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Chapter Six
Brewer
“This is your house?” she gasps as we pull into the driveway.
“This is it. Home.”
“Why? Do you have twenty-five kids you failed to mention?”
“No kids, never been married,” I chuckle, climbing out and walking around the truck to open the door.
And the second I do, she continues, “Did you rescue and re-home the refugees of a small country?” She’s staring at my house, speaking as if dazed, so I undo the seatbelt, lift her sexy little body up and out, and set her feet on the ground for her.
“Nope, just me,” I answer… and feel my brows rise in confusion when she turns a scathing gaze on me.
“Ridiculous,” she tsks, shaking her head. “And very disappointing.”
“Do you know a lot of people who’ve rescued those from small countries? I don’t know any; didn’t realize it was common.”
“Funny,” she grits at my dry humor. “I just… why do you need a house this big if you’re the only one who lives here? Are you overcompensating for something, or simply showing off?” My head lolls back as I belt out howling laughter, but I feel the weight of her glare. “I wasn’t kidding, Brewer. This country’s in financial crisis, yet somehow, plenty of people, with plenty of money, find the funds to ensure male athletes are paid exorbitant amounts of money to throw, dunk, or putt a ball… or slap a puck.”
I can’t argue; she’s absolutely right. And I love that she’s intelligent, passionate, and not afraid to speak both. “I can’t change the whole country’s mindset, Gracie, and I’m certainly not going to refuse the salary I was offered; even if it is, I agree, ludicrous. All I can do is give back, pay it forward.”
“Yes, you can, and should.”
“Again, I agree, and do.”
“Oh yeah?” She juts up her chin, squaring her stance and shoulders. Precious. “How? And how often?”
There’s another chuckle I can’t capture. She’s a bold little thing. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she asks me to get my manager on the phone to verify what I say next—and I’ll gladly do so. Not to impress her… I need her respect. “Well, let’s see.” I rub the back of my neck, suddenly a bit embarrassed. “I had a rec center built downtown so the inner-city kids would have a safe place where they can learn how to play sports, certain trades, choose from lots of activities that might help keep them out of trouble, and I fund it, every month. And the whole team follows an unspoken rule that we take care of the women and children’s shelter. Every player, in rotation, takes a month and pays for supplies, fixes stuff, paints, does whatever they need done. Plus-”
“Catch me,” she purrs, launching herself at me, and I easily lift her up by the hips and haul her against me. “Altruism is so sexy,” she puffs before smashing her mouth to mine.
Remind me to sponsor a whole fucking planet.
Damn. When Gracie Bolton sets out to kiss a man, she kisses the hell out of that man. Her legs are wrapped around my waist, fingers clawing at my hair, and ripe-apple ass in my hold as our mouths, tongues, choppy breaths and eager hands get to know each other. Well. She’s wiggling, moaning, trying to climb me—seeking more—every gyration against my dick tempting me to take her right here.
I’ve fucked in bathroom stalls, a dark corner in more than a few clubs, locker rooms that reeked of sweaty balls, and once in the back of a cab. But for reasons I’d probably never understand, should I try to—I want things with Gracie to be… intimate? Yeah… that’s the right word… I just can’t believe it’s the right word. I don’t do intimate.
Maybe it’s the chase that’s got me all fucked up in the head. She didn’t serve herself up on a puck-bunny platter; instead, making me hunt her down. Or it could be our unique prelude—can’t say I’ve ever stopped, on the ice, to play a sexy game of charades before. Never sent a note to a fan, or received one back, before either.
And now that I’ve gotten a few glimpses into who she is and what she’s about, it’s only luring me in more. No chick has ever complained that I have too much money and argued that I should give it away. And although Gracie’s the first woman I’ve ever brought to my house, I’m pretty sure she’s also the only one who’d insinuate it’s ostentatious.
Whatever the reason, likely them all, I force my mouth to release hers and lean back to catch her eyes. “How about we go inside?” I grin, taken completely aback by her—swollen, pouty lips, flushed cheeks, mussed hair the color of sunset—but most of all, the passion blazing in her eyes.
She wants me.
Me.
Brewer Hayes, the man, the person. Not the captain of an NHL team. Not in public, where everyone can see her on my arm. Not beside me, in view of the cameras while I’m photographed or interviewed.
Just me. In the privacy of my home… that doesn’t impress her.
She bobs her head wildly, to make sure I hear her ‘yes,’ too out-of-breath for a vocal reply, and my grin stretches wider as I walk us toward the door.
I readjust her in my arms so I can dig out my keys, and she stops running her tongue along my neck to giggle. “What, no butler to let us in? What about Alexis? Surely, she’s streaming through your whole h-, mansion; just scream at her to unlock the door.”
“Only woman in this house is you,” I growl, swatting her ass.
No sooner than I get us inside, by using a key, all by myself, she wriggles to be put down. Here we go… now she’ll want to see everything… ask for the “grand tour,” gasping and fawning the whole time. I can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment.
With a hefty sigh, I toss my keys on the counter and move to take her hand. Guess I’ll start by showing her the backyard; the main reason I bought this place. There’s a giant pool, complete with a rock waterfall, hidden coves, and a hot tub. Plus, the kickass landscaping, hammock, cabana, gazebo, and spectacular view help me escape, as if I’m on my own private island, anytime I have time to come back here. Yeah, I won’t hold it against her if she ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ over the backyard. Other than on the ice, it’s my favorite place to be.
Turns out though, my worry’s nothing more than wasted time, and the “hunch” I’ve had since first laying eyes on her proves its validity once more; any and all doubt vanishing… for good. She wouldn’t notice, or care, if every wall in this place was painted neon green and there were disco balls dangling from the ceiling. She’s not looking at my house. Her eyes are trained solely on me.
I’m right about her, dammit.
Gracie Bolton is something, someone, special. Worth spending the time to explore, get to know… inside and out.
