Page 83 of The Puck Bunny

What? Does that make me bad? Is that what my family thinks—that I’ve been a selfish bastard all these years focusing on myself, my career, my money, and, most of all, having fun?

Well, fuck, that’s what I’m still doing, only worse.

I’m playing with an innocent girl, the unlikeliest puck bunny who ever lived, no matter how much she aspires to the role.

“Your heart is so strong,” she says. “Like everything else about you. Except your heart is soft and kind and—”

“You don’t know me very well,” I say. It hits me that this is a problem. If she knew the real me—the bastard I’ve been for the past ten years, she would run the other way like she should.

She laughs, of all things. “I know you better than you do.”

“You’re crazy.” I let my smile fade because it’s time to get serious. “Sara,” I take her chin in my hand, trying to ignore the soft skin of her impossibly creamy face. “Look at me closely. Those wrinkles you see? They’re real and the way I earned them, along with the rest of my tough-as-nails hockey rep and the cool playboy-at-large rep, is not through being soft and kind. I don’t rescue kittens and I’m not—and never was—anyone’s idea of a boy scout.”

We stare at each other and I wait for her to stay something, to give me some sign of her understanding, an inkling of disillusionment. But her eyes only soften more and the adoration radiates from her undiminished.

“Look at that. You even have a humble, self-deprecating side that I’m sure a lot of people would be very surprised to see.” She smiles.

“Fucking almighty,” I mutter and force myself to roll away from her naïve Pollyanna sunshine.

“Don’t worry, Quinn. I was half-kidding. I know you’re not perfect. I heard your story.”

She leans over me, her breasts almost making me forget my frustration and my conscience.

She whispers, “That’s why I’m here. Because I empathize with you. Because I know how hard it is to come to terms with who you are and try to do better. I know how it is to want to escape your family to see who you are without them, to feel guilty about neglecting them. And I know how it feels to lose someone you care about.”

My gut churns at the last thing—about her losing someone—because I didn’t know, had never even asked.

“Who did you lose?” I pull her down to my side, where she rests her head on my shoulder.

“It’s not important—”

“The hell it isn’t. Your loss is as important as mine. You’re important.” I glare at her and squeeze her shoulder to emphasize my point. “Say it, Sara.”

“That’s silly—”

“Say it.”

“Okay. I’ll say it—if you admit to being kind.”

I can’t help the laugh and doing so drains the tension from me. Shaking my head, I sit up and drag her up with me so that we’re sitting against the pillows and the headboard. This is going to be a serious conversation and I’m determined to have it.

“I’ll admit to being kind—if you admit that you’re important and,” I pause to make sure she understands that I’m perfectly serious. “You tell me all about your loss. All about the person and your relationship and your feelings.”

Her eyes widen and her mouth opens and whatever I thought before was her look of admiration just got surpassed by the stars she has in her eyes now.

Am I the stupidest fucking idiot by making this worse, or what? I’m supposed to be disillusioning her, not letting her think I’m some unicorn who… listens to girls talk about their feelings. Well, fuck.

CHAPTER 25

QUINN

“My loss… isn’t the same as yours. It’s not—I mean my dad didn’t die; he just went away one day and when he came back months later, he was different, a diminished version of himself. Like someone had let half the air out of the tires and welded the valves shut so he can never be filled up again.”

What the fuck? “Something bad happened to your father? I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” I ask softly, “What happened?” I stroke her hair and trail my hand off as it reaches her breast, reminding myself there will be no touching of a sexual kind while she’s talking.

She takes a minute, her eyes down and one of her hands wanders to my thigh.

Jesus. Does she even know how sensual she is?