Page 2

Wren

A rcher Graves is the captain I’d like to…

“You called him a shitheel and slapped him with your glove like you were insulting his lineage,” Joaquin Reed practically shouts, interrupting my thought before it fully forms. He points an accusing finger across the table at Logan Moreno, drawing my attention. “What did you think he was going to do?”

“Exactly what the fuck he did,” Logan responds casually, shrugging one broad shoulder as he takes a sip of beer. “He got all bent out of shape and started swinging.” He cuts his eyes at Jordan Silvestri, seated beside him. “And this big bitch right here took care of my lightwork. He whipped him all the way across the ice.”

“And nearly got ejected from the game, you dick,” Jordan mutters without heat. But his lips twitch.

“You fucking loved it,” Logan says, shrugging unapologetically.

Jordan grumbles and then holds his thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart, causing everyone at the table to explode into raucous laughter.

“Wait!” I cry, flinging up a hand. My head is swimming with the alcohol pumping through my veins. How much have I had to drink tonight? I honestly can’t remember. I don’t remember the start of this conversation, either. I was too busy drooling over my brother’s fuckable best friend. “Why did you want Jordan to beat him up? Why didn’t you just do it yourself?”

“He couldn’t leave the crease to fight,” Archer murmurs from beside me, a smile in his voice. “He would have gotten ejected from the game. And Diego was still hungover.”

I turn to look at him, swallowing hard when I see how close he’s sitting to me, his arm casually thrown over the back of the bench, those long fingers wrapped around a glass of bourbon just millimeters from me.

I wish I was that glass right now.

My stomach quivers at the thought, bottoming out.

Stop thinking about him like that, I coach myself. It’s no use, though. I’ve done little else but think of Archer Graves inappropriately since he slid his fine ass into the booth beside me hours ago. Actually, scratch that. I’ve been thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts about the gorgeous captain since I met him at Micah and Elodie’s wedding last year.

He’s so damn sexy in a rugged all-American kind of way. His dark hair is just a touch too long, refusing to obey no matter how many times he combs his fingers through it. Paired with startling cerulean eyes, a razor-sharp jawline, and those broad shoulders, he’s…well, entirely too fuckable.

I’ve been getting myself off to fantasies of him since I met him, and judging by the number of women who wear his jersey at every game, I’m not the only one. They scream his name like he’s a freaking rockstar. But Archer isn’t just another fuckboy hockey player like half of Micah’s teammates.

While they’re in the gossip pages because they never stop sleeping around, the only time Archer ever gets a mention is because he doesn’t engage in the same behavior. They juxtapose his teammates’ behavior with his as if placing him on a pedestal. I doubt he’s still holding onto his V-Card, but he isn’t dicking down anyone who offers, either.

He’s…honestly, it’s so cliché but he’s a genuinely good guy. One I’ve been crushing on for far too damn long. There isn’t much in Micah’s world I want. He can keep the fame, the fortune, and the screaming fans. But his best friend?

Yeah, I want him. So badly it’s ridiculous.

Unfortunately for me, it’ll never happen. Micah’s head would explode. Pissing him off is ten kinds of fun for me, but not when it comes to his career. Not when it comes to his teammates. That’s a line I know better than to cross.

I wish like hell it didn’t exist. Especially right now.

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?

I’m pretty sure sleeping with his best friend is not one of those things that stays on the strip with the rest of our bad decisions and Vegas regrets. Mostly because I doubt I’d regret it at all.

Archer’s hand bumps my shoulder, sending sparks shooting through.

I whimper and grab my glass, downing my drink.

“Whoa.” Micah’s eyes narrow on me behind his glasses. “You want to slow down over there?”

“No.” I shoot him an overly sweet smile. “You want to mind your business over there?”

His teammates laugh when he grumbles at me. All except Archer, anyway.

“He’s right,” Archer murmurs, leaning toward me in the booth. “You should pace yourself before you end up with a killer hangover.”

“Maybe that’s the plan,” I whisper to him.

“The last place you want to be with a hangover tomorrow is on a plane with these assholes.” His lips curve into a grin. “Trust me.”

“Speaking from experience, Mr. Graves?”

“Uh, fuck yeah. And believe me, it was not a good experience.” He pauses. “Any of the half dozen or so times it happened.”

I laugh quietly, pointing at his glass. “Better be careful or you may be repeating past mistakes.”

“It’s Vegas, baby. I always make the same goddamn mistake when we’re in Vegas.” He winks, his eyes locked on mine as he lifts the glass to his lips.

I watch in rapt fascination as he drains it, my heart hammering. He just called me baby.

“Wait.” My brows furrow. “What mistake?”

His eyes widen, a curse rumbling from his lips. “I drink too much and then lose a goddamn fortune gambling.”

“Oh.” Relief courses through me in a flood, and I’m too damn drunk to hide it with him watching me so intently. I try to play it off by clearing my throat and shooting him a playful smile, trying desperately to sound casual. “Could be worse. You could wake up next to some random woman. Married. With no clue what happened.”

“Not happening,” he growls.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t do that kind of shit.”

Why do I love that so much? I don’t know. It’s a mystery, like the passage of time in a casino. He isn’t mine. I have no claim on him. And yet…and yet, ever since Micah and Elodie’s wedding, he’s felt like mine.

I tried so damn hard to keep my distance that weekend. I didn’t want to like him. I didn’t want anything to do with him or any of Micah’s teammates. But every time I turned around, Archer was right there. Watching me. Following me. Forcing me to see him.

I fell without even realizing it was happening. And I’ve been falling deeper ever since. Every freaking excuse I can find to end up in a room with him, I take. I’ve attended more games in the last year than I did the entire time I was in college. Micah assumes it’s because I’m less busy since I graduated…but that’s a lie. It’s Archer.

When a job materialized in DC, I jumped at it. That wasn’t even my plan! I was supposed to go back home to California. My bags were packed. I had a job lined up. And then…and then a new nonprofit opened here, providing care for underprivileged kids in DC. I didn’t even hesitate to say yes when they asked me to take the physical therapist position.

Micah still thinks it’s so I could be closer to him. And, sure, that was part of my reasoning, but Archer was the biggest part.

“That’s right,” I say, forcing a teasing note when I realize Archer is still staring at me, waiting for a response. “The captain has to behave himself. Can’t have any fun or chase after the bunnies.”

A little growl rumbles in his throat. “Fuck the bunnies, Wren. They don’t interest me.”

“What…” I lick my lips. Why is my mouth so damn dry? “What does?”

He meets my gaze again, and I’m caught in his whirlwind, just sucked right into turbulent cerulean skies. God, he’s intense. Beautiful like a hurricane.

Would he kiss me with the same ferocity of a raging storm? Or would he be softer, sweeter?

The fact that I don’t know is slowly driving me out of my mind.

“We should call it a night,” Micah says abruptly. “It’s getting late.”

I jerk my gaze away from Archer, terrified he caught us staring at each other, and he knows just how deep this obsession runs. But he’s looking at his phone, completely oblivious to…whatever the hell just happened on this side of the booth.

“I’m not ready to go yet,” I complain. “I still want to gamble!”

Micah groans loudly. “It’s two in the morning, Wren.”

“So? It’s my birthday.”

“Uh, no. Yesterday was your birthday.”

I pout at him the same way I’ve been doing for most of my life. “Please?”

“Hell no.”

“Pretty please?”

His teammates watch us like they’re watching a ping-pong match, amused grins on their faces.

Micah growls, but he’s wavering, getting ready to cave just like he always does. He can’t tell me no. He never has been able to do it. Giving me what I want is hardwired into him, a byproduct of a lifetime of my needs always coming second to his career, I think.

Micah and I have the same mom, but not the same dad. His dad died when he was just a baby. My dad was his coach. Our mom was at every single one of his games, and they fell in love. My dad adopted him not long after I was born. Micah wasn’t one of those kids who ever minded having a little sister. He spoiled me growing up.

And he’s always felt guilty that I almost died on the ice when I was ten. He’s convinced that if hockey hadn’t been my whole life, I wouldn’t have been out there that day.

His guilt is unnecessary, but there’s no telling him that. He goes out of his way trying to make it up to me. I usually fight him on it because there’s nothing for him to make up to me, but sometimes, like right now? Well, you gotta do what you gotta do. And if playing dirty means I get even ten more minutes with Archer, well, I’ll play dirty.

“I’ll take her gambling,” Archer says before Micah can give in gracelessly.

Micah glances over at him.

Archer just shrugs. “I’m going that way anyway.”

“You sure, man? She’s a pain in the ass.”

“I am not!”

“You kinda are,” River St. James says, smirking at me from across the table.

I just roll my eyes at him. He only flirts with me to annoy Micah…just like half the other guys on the team. None of them actually mean it. Thank God, because I would literally rather walk through fire naked.

“Shut the fuck up and keep your eyes off my sister, River,” Micah growls without even looking at him, which only makes River laugh.

“Just sayin’,” he murmurs.

Archer shoots him a scathing look, which shuts him up.

Logan Moreno laughs quietly, shaking his head.

“She can come with me,” Archer says, turning back to Micah. “It’ll be fine.”

My brother hesitates briefly before nodding. “Fine, but you better take care of her, man. If anything happens to her in Vegas, I will throw you from the plane tomorrow.”

Archer holds his gaze, not wavering. “I swear to you, if anything happens to her on my watch, I’ll throw myself from the plane.” There’s a thread in his voice…something so raw and intense. It sends a thrill ripping through me.

Micah grumbles under his breath and then drags out his wallet, counting out one-hundred-dollar bills before holding them out to Archer.

“What the fuck is this for?” Archer asks, looking at it like Micah’s trying to hand him something dead.

“For the damage she’s about to do out there.” My brother sighs. “Trust me, bro. You’re going to need it.”

I stick my tongue out at him like a two-year-old. Mostly because he’s probably right. I’ve never gambled before. I went to a boring play for my twenty-first birthday last year. And I’m not even sure I can see straight right now. This is probably going to be a disaster.

“Keep it,” Archer mutters, sliding from the booth. “I’ve got it.”

“Whatever.” Micah shrugs. “It’s your funeral. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when you wake up tomorrow and you’re missing a few zeroes in your account.”

“I am not that bad,” I complain, wobbling to my feet.

My brother’s snort makes it clear he thinks I’m full of shit. Who asked for his opinion, anyway?

Five minutes later, Archer leads me onto the casino floor. I stand there for a minute, just trying to get my bearings. Everything is bright and loud, lights flashing and machines beeping all over the casino floor.

“It’s kind of pretty,” I murmur. “Like a screaming neon oasis.”

A deep laugh rumbles from Archer’s lips. “That’s one way to put it,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Where we heading first, little bird?”

My stomach quivers, and I stumble in my heels.

He catches me, sliding an arm around my waist. “Easy, baby.”

“Sorry.” I laugh up at him. “Heels and vodka don’t mix.”

“Clearly not. You sure you’re up for this?”

“Um, yes. Where are the penny slots?”

“Penny slots?” A broad smile stretches across his face, full of amusement. “Fuck no, Wren. If you’re going to gamble, you’re going to do it right.”

“I thought playing the slots was doing it right.”

“Not even close.”

“Then why are they everywhere in Vegas?” I question as he cuts across the casino floor, heading…somewhere. “Even my terminal in the airport had slot machines. There was a game room full of them, too.”

“Because tourists love that shit, baby.” He weaves through the casino like a man on a mission. It’s interesting. In the restaurant, everyone kept looking at our table and whispering. They recognized my brother, Archer, and the rest of the guys. But out here? Everyone is too engrossed in the shiny machines in front of them to pay any attention to the sports star in their midst. They don’t even notice him.

Those who do look in our direction simply look through us or past us. Some smile politely, but there is no recognition on their faces. Here, he’s just another guy in a casino.

Micah told me once that he loves the anonymity of Vegas, but I never really understood what that meant until just now. It has to be freeing to simply be a face in the crowd for once instead of the face in the crowd everyone is watching.

“Here. Sit.” Archer stops in front of a complicated looking machine set off by itself and places his hand on the small of my back. He leans in close….too close. I smell his aftershave and have to fight back a whimper. “This will do for now.”

I drop heavily onto the chair situated in front of the machine, staring at it blankly for a long moment before what I’m seeing registers. I gape at him over my shoulder. “We’re playing poker?”

“Video poker,” he confirms, feeding money into the machine.

“Uh, I don’t know how to play poker, Archer,” I murmur, uneasily. The only time I’ve even seen anyone play poker was at a frat party. And the stakes were items of clothing. My roommate ended up losing her dress on the very first hand.

“I’ll teach you.”

“You should have taken Micah’s money,” I groan. “I am going to suck so hard.”

Archer chuckles, tipping my head back until my gaze tangles with his. “Two rules, little bird. One, fake it until you make it.”

“Yay, poker!” I say, deadpan.

His lips curve into a grin. “Smartass.”

“What’s the other rule?” I ask when he doesn’t give it to me and doesn’t release my chin either. He just holds it, staring down at me with this soft look in his eyes that has my stomach doing somersaults.

“Don’t talk about sucking,” he growls, his gaze dropping to my lips.

I whimper quietly, unable to stop the sound.

“Fuck,” he groans, his nostrils flaring as his eyes darken.

I sway in my seat, leaning toward him. A few more inches and his lips will be against mine. I’ll know what he tastes like. I’ll know what sound he makes when he’s kissing me. I’ll know if he’s the storm.

“Drinks?” a woman chirps from behind him.

We spring apart like someone just set us on fire.

“Screwdriver!” I squeak.

“Bourbon,” he growls at the same time.

“O-kay,” the waitress murmurs. “Be right back.”

I turn back to the machine in front of me, feeling like my face is on fire. Awkward silence descends between us, louder than the machines screaming all around us.

“So…how do we do this?” I finally mutter.

“Fuck.” Archer steps up beside me, blowing out a breath. “Video poker is relatively straightforward. You bet one to five coins.” He leans over me to make a bet. “And then the machine gives you five cards.” We wait while our cards are dealt. “And then you decide which you want to keep and which you want to discard.” He quickly swipes away two cards, keeping a pair of tens and a nine. “Once you discard, the machine replaces your cards. How much you make depends on the value of your hand.” The machine replaces the discarded cards with another nine, an ace, and a two. And then he hits another button, the machine beeps, and the money counter goes up.

“Oh!” Excitement fires through me, and I dance in my seat. “You won!”

Archer chuckles. “I had two pairs, baby.”

“Is that good?”

“Yeah, that’s good.” He leans over me, his arm brushing mine. “Now, you try.”

I catch my tongue between my teeth, concentrating as he leads me through the process again. At least, I try to concentrate, but with him in my personal space, all I can focus on is the way his body keeps brushing up against mine and the way his breath whispers against my ear.

“Which cards do you want to keep?”

“Um…” I stare blankly at the machine. “Can I keep the red ones?”

He chuckles, and I damn near melt into a puddle right there in my seat. He’s so close, I feel the vibration against my back. Feel it against my ear. My clit pulses in time to the sound.

“Hell no, Wren,” he says. “You want to keep the seven, nine, ten, and Jack.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Because keeping the three, seven, and nine isn’t going to net you anything. But if you get an eight, you have a straight.”

“And a straight is good?”

“It pays twenty times your bet,” he murmurs.

“What’s my bet?”

“Fifty dollars.”

“Fifty dollars?” I squeak, gaping up at him. “That’s too much, Archer!”

He chuckles. “Just discard the card, Wren.”

“No way. I’m not losing you twenty times fifty dollars on the hopes this machine gives me an eight. My math is broken right now, but I know that’s a lot!”

“Baby.” His forehead lands against the back of my neck, another laugh vibrating through him. “You won’t lose twenty times your bet. You’ll only lose your bet.”

“I could eat for two days on fifty dollars,” I grumble, not really mollified. Spending Micah’s money is way more fun than losing Archer’s. At least with Micah, I can remember all the ways he’s annoyed me over the years and feel a little better when he spends ridiculous amounts of money on stupid stuff for me. But it’s different this time. Archer doesn’t annoy me. This is his money on the line. And all we’ll have to show for it at the end is…well, definitely not the eight we need to win twenty times our bet.

Gambling is so lame.

“Push the button, Wren,” Archer growls, his voice pitched low.

Something about that tone—that bossy, do-it-now-or-else tone—has me quickly jabbing the button. My clit throbs too. God, I want him to growl at me like that while I’m naked in his bed.

To absolutely no one’s surprise, he loses fifty dollars.

“This is way more fun when you’re winning,” I complain.

“Then place a bet and go again.”

I peer at him over my shoulder. “Do you have an addiction?”

“Yeah, to watching your cute ass freak out over spending my money. Push the button, little bird.”

I blush from head to toe. I know I do. I feel it heating up my whole damn body. He thinks I’m cute. Or my ass is cute. Or…something. I don’t know. But Archer Graves, man of my dreams, is flirting with me.

I take back everything I said earlier. Gambling is amazing.

“Gambling is terrible,” I groan two hours later, stumbling into Archer as he tries to shuffle me onto the elevator. We lost…I don’t even know. A lot of money. Probably enough to start our own country. Or at least our own island.

I still don’t understand poker. It’s his fault. He spent the whole damn time leaning over me, brushing up against me, whispering in my ear, and flirting with me. He’s a terrible teacher. Because I spent the whole time fantasizing about having sex with him on the casino floor instead of learning any of the rules.

Royal flush? Don’t know her.

Royally screwed? Yep, that’s me.

“Regretting it already, little bird?” he asks, his smile fuzzy as he tucks hair behind my ears.

“Yes!” I cry, collapsing against the corner of the elevator with a huff. My legs are tired. I need to pee. What time is it? “I cost you at least a thousand dollars tonight.”

He jabs the button and then stalks across the elevator toward me. “Only a thousand, huh? Pretty sure you cost me more than that, baby.”

“Your fault. You should have taken Micah’s money when you had the chance.” I plant my hand on his stomach. I’m not sure why I do it, but I tangle my fingers up in his shirt, tugging him toward me.

He doesn’t stop me. Instead, he presses up against me, smirking down at me. “How drunk are you right now, Wren?”

“Yes.”

“You’re yes drunk?”

“Yes. How drunk are you?”

“Yes.”

One plus one equals screw it, right? He’s in front of me, smirking at me. I’m dying to know what he tastes like. This is Vegas. If this is my only chance…screw it is obviously the only logical answer.

I practically launch myself at him, landing against his lips.

“Fuck,” he growls, grabbing me by the hips. He kisses me hard. Breathes even harder. He’s practically vibrating, trying to hold himself in check even as his tongue flicks out, taking another little taste. “You can’t do that.”

“Why not?” I whisper, touching his bottom lip with my tongue again. “Been wanting to do it.”

He groans, a broken, desperate sound, his fingers digging into my hips. He’s still vibrating, still trying to hold it together. B reak already. Crack for me. “How long, Wren?”

“How long, what?”

“How long have you wanted to kiss me?”

“Forever,” I breathe.

He breaks, cracking into pieces right before my eyes. And damn. It’s beautiful. He groans like I just set loose his deepest fantasy, shoving me up against the chrome wall. His lips come down on mine, his breath a harsh rasp.

“Shouldn’t have told me that,” he growls, licking into my mouth like he’s trying to taste heaven. I shove my hands into his hair, holding him to me as he consumes me, kissing away every inhibition I have. All that’s left is him and the need coursing through my veins in a raging wildfire.

It's so loud. So much.

So damn good.

He’s the storm, raging unchecked. Ferocious and intense.

“Archer,” I whimper, practically crawling up his body, trying to get closer. To feel more of him against me. I want him everywhere. Right now. I need it or I may crumble.

He grips my ass, squeezing my cheeks like they’re his to touch, his to claim. His little whimper… God, that sound is so damn sexy to me. It’s possessive and raw, part desperate man, part hungry lion.

The elevator shudders to a stop beneath us. A second later, the doors slide open.

“Oh, shit.”

I rip my mouth from Archer’s in time to see Logan standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, looking at us like he’d rather be anywhere else right now. I did not think it was possible to shock their goalie silent, and yet the evidence is standing in front of me. All six foot something of him, shocked silent.

“Fuck,” Archer growls, quickly turning us slightly as if to shield me from view. But it’s way too late for that. Logan has already seen us.

“Um…hi?” I squeak.

Logan cracks a smile, glancing between me and Archer. “Before I get off this fucking elevator and pretend I didn’t see shit…no disrespect, Cap, but are you good, Wren? You want to be here?”

“I’m fine, Logan,” I whisper. “But thank you for being the kind of guy who asks.”

He jerks his chin in a nod and then turns around like he didn’t just see his captain with his hands all over my ass and his tongue down my throat. Like my legs aren’t around his waist and we aren’t dry humping against the wall. Like we’re complete strangers he’s never met before now.

The doors slide closed.

Archer doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t move, either. He’s completely still, every muscle in his body rigid. His hands still on my ass.

My soul quivers. He’s going to tell me that this was a mistake. That it never should have happened and can’t ever happen again. He’s going to break my heart without even knowing entire sections of it probably already belong to him.

“Archer?” I whisper, pleading quietly. “Please don’t regre–”

“Marry me.”

I gape at him, shocked silent for a full five count. “What?”

“Marry me,” he growls. “Right here. Tonight. Marry me, Wren.”

Alarm bells sound in the back of my head. This isn’t right. This isn’t how this is supposed to happen. We aren’t supposed to be a drunken Vegas mistake.

But I don’t say any of that. Because the man I’ve been dreaming about for the last year is staring at me, waiting for my answer. And tonight, I’m just drunk enough to give it to him, consequences be damned.

“Yes.”