Page 31 of He Has Charm

“What time is it?” I ask absently as I get into his car, a solid-looking Audi.

“After one a.m. I’m surprised Harper hasn’t sent the dogs out looking for you.” I laugh because he’s right.

“Shit. I had my phone turned off.” She couldn’t have been serious about waiting up for me. He laughs.

“Are you sure you’re not a couple?” he asks, and I jerk my eyes to his.

“Fuck no. What would make you say that?”

“Don’t get all pissy.” He shrugs. “But I saw the way you looked at her—not that I blame you because she’s—”

“There’s nothing between us but business. That’s the way it has to be.”

“Okay, okay. Whatever you say.” He drops it and says he’ll pick me up tomorrow to give me a ride to the Garden for the game.

“Thanks, man. Enjoyed the night. I’m going to like it here.” He nods and I get out of the car wondering what the fuck I’m going to do or say if Harper is still up and divided down the middle on whether I want to find her awake or asleep.

Wishing I could do something with her either way until I feel the ache of loss because I can’t. What the fuck is that about? Replaying the last pool shot in my head on a repeating loop, I get to the hotel room door and heave a breath, nerves firing up like well-timed fireworks sparking all at once. I open the door and step inside the dimly lit sitting room.

Once my eyes adjust I see her on the couch. She’s asleep. And her computer is open on her lap with her screensaver flashing replays of a hockey shot at me. Taking a closer look, I realize the player taking the shot is me. She has me taking a slap shot in my last playoff game as her screensaver. There’s a quote across the top. It says “How lucky I am to have something that people want. And luckier still to give it.” Fuck. A cascade of soft vibrations rumble through my chest and my breathing catches as I lean down to pick up the computer and put it aside on the cocktail table.

She stirs and I stop breathing, but then she settles back, still sound asleep. Fuck. If I pick her up to bring her to bed, she’ll wake up. Instead, I go into her bedroom and get a pillow and blanket. I manage to tuck the pillow under her head and lay the blanket over her without waking her. Her breathing is quiet and she looks so soft and vulnerable. I stand watching her for a few beats and I don’t know what I’m looking for, what I’m hoping to see, or what I’m feeling that makes me stay, but I finally force myself to move because it’s late.

And there’s no way I’m sleeping tonight without dreaming about her. If I sleep at all.

Eleven

Harper

“Get dressed, Knight. We’re moving out this morning.” I put my hands on my hips. He steps through the door of his bedroom wearing gym shorts. That’s all.

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” He brushes a sexy shock of hair from his face. I gulp down my whimper and double down on my prison warden persona.

“What clothes? You’re half naked. And no gym shorts in public. Make yourself presentable. Pretend you’re going out to meet an attractive woman.”

“I think we’ve already done that part. You and me.” He moves closer. I scream at my legs to back up, but they don’t. The need is so strong to finish what we started yesterday that I can smell it, taste it, feel it in the rush of my blood. Stop it, Harper St. John. He’s a client. My meal ticket and that’s all. And even if he wasn’t, he’s so not the type of man I’d be interested in.

On the rare occasions that I allow myself to imagine a future when I might be in the market for a boyfriend, that boyfriend would be someone serious. Not a player. Probably the exact opposite of Maddox Knight. Except maybe the hunky part and those dreamy blue eyes. I could so go for that in a man. Someday.

“You have a game tonight,” I say. “Don’t waste your energy. Remember, you’re all about hockey.” He snorts.

“Way to shut a guy down. But don’t worry. I was teasing.”

“No teasing. Teasing is bad. Off the table. Forbidden.”

“Don’t you know better than to use the forbidden card with me?” He smirks. Shit. He’s right. Forbidden fruit exemplifies the mess we’re in right now and the last thing I need to do is pile on another apple. Shit. I’ll never be able to eat an apple again without feeling dirty.

He laughs. Not exactly a laugh. More like a low chuckle, the sultry kind that puts my nerves on edge, that cuts through too many barriers like my spine is made of butter and he’s wielding a machete.

“Not forbidden then. How about inappropriate? We’re inappropriate, mismatched, polar opposites, impossible, oil and water—”

“You ramble when you’re nervous,” he says like it’s news to me. Shit. I can’t admit to him that he makes me nervous, not if I’m going to have his professional respect. Although that ship may have sailed after my peeping Tom act last night or whatever you call it when a person eavesdrops inappropriately. Or is there even such a thing as appropriate eavesdropping? Never mind.

“You’re crazy. I’m not nervous,” I scoff. Nervously. “I ramble all the time. It’s the pressure of my job.”

“Handling me’s got to you?”

“No. Of course not. I can handle you just fine—or not handle you. Guard you, keep you out of trouble, make sure you stay on track, guide you toward your best behavior, help you redeem yourself with your sponsors—”