Page 2 of Sweet Pucking Revenge (2-Hour Quickies #6)

As we walk toward the taxi stand, I realize I'm actually looking forward to the evening. This woman is nothing like I expected—she's smart, funny, and there's an authenticity to her that makes you want to know more.

Which is exactly why I need to remember she's Kyle's girlfriend.

The Luxor's pyramid looms ahead, its beam cutting through the desert night.

In the cab, Maggie tells me about her work, her hands moving animatedly as she explains algorithms I barely understand.

But I find myself hanging on every word—not just because she makes complex concepts accessible, but because her passion is contagious.

"So basically," she says as we enter the theater, "we're teaching computers to think like coaches, but faster."

"And more objectively," I add, surprising myself. "No emotional bias."

Her eyes widen. "Exactly! Kyle always zones out when I talk about work, but you actually get it."

The way her face falls slightly when she mentions Kyle makes me change the subject. "Ready to have your mind freaked?"

"Born ready." She settles into her seat, smoothing her dress. "Though I should warn you—I'm one of those annoying people who try to figure out how every trick works."

"Perfect. I need someone to explain it to me when I'm too busy being amazed."

The lights dim, and Criss Angel appears in a burst of fire.

Throughout the show, I find myself watching Maggie more than the stage.

She gasps at the right moments, but I can see her mind working, trying to decode each illusion.

When Angel makes a motorcycle vanish, she leans close to whisper theories in my ear.

Her perfume is subtle but intoxicating, and I have to remind myself—again—that she's taken.

"No way that was just mirrors," she insists as we leave the theater. "The angles were all wrong. Unless..." She launches into a technical explanation that has me laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"You. Most people would just say 'wow, magic!' and leave it at that."

She stops walking, hands on hips. "Are you making fun of my analytical mind, Mr. Prescott?"

"On the contrary, Ms. Flores. I find it refreshing."

Something shifts in the air between us. Her smile softens, and for a moment I forget about Kyle, about hockey, about everything except how beautiful she looks in the neon glow of the Strip.

My phone buzzes, shattering the moment. It's Kyle: Still with sis. Take her to dinner. I insist.

Maggie peers at the text over my shoulder, and I catch another whiff of her perfume. "We don't have to," she says softly. "I was saving Picasso for..."

"For Kyle?" The words come out more bitter than intended.

She nods, fiddling with her bracelet. "It's silly, I know. But it's supposed to be so romantic, with the fountain view and—"

"And Kyle specifically asked me to take you." I show her the text, watching emotions flicker across her face. "He wants you to enjoy your Vegas experience."

"I know. I shouldn’t be this disappointed. It’s not Kyle’s fault. He has responsibilities. I just… I wanted tonight to be perfect."

I don’t even know what to respond.

She studies me for a long moment and then smiles. "You're a good friend, Grayson."

I'm really not , I think, because every minute with her makes me forget she belongs to someone else.

At Picasso, the ma?tre d' leads us to a window table. Maggie's breath catches at the view—the fountains are dancing again, this time to Sinatra. The lights paint patterns on her face, and I force myself to look away.

"This is..." She shakes her head, smiling. "I feel underdressed."

"You look perfect." Once again, the words slip out before I can stop them.

A blush creeps up her cheeks as she opens the menu. "So, team captain, huh? That's a big deal."

"It's just a letter on a jersey."

"Liar." She peers at me over her menu. "You care about it. About doing it right."

"That obvious?"

"Like a sore thumb," she teases, echoing our earlier conversation. "You've got that responsible older brother vibe. The one who always does the right thing."

Like taking another man's girlfriend to dinner?

The waiter arrives with wine, and Maggie orders in perfect French. When I raise an eyebrow, she shrugs. "My father insisted on language lessons. He has... expectations."

Something in her tone makes me lean forward. "Tell me about your family."

And she does. About growing up in Mexico, her father's resort empire, the pressure to be perfect. How she fought to study computer science instead of hotel management. How she still seeks his approval in everything.

"That's why dating Kyle is so important," she admits, pushing her food around. "Dad loves that I'm dating a professional athlete. Though he's never actually met Kyle..."

"Why not?"

"Something always comes up when we plan the trip." She brightens artificially. "But soon, right? Kyle hints about proposing, and then..."

My fork clatters against the plate. "He what?"

"Not officially!" She holds up her hands. "Just... hints. About our future. The resort. Having a place to retire..."

My stomach turns, remembering Kyle's words at the bar. But what can I say? Your boyfriend's using you for your family's money?

Instead, I ask about her work again, and she lights up, explaining her latest project. When she talks tech, all her insecurity vanishes. She's brilliant and she knows it.

I find myself sharing too—about the pressure of the captaincy, my relief at leaving Philadelphia's spotlight, my secret dream of coaching someday. She listens intently, asking questions that show she actually cares about the answers.

The fountains dance, the wine flows, and I try not to notice how easy this feels. Too easy.

When the check arrives, she reaches for her purse. "Let me—"

"Kyle would kill me."

"Kyle's not here." Something flashes in her eyes, but she covers it quickly. "And I'm perfectly capable of paying for dinner."

"I know you are. But I'm the tour guide tonight, remember?"

Rain starts falling as we leave the restaurant. Fat desert drops that seem to appear from nowhere in the clear sky. Maggie laughs, tilting her face up. "I thought it never rained in Vegas!"

I shrug out of my blazer and hold it over her head. "Can't have your perfect makeup ruined."

"My hero." She ducks under the jacket, close enough that I feel her warmth. "Dorian would kill me if he knew I let rain anywhere near this dress."

"Dorian?"

"My best friend. I'm staying at his place." She shivers slightly. "He's probably waiting up to hear all about my romantic evening with Kyle."

The reminder stings. "Let me get us a cab."

The ride to her friend’s place is quiet, but not uncomfortable. Maggie hums along to the radio, some pop song I don't recognize.

"So… how do you have a best friend in Vegas?"

"Oh, Dorian? We met during a study abroad program in L.A. years ago—he was doing makeup for a student film, I was interning at a tech startup. Instant connection. We’ve stayed close ever since."

“Nice.”

“Actually, I should let him know I’m on my way.” She types a quick message.

Maggie : Kyle had an emergency. I'm with his teammate. Heading home.

A minute later, her phone buzzes. "He's asking if I want ice cream." She laughs softly. "He assumes I’m heartbroken. He's... protective."

"Good. You need someone in your corner."

She looks at me sharply, but before she can respond, we're pulling up to a modern apartment complex. I walk her to the door, where a flamboyantly dressed man is waiting.

"Darling!" He sweeps Maggie into a hug, then eyes me appreciatively. "And who is this specimen?"

"Dorian, this is Grayson Prescott. He’s the new captain of the Vipers—Kyle's teammate. Grayson, meet Dorian."

"The new captain?" Dorian's perfectly groomed eyebrow arches. "My, my. Look at you—you are so... captain-y."

"Dorian!" Maggie hisses, but she's fighting a smile.

"What? I'm just saying, if I had teammates that looked like—"

"Thank you for everything," Maggie cuts in, her cheeks pink. "Really."

I want to kiss her. The realization hits like a body check—sudden and breathtaking. Instead, I lean in and brush my lips against her cheek, catching the corner of her mouth. "Goodnight, Maggie."

Her eyes widen slightly. "Goodnight, Grayson."

Dorian watches this exchange with entirely too much interest.

Walking back to the cab, I hear him say, "Honey, we need to talk about that chemistry—" before the door closes.

I'm in my hotel room the next morning, still thinking about Maggie's smile, when someone pounds on my door.

Kyle strides in before I can fully open it. "Thanks, man. You're a real bro."

"How's your sister?" I keep my voice neutral, but my hands clench at my sides.

"Oh, she's fine." He grabs a bottle of water from my minibar, sprawls on my couch. "Actually... there's something I should tell you."

My jaw tightens. "What?"

"There was this Marilyn Monroe impersonator at the Flamingo." He grins, taking a long drink. "Smoking hot, man. Early twenties. Like, straight off the farm. Natural blonde, huge rack. When she started flirting... I mean, that's what Vegas is all about, right? The buffet?"

The water bottle crackles in his grip as he makes a crude gesture. I fight the urge to throw him out the window.

"So there was no emergency." It's not a question.

"Come on, G. You've seen Margarita—she's hot as hell, but she's so... good." He says it like it's a disease. "Always trying to talk about computers and shit. Sometimes a man needs something simpler, you know?"

I think of Maggie's eyes lighting up as she explained algorithms. How she ordered in French. The way she tried to decode every magic trick.

"You're an asshole."

He laughs. "Don't tell me you didn't think about it. A woman that hot, all grateful for your help..." He winks. "Did she at least give you a thank-you kiss?"

My fist connects with his jaw before I realize I'm moving.

Kyle sprawls back, water spilling everywhere. "What the fuck, man?"

"Get out."

"Jesus, it was a joke!" He stands, rubbing his jaw. "Since when are you so protective of my girlfriend?"

Since I spent four hours learning who she really is. Since I watched her try to hide her disappointment when you didn't show. Since I realized she deserves so much better than you.

But I say nothing, just hold the door open until he leaves.

Alone, I stare at the Vegas skyline. How do I face Maggie at the next game, knowing what I know? How do I watch her cheer for him, believing his lies?

The right thing would be to tell her.

The safer thing would be to stay away.

The thing is... I don't do safe.