Page 8 of Ice Rebel

“God, I’d forgotten about that expression. You should see them when they’re wearing mini-dresses that barely cover their butts.” Samantha grimaced.

“Trust me. I saw a few girls that if they dared take a breath, they’d expose everything their plastic surgeon enhanced.”

“Ouch. But you’re right.”

I sucked in my bottom lip to keep from laughing, but I couldn’t help my reactions around her. She was a funny girl, managing to allow my usually sour moods to change. We’d yet to find the time to unpack, boxes placed everywhere, including two being used as end tables. But this was my new home, a place I could land after work with no need to worry about redeeming myself or my choices on a regular basis.

I’d been lucky to find the ad online the first day I’d started looking. Staying with my parents any longer would have turned me into a serial killer. Plus, being in the heart of Seattle saved me a forty-minute drive to and from work.

“So why are men bad?” I asked, curious as to what she’d say.

“Men are men, a little Neanderthal around the edges, messy almost always, and they have no capacity to understand even the simplest concept regarding romance.”

“Then why do we crush on them?” And yes, even I could admit there was something even hotter about a group of hockey players. All lined up in a row, they appeared like Greek gods, warriors eager for a battle.

“Because they provide the perfect delicious and highly sinful treat for our bad girl fantasies.”

I cocked my head, now able to give her a little ribbing. “You mean for your highly smutty, sometimes dark stories.”

Her shrug was almost noncommittal, but the spark in her eyes, the electric energy she brought with her everywhere she went was what had drawn me to her as a roommate, now as a friend. In her day job, she was a copy editor making peanuts for a highbrow newspaper in Seattle. But at night, she became the Smut Queen.

A phrase we’d adopted the night after we’d moved in and after we’d cracked open the second bottle of wine. Plus, being asked to read a page of the romance book she was writing had dropped us both into a fit of giggles.

Almost like what we were doing now.

“What is wrong with writing about the type of men all women fantasize about?” She sipped her wine, staring at me. Her question was legitimate.

“Nothing. At least not really.”

“Uh-huh. Why the long face?”

I could only imagine what my father would say if I dated a hockey player. He’d have a fit. Come to think of it, I might enjoy watching him squirm.

Samantha’s eyes narrowed. “Okay, now your expression reads like you’re plotting a highly sinful act. Do tell.”

“I was just wondering what it would be like to date a hockey player as you suggest. Didn’t you tell me they are the hottest, sexiest men in the world?”

“Don’t you dare put that on me. My heroine Felicity made that statement. I think she said hot, wet, and wild.”

Arching an eyebrow, I tried to hide behind my wineglass to keep from snorting.

I failed, the sound like a bottle rocket going off.

“Sure,” I told her. “But I thought writers mirrored their thoughts and experiences.”

“To a point. However, when you grow up in a hockey family, the last thing a girl wants is to find someone even remotely like one of her brothers. Ick.”

“Then what does the girl with purple hair want in a man?”

Her eyes lit up at me being able to notice the change. As if I wouldn’t. She’d already gone through three different vibrant hues since we moved in together. I should be fearful her hair would eventually fall out.

“I don’t know. Maybe a nice accountant. Stable. Always home by six at night. You know. The kind of guy who wears those cute little dark glasses.”

Choking on red wine was not something I would recommend. Neither was snorting the liquid up one’s nose. But I’d effectively done both. “An accountant?”

“Why not? They can be sexy.”

My only response was to wrinkle my nose.