle.

“Oh, yeah? Why do you say that? You think you’ve got me all figured out?”

“I think I understand why you left that morning.” I nod slowly. “Because you were overwhelmed. And a part of you was retreating because you didn’t want to get hurt.”

Her eyes go wide, emblazoned with something, and she offers me a wide smile. “You are much more intelligent than you look.”

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not, but I’m going to take it as one. I feel like those words have been said far too frequently in my presence.”

She says, “Am I someone that makes them feel like…” She pauses. “Oh my gosh.”

“What?” I ask.

She grabs my arm and whispers, “Is that—don’t look now—but is that Michael B. Jordan?”

Of course, I look to the right. I see a tall Black guy standing there, grinning. He’s handsome, with big dimples and an expensive looking watch.

“I don’t know,” I say. “He’s a little far away. But if it’s him, are you going to dump me for him?” I ask, laughing and trying to pretend I’m not in the slightest bit jealous.

“I wouldn’t dump you for him, but I would definitely get his signature. I’d love his autograph. And if he asked me to go for a drink at the bar, I wouldn’t be able to say no. But I mean, I wouldn’t go home with him—out of respect for you, of course.”

“Oh, well. That is very kind of you. I feel special.”

“You should. I wouldn’t just turn down Michael B. Jordan for anyone.”

The man comes a little bit closer to us, and she giggles.

“Oh. He’s totally not Michael B. Jordan.”

“No. He is not. So I guess I’m the lucky one tonight.”

“I guess so.”

Her phone beeps, and she pulls it out. “Sorry, I’m not sure who’s texting me.”

She opens it, and her jaw drops.

“Oh my gosh.”

“What?” I say.

“Nothing.” She presses her finger against the phone frantically.

“Is everything okay?”

“I just—oh my gosh. I’m so disgusted right now.”

“What is it?”

She looks at me. “You’re not going to laugh, are you?”

“Of course not. What’s going on?”

“Come,” she says, and she ushers me to the side of the room.

“Is everything okay?” I ask her.

She holds up the phone, and it’s my turn for my jaw to drop. Because on the screen is a very large, endowed penis.

“Whoa. What is going on?”

“I think one of the guys I went on a date with sent me this.” She cringes. “Oh my gosh. And he has a message.”

“What does the message say?” I ask.

“‘Would it fit?’” She wrinkles her nose. “Why are men so disgusting?”

“I wish I knew,” I say, shaking my head. “If you want me to deal with him for you, I can.”

“Really? What would you do?”

“We could pretend you want to meet him tonight. And then I show up and knock his two front teeth out.”

“Oh my gosh. Everything isn’t about violence, Tyler.”

“Didn’t you hear? I’m a hockey player. It kind of is.”

She giggles slightly and shakes her head. “I’m just going to delete and block him.”

“I’m sorry that you got that. That sounds kind of traumatic.”

“I’m used to it,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I don’t know why men think that we want to see dick pics. Because I don’t know one woman who wants to see one. None of my friends have ever come up to me and been like, ‘Oh my gosh, I just got the most amazing photograph.’ You know what I mean?”

I chuckle. “I guess maybe men are under the assumption that women like it a lot more than they do.”

“I mean, yeah. I think so.” She nods. “So, if you start getting any smart ideas, don’t do it.”

“What do you mean?” I say.

“I mean, if you think about wanting to send me a dick pic, think again. I don’t want one.”

“Because you already have a mental pic, huh?” I say, teasing her.

“You know it,” she says, grinning. “I’ve got a very nice mental picture.” She licks her lips. “In fact, I wouldn’t mind getting another mental picture right now.”

“What are you saying?” I ask her as my heart races,

“I would like to be visually captivated by something other than the artwork in this room right now.”

I grab her hand and pull her toward me. “You don’t have to ask me twice.” I look around the room and see a door. “Come. Let’s go.”

“No, I was just joking.”

“Oh no, Erica. You were definitely not joking.”

“But what about your piece? What about the Brooklyn Bridge?”

“What? We can check that out later,” I say. “Right now, there are other things I would much rather indulge myself in.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

She lets out a low, breathy sigh, and her face turns pink. “This is absolutely crazy. You know that, right?”

“No. What’s crazy is the fact that you and I couldn’t stand each other a couple of weeks ago and?—”

“No, that’s not quite true. I liked you. It’s you who couldn’t stand me.”

“Well, the fact that I couldn’t stand you, and now here we are in a museum together, on a ‘date.’”

“Why are you saying quote-unquote? It is a date.”

“Well, fine. Here we are on a date, and you took my virginity, and now we’re about to do who knows what in a public space.”

“Are you scared that we might get caught?” She giggles and looks at me. “No. I think that actually turns me on.”

I growl and bring her towards me. I press my lips against hers. I don’t care who sees. I don’t care who knows.

I want this woman. Badly. “I’m fucking hard right now.”

“Yeah,” she says, looking down. “I kind of had a feeling.”

“So what are we going to do when we find a room?” I ask her.

“What do you want to do?”

“Well, you said you want to see my cock.”

“I kind of want to taste it,” she says.

“You can taste it. As long as I can taste you.”

“Oh, honey, you don’t have to ask me twice,” she says. “I like being tasted.”

“Good. Because after I taste you, I’m going to fuck you so hard and fast that every single person in this museum is going to be jealous of what we are doing.”

“You promise?” she says softly.

“Oh yeah. I promise. Now come on. Because if we keep talking like this, I’m going to blow my load before we even make it to the room.”

She hits me in the shoulder and bursts out laughing. “You’re too much.”

“Hey, as long as I can make you smile, that’s all I care about.”