Page 5 of The Wildest One

But for just a few seconds, I tried to envision what it would be like—the fantasy of Beck Weston slowly lifting through the thick clouds. It was like I was standing straight under the sun—that was the level of heat that washed over my entire body. But it wasn’t just a wave of scorching rays that hit me; it was a deep, consuming pulsing too.

What’s even happening right now?

“You might be right.” I nodded overaggressively. “I’d probably die for that chance.”

She smirked. “Just like I thought.”

“Not that it even matters. I’m sure he’s already gotten bored with looking at me?—”

My voice cut off after I turned my head, instantly connecting eyes with him.

Although I’d been to many games when Boston played LA—my father had had season tickets for as long as I could remember and I always went with him—and I’d seen pictures of Beck on gossip sites and on Celebrity Alerts, admiring him in person was something far different.

In all those pics, he was a super-good-looking guy, of course.

But as I stood less than ten feet away from him—where he was positioned by the bar top, next to the goalie of the Whales—I was absolutely certain he was the hottest man I’d ever seen in my life.

He had chestnut-brown hair that was long on the top, the sides shaved to the start of his beard, which was bushy andovergrown and so sexy in this alpha, unhinged sort of way. He had hazel eyes that were hooded as they focused on me, thin lips, a thick neck that had veins running down both sides.

And then there was his body.

He had to be around six-three and was extra broad. The first two buttons of his shirt were undone, showing a small dusting of hair and a gold chain, and the rest of the fabric hugged his bulging biceps and what I assumed was a set of chiseled abs.

I was positive I’d stopped breathing.

And thinking.

I blinked.

And then I blinked again, doing everything I could to remind myself that I was here, in a bar, beside Ginger, looking at one of the most famous NHL players to ever exist.

As each of those points processed through my head—the latter being the most dominant—I forced my stare upon Ginger. “I … can’t breathe.”

“Neither can I—and he’s not even looking at me.”

I needed to get my thoughts straight. Right now, they were bouncing like a dribbling basketball. And I needed to get out of this spot. I felt claustrophobic even though we were in the center of a bar and there was plenty of air around me. There was something about being under his stare that was making me feel cemented.

“I’m going to go get another drink,” I told her.

“You’re going to do what?”

“I need one more drink, and then I need to go home and finish the paper that’s due on Monday because at some point tomorrow, I need to go into work and get that to-do list cleared before I get too far behind.”

“Babe, do I need to check your temperature?” She put her hand on my forehead. “Are you all right?—”

I didn’t let her finish her sentence before I turned away and walked the short distance to the bar, squeezing my way between two people, hailing down a bartender.

“Can I get a whiskey sour, please? Make it a double and go light on the sour.”

“That’s too tart for me. I’ll just take the whiskey—also make mine a double. And put her drink on my tab.”

My back stiffened at the voice that had come from beside me. I’d felt the shift and exchange of people as I was speaking my order to the bartender and sensed someone new was next to me, but it couldn’t be Beck Weston. There was no way he’d followed me to the other side of the bar from where he’d been standing.

I took a quick glance.

Shit.

It was most definitely him.