Page 40 of Trick Shot (Bainbridge Hockey #4)

Claire

“ O kay, I need help,” I say, reaching for the bowl of chips on the coffee table and popping a few in my mouth.

“You do need help,” Pete agrees. “Anyone who eats salt and vinegar chips needs help, Claire. But you’re admitting it, and that’s the first step.”

We’re sprawled out on the couch in my suite.

I’ve got my back against the armrest and Pete’s at the far other end of the sofa with his legs propped up on the coffee table.

My computer is in my lap, my knees are bent, and my feet are perilously close to Pete’s ass.

So, I kick him. Playfully, of course. There’s no force behind it.

I love that ass and I’m not going to risk damaging it just to throw a temper tantrum in defense of the most delicious snack food ever created.

He grabs my foot and threatens to tickle me but thinks twice when I bust out my patented frosty glare.

We’re alone in my apartment and though it’s safe to say we’d both rather be in my bed right now, we have work to do. I’m doing prep work for an upcoming story, and Pete’s working on a lesson he has to teach to an advanced biology class in a few days.

We’re busy people, so it makes sense that we’re getting our shit done and still spending time together.

Except it doesn’t. We aren’t a real couple. And there’s literally no one else here right now. The dying cactus that Maggie gave me as a thank-you for doing her photo shoot doesn’t count.

But hanging with Pete is quickly becoming the best part of my day, and as ridiculous as it sounds, I don’t want to lose what we have. The logical part of my brain tells me that what we have is fake, so I can’t really lose it.

But the emotional part of me—the one who rarely shows her face—is so damn happy in this fake relationship that I don’t want to do anything to risk it.

“Fine, I’ll help,” he says with an exaggerated sigh. “What do you need? A backrub? A frontrub, maybe? Or someone to explain that the mitochondria really is the powerhouse of the cell? Because I was made for this shit.”

“I need you to take a picture of my wrist.”

Pete’s been looking at his computer screen, but he slowly turns his head toward me. “Of all the things I imagined you might ask for, that was not on the list.”

I’m a photographer and a proud member of Gen Z so using my phone to take a photo at an odd angle should be right up my alley. But this is trickier than it looks.

I set my laptop down and hand Pete my phone as I scoot my butt closer to him. “This isn’t going to work,” I say, realizing I’ve scooted my way into the shadows.

“Whoa, just because I’m not an actual photographer doesn’t mean I can’t take a decent shot. I haven’t even started and you’re already coming at me.”

I roll my eyes at his dramatics. “We need better lighting. Come over to my side.” I inch my way back over to my original spot as Pete hops off his side of the sofa.

God, I love his body. It’s so strong and powerful.

So warm and cuddly. And yes, I know the man has only walked two feet across the room, but he made it look like a damn runway.

We run into more issues because when he sits beside me, he’s blocking the light. Finally, he kneels on the carpet in front of me and I spread my legs wide so that there’s enough room for his broad chest and hulking shoulders in the vee of my thighs.

Pete smiles at me. “I think this is the perfect position. I’m not sure what the hell we’re doing, but I like this position a whole fucking lot.”

I do, too, but I can’t afford to get sidetracked, so I hold out my wrist and he lines up the shot.

“Oh, crap. Wait. I forgot.” I pull the gold claddagh ring off my finger and then reach up to take the silver hoops out of my ears. But I’m not wearing them. “Dammit,” I mutter. “Why is this so hard?”

“What do you need?” Pete asks, and this is exactly why I can’t think about the fact that he’s kneeling between my legs. Because if I do, I’ll find a lot of creative ways to answer his question.

“My silver earrings,” I answer. I think I left them on the bathroom counter, and I have a vague memory of Holland asking if she could borrow them. But it was five-thirty in the morning, so she could have asked me if she could eat them, and I’d have said it was fine.”

“Does it have to be earrings, or do you just need something silver?”

“Anything silver will do,” I say, thinking about the contents of my jewelry box. I don’t wear a ton of jewelry, but most of what I have is gold.

Instead of offering to grab something off my dresser, he reaches up and unclasps the thin chain around his neck.

I only noticed it recently because it’s thin and delicate and it tends to get buried under his beard.

There’s nothing on it, no medallion or cross or anything.

I noticed it when we were lying in bed the other night and he said it’d belonged to his grampa.

That Gramma Dottie gave it to him after his grampa died, and he’s worn it ever since.

“Will this work?” he asks, handing it over.

“Yes, it’s perfect. Thanks.” I place the necklace and ring a few inches below my palm and then slink my hand back so Pete can get a good shot.

“So… am I taking pictures of your ankles next?” he teases. “How risque are we getting? Have you been talking to Ollie? Are you starting a MyFans account?”

The second the words leave his lips he wishes he could gobble them back up.

I can see it in his pained expression. Sure, the rumor that Ollie Jablonski has a MyFans account with a hefty following has been circulating on campus for a while now, but it’s clear that Pete didn’t mean to spill the beans.

“Forget I said that.”

“Forget you said what?” I ask. “Now take the picture, you hunky photographer.”

Pete chuckles, but I can see the relief in the relaxed set of his shoulders.

“I’m taking these for the Try It column.

Taryn should be back soon, so we thought it would be good to try something together and write about it.

That’ll make it easier to transition the column back to her point of view.

And I’ll be glad to give it back to her.

I mean, it’s been fun, but this isn’t really the kind of column I want to write. ”

“You’re almost done? Oh, no. I had such a good idea, too.” There’s a smile on his handsome face, but I can’t tell if he’s joking. He snaps a final photo of my wrist before putting his necklace back on .

I slide my ring back into place and look at Pete. We’re done with pictures, but he hasn’t moved. “What was your brilliant idea?”

“Picture it now,” he says, using his hands to make a frame. “Claire Conquers…hiking!”

“Uh, no, she definitely doesn’t,” I answer.

“You don’t like hiking?” he asks, acting as though I’ve just admitted I’m not a big fan of oxygen.

“I’ve never been,” I reply honestly, uploading the photos to an online portal I’m using.

“What? That’s a travesty,” Pete says, looking utterly dismayed. “Come on, I’m a certified trail guide. I’ll make your first time so much fun.”

“While I don’t doubt that,” I say, my brows arched, “I will never go hiking.”

“Are you serious? The weather’s gonna get nice in a couple weeks. You’re telling me that a month from now, when the season’s over, you won’t want to take a hike on a beautiful spring day?”

The man looks almost wounded, so I don’t point out the fact that in a month from now, we probably won’t need to pretend we’re dating. We’ll have broken up, like couples sometimes do, and moved on with our lives. Maybe I also don’t bring it up because I don’t like thinking about it.

“You really don’t like hiking?” he asks, emphasizing the last word just in case I was confused and thought he was talking about biking or maybe spiking…

“God, no. I’m never in the mood to break a sweat or find a dead body in the woods.”

Pete rolls his eyes. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. Statistically speaking, do you even know how many hikers find severed body parts every year?”

He’s still between my legs and even though he traipses through the woods for fun, I have to tamp down the urge to lean forward and kiss him.

And not just because it would provide a sexy distraction.

Whether I want to face it or not, I’ve caught feelings for Pete Santos, and it’s not going to end well.

Pete’s unbothered by my logical take on trudging through the forest.

“I’ve been hiking since I was a kid,” he says. “Haven’t found a dead body yet.”

My outrage is immediate. “Then you’re clearly due. And clearly out here tempting fate.”

“Claire, you’re the Try It Girl, if only for a few more weeks. Go out with a bang. Get lost in the woods with me.” He leans forward an inch or two, like he’s looking for a kiss to seal the deal.

Before I can give in to the temptation of Pete’s lips, my phone buzzes with a text.

Color Consultants : Hi, Claire! Thanks for uploading your pictures to our portal. We need just one more to complete your application.

“Ugh. I might need your help again,” I say, flipping back through the questions I’ve answered.

“With what? And what’s it worth to you?” he asks, waggling his brows.

“My final Try It column is going to be a color analysis session. Taryn and I will go together to find out what our color seasons are. I don’t know all the lingo just yet, but there are people who swear by the fact that they’re a soft autumn or a cool summer or whatever.”

Pete looks a little lost, so I do my best to explain. “They basically tell you what colors look good on you and which ones to avoid. And a lot of it has to do with whether you are warm and look good in gold tones or you’re cool and look better in silver tones.”

He smiles with understanding. “That’s what the jewelry pics were all about. Okay, what do you need?”

I find the slot for the picture I forgot to upload, and now I understand why. “This one’s a little more work. They want to see me with a natural flush on my cheeks, the kind you get from running or playing sports.”

Pete nods decisively. “I can help with that.”