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Alara follows my line of vision and giggles. “Go nail the hockey player. You know you want to.”
It’s tempting, and everything I know about Rowan Landry says he doesn’t do serious. Okay, so I read all the hockey blogs and posts. Sue me. It’s only to make sure no one is talking shit about my brother, who plays for the Florida Fury. No other reason. Especially not to read about other hockey players and their reputations. Definitely not.
“Nah.” I wave off her suggestion.
Her perfect dark eyebrows raise. “Yeah, okay.” She chuckles. “Be sure to text me where he takes you when you leave with him.” She stands, slinging her purse over her shoulder, smiling.
She really does know me too well.
“I’m not pursuing him. I’m cutting myself off.”
There’s a secret I haven’t told Alara yet because she’s in that perfect love bubble with Justin, and if I tell her what I found right before I came here, her faith in monogamy and a perfect marriage would be shattered, just like mine was.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a beat, willing the vision of my mom and another man to go away. Maybe my dad got a haircut and grew three inches—who am I to say what a plastic surgeon can do in a week’s time? There has to be some explanation other than what seems painfully obvious.
“Good luck with that.” She leans down and hugs me, squeezing me tightly. She only does that when she thinks something is wrong. Am I that transparent? “If I weren’t going home to a great guy, I’d be heading to the bar.” She eyes the path right to Rowan.
“Go get laid,” I say, shooing her away.
“You too.” She laughs, walking toward the exit.
So far, none of the guests seated at my table have sat down, but it’s still early and people are gathered in clusters around tables, talking and drinking and enjoying themselves. I’d do the same, but I don’t know anyone else here. I scan the room, ending at the bar, which I could have predicted. I shouldn’t have to say it again, but hockey players strip me of my self-control every damn time.
Rowan is leaning his back against the bar, his elbows and forearms resting on the bar top, gaze traveling across the room. His baby blues stop on me, and I suck in a breath then divert all attention as if we didn’t just lock eyes for a moment. Jesus, that was embarrassing.
Way to play it cool, Kyleigh.
I grab my purse and take a sip from my water glass, then stand, wishing I knew someone here, so I didn’t have to sit here by myself looking pathetic.
I head toward the door.Look down. Keep your eyes on the ground.
I glance up only to ensure I don’t bump into a waiter and cause a scene. A vision of chicken and beef meals flying races through my mind. Maybe I can sneak out now and email the bride saying I came down with something. She doesn’t know I used that excuse twice in the last four months.
As I reach the doors, I take one more glance over my shoulder. I mean, seeing Rowan Landry in the flesh, out in the wild, with no one surrounding him as though he’s the latest zoo exhibit is too good not to pass up one last time.
I peek over, and damn it, his gaze is still on me.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I probably look like a stalker. I’m one of those women Conor’s always complaining about. The ones who admire creepily from afar but never approach him. Why do I care what Rowan Landry thinks of me? I’m not some puck bunny who wants to have his baby or wants to snap a picture to post on socials or show my friends. I grew up around boys like him who became hot professional hockey players. I’m not intimidated by his fame. I’m only interested in him for the distraction he’s sure to give me tonight.
I press my teeth into my bottom lip. He tilts his head as if asking what move I’m about to make. Am I going to run and hide? Or am I going to go over and play?
Yeah, this is a bad idea, but I’ve had one hell of a shitty day. I deserve a little reward for not crumbling into the fetal position.
So instead of acting like a scared little mouse, I straighten my back, pivot, and saunter over to the bar. Consequences be damned.
Two
Kyleigh
When I approach,I ignore Rowan, but I feel his gaze follow me as I step up to the bar—just far enough away from Rowan that he doesn’t think I’m a sure thing. “Pinot, please.”
The bartender grabs a new glass and swipes a bottle from the table behind him. I open my purse while I wait for my drink.
“I’ve got it.” Rowan steps up beside me, pulling out his money clip and dropping a twenty in the tip jar.
“Oh, no. You don’t have to do that.” I take out my own twenty.
