Page 3

“Hi.” That was the only word that dared to come out of my mouth. All the others were locked on top of my tongue, the key nowhere to be found.

He let out a small chuckle—a sound that was better than any song I’d ever heard—and he smiled.

“Hello.” He wasn’t just looking at me. He was looking through me.

Those big hazel eyes, rimmed with long lashes, felt as though they were covering my entire body, not just connecting with my gaze.

“I can tell you need a drink. I want to be the one who buys it for you.”

Talk, Jolie. Use your words.

You’ve been around plenty of handsome men before, just not this delicious. But that shouldn’t matter. At the end of the day, he’s just another guy.

Who am I kidding? Beck Weston isn’t just another guy.

He’s the guy.

I cleared my throat. “You think I need a drink?”

His tongue skimmed the inside of his bottom lip. “Yes.”

“And what gave you that impression?”

“We’ll call it a hunch.”

My voice was soft as I said, “You don’t have to buy it. I can pay for my own. But that’s really nice of you to offer.”

“I want to.” He continued to look at me with those smoldering eyes. “Let me.”

I found myself smiling, and then I found myself nodding.

As he leaned over the edge of the bar—our shoulders basically pressed together within the tight, narrow space we’d squeezed into—he extended his hand. “I’m Beck.”

“I know. I …”

I went to the game? I know all about your career? I’m the most avid hockey fan? I bit my lip instead of saying any of that and watched his stare move to my mouth.

His hand was so large as it clasped mine; I suddenly felt child-sized.

“I’m Jolie.”

As he gripped me harder, my body reacted. This wasn’t just a simple shaking of my hand. He was setting me on fire, and instead of using a match, he was using a flamethrower.

“Jolie … that’s different. I like it.”

My throat was threatening to close in. “I’m named after ‘Jolene.’ You know, the Dolly Parton song. The lyrics don’t exactly fit the way my parents met or their love story, but since it’s the first song they ever danced to, it’s meaningful to them.”

Why had I gone from locked up to word-vomit mode? I was starting to sound like Ginger, and no one in this world talked as much as my best friend.

“Jolene is your real name, then?”

I nodded, my fingers falling from his, and I immediately linked both of my hands together. “I shorten it, depending on my mood and who I’m meeting. But Jolie is what my friends call me.”

“Jolie, what’s your mood right now?”

I laughed. I didn’t know how else to react.

“I guess you’re considering me part of that friend circle,” he continued.

While he waited for a response, my face blushed.

“A whiskey sour, light on the sour,” the bartender said, placing a glass in front of me, saving me from replying. “And just whiskey.” A tumbler was set in front of Beck.

I unlinked my fingers and wrapped them around the cold glass. “Thank you,” I said to the bartender. “And thank you,” I voiced to Beck, still staring at him as I added, “Tell me why, out of all the people in this bar, you want to buy me a drink.”

He let out another laugh. “Why … well, there are two reasons. The first, it gives me a chance to talk to you. As soon as I saw you, that’s all I could think about. How badly I wanted to chat with the gorgeous redhead.” His stare slowly dipped down my face.

Since I still couldn’t breathe, my body a tornado of tingles, I lifted a hand from my drink and gripped a chunk of hair, hoping I could let go of some of this energy.

But the longer he looked at me, the more it built.

There was no release.

There was just this steady increase of the most relentless throbbing.

“And the second?” I asked.

His teeth nipped his lip, the same one he’d licked. “That was one hell of a loss you guys suffered tonight. Thought a little booze might help ease the sting.” He clinked his glass against mine.

“I’m not going to lie—tonight was a real doozy.” I exhaled. “I was at the game.”

“I figured.”

“How did you figure?”

His stare moved again, this time down the front of me. “You’re wearing your team’s sweatshirt.”

“Oh. Right.”

I assumed his eyes would meet mine as I spoke, but they didn’t. They stayed on my body, and as they gradually lifted, I felt myself inhale.

“Jolie, I won’t hold it against you that you’re a Boston fan.”

“I won’t hold it against you that you play for LA.” I didn’t have a Boston accent. I’d somehow spent the last twenty years pronouncing all my R ’s correctly, but for my response, I imitated the way my mom—a born and raised Bostonian—would say it.

“You’re funny.” He smiled and pushed down the hairs that framed his beard. “You fit and sound the part perfectly.”

“I’ve spent my whole life here. I even stayed for college. I know my city better than anyone.”

Of course, there were reasons I had stayed, none of which I would get into with him.

“Where did you go to school?”

“You mean, where do I currently go?”

His brows rose, and he leaned back from the bar, taking his drink with him. “You’re still in college?”

“I’m a sophomore at BU.”

“Jesus.” He paused. “What are you, nineteen?”

“Twenty.”

“I’d guessed you were young. I didn’t think you were that young.”

“Young heart with an old soul.”

His gaze narrowed. “I get that sense.”

Since I was sure we’d reached the end of our conversation—there was absolutely no way this man wanted to continue talking to me—I wiggled the glass in the air. “Thanks again for the drink.”

The section in which we were standing was highly desirable, given that the bar was becoming packed, so I stepped away, walking toward Ginger, catching eyes with her, which earned me the biggest grin.

But when I was halfway to her, I sensed someone following me, and I turned around.

Beck was only a few steps away, and this time, his stare was about level with my ass.

“What are you doing, Beck?” I focused on his eyes as they rose, my cheeks heating in response.

“What am I doing right now? Or what do I want to do?”

“Right now.”

“I’m chasing you like a puck.”

I laughed. “Why?”

“Because I want more.”

“Of what?”

“You.”

A reply that rocked me so hard.

“But you know nothing about me.”

“What you’ve told me, which has only been a little, is nothing more than a fucking tease. That’s why I’m saying, I want more. Your name, what inspired it, your age, birthplace, college—it’s not enough, Jolie.”

I brought the drink up to my lips, my hand not stable, so I added my other hand too. “I find that so funny.”

“You do?”

“This bar is filled with women?—”

“And not a single one interests me. Before I saw you, my plan was to finish my beer and leave. You changed that. I told you, as soon as my eyes landed on you, all I wanted was to talk to you.”

I couldn’t believe a word of what I was hearing. Not that he was lying, but that he was saying these things to me.

Regardless of how mind-boggling this was, the more he spoke, the longer I could look at him—and that was something I wanted more of.

“All right, Beck. What do you want to know?”

He crossed an arm over his chest. “You’ll tell me anything?”

“I’ll welcome the questions. Whether I answer them? That’s up for debate.”

He huffed out some air as he smiled. “Are you single?”

“Wow.” I glanced around us. People were moving so fast; no one was listening or even paying attention to us. “You’re going right in …”

“If I was going right in, my hands would be on your body, and my lips would be on yours. This is nothing more than a conversation.”

He had a kind of charm I’d never experienced before.

I attempted to swallow. “I’m beyond single.”

“You say that like there are different levels.”

“There’s the desire to date, but doing nothing about it.

” I held up a finger, signaling this was level one.

“There’s actively seeking out dates.” I added a second finger.

“And there’s wanting nothing to do with dating.

” A third finger joined, and I waved the bunch in the air.

“I’m in the wanting nothing to do with dating phase. ”

“Why?”

I sighed. This topic was rearing its ugly head again, but this time, it was in front of an audience that filled me with the most nervous energy. “Time.”

“As someone who spends a lot of that on the road, I can appreciate your stance.”

“Are you single?”

“Beyond.” He winked.

“Because of time?”

“Time is a factor, yes. Travel is another.” He rubbed his lips together, and when he released them, they weren’t as thin as I’d originally thought. They were still on the small side, but a little bit girthier. “Plus, I just haven’t found someone I want to commit to.”

“I get it. You have multiple games a week from preseason in September all the way through April, and then the playoffs start. That’s a short window of downtime.”

He slowly nodded. “You know hockey?”

“I grew up watching it. My dad has season tickets. If he wasn’t traveling for work, we never missed a home game.” I turned quiet. “That’s how I knew who you were.”

“Considering you’re from Boston, I’m surprised you don’t want to fight me.”

I laughed, and it felt so good to just loosen up for a second. “As a hockey fan, I’m in awe of your talent. As a diehard Boston fan … let’s just say, you’re skating on thin ice.”

His tongue tapped the center of his top lip, edging the line of hair around his mustache. “How thin?”

I took another drink. “Why are you asking?”

He took a step closer, and I caught a whiff of his scent. It was a combination—a hint of a shower that he’d probably taken after the game plus a dash of something spicy, like the most perfect cologne.

“Can I be honest?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How honest, Jolie?”

“What’s the worst that can happen? I walk away? Never talk to you again?” I shrugged since I assumed we were going to part in the next few minutes anyway. “Try me.”

He reached forward, and I thought he was going to cup my face, but he was only moving a piece of hair off my lip.

But still … that touch.

It was electric.

And I could feel it, even after his hand was gone.

“I’m here for three nights, and then the team is flying out to DC for our next game. I want to spend those three nights with you.”

My eyes bulged. “You … what ?”

“I told you I was going to be honest.”

I couldn’t control what was happening in my body. The feeling, at this point, was indescribable.

“Define exactly what you’re asking for. I want to make sure I understand you correctly.”

“I want you to show me Boston. Show it to me your way. Someone who’s from here, who knows the secrets of the city. Secrets a newbie wouldn’t know.”

I held on to my stomach, my arm pushing tightly against it so my insides wouldn’t burst through my outsides.

“You’re saying you want me to take you to the dive bar Ginger, my best friend, and I go to because they don’t card?

And to the overlook in Beacon Hill that has the very best views of the skyline?

And to my favorite running path in Cambridge because I love being next to the Charles River? ”

“Yes.”

I laughed—like really laughed. “You’re Beck Weston. The most famous player in the NHL and, at this moment, the most disliked man in the city of Boston.” I winced, apologizing. “Do you think I can just bring you anywhere? You’re a celebrity. You’re going to draw a crowd.”

“I haven’t in here.”

“That’s because everyone is too hammered to see you. But you will get noticed, trust me.”

He smiled. “I have a baseball hat.”

I shook my head, trying to make sense of this. “Boston tour, check. What else does this three-night excursion include?”

“I want you to stay with me. In my hotel room. The entire time.”

I turned my head, needing a break from his stare. And when I had the courage to say, “That’s all you want? Me to sleep in your bed,” I finally looked at him.

His chuckle was deep. “No.” He gripped the back of his head.

“Then, what?”

His gaze took a dive down my body again. “I want to fuck the Boston off you.”