Page 13 of The One Timer

Then I realize she’s wearing my fucking number.

Shit. I have trouble tearing my eyes away from number eighteen spread across her chest, taunting me until I want to take an actual fucking bite out of⁠—

“Are you all right?” she asks.

I snap my eyes to her face. The concern in her expression transforms her from gorgeous to…something more. Whatever the hell that is. My heart goes into what has to be unhealthy palpitations as if I’m looking at a fucking vision. As if I should be afraid.

Maybe I am afraid. Or, correction, everything except my dick is afraid.

“Um. Happy birthday. I didn’t mean to stare. Sorry.”

She smiles, a soft, gracious, forgiving smile so generous I want to fall at her feet here and now. Fuck. Now, I’m really and truly afraid. Pull yourself together, man. There’s no such thing as witchy love potions, right? She’s just an ordinary beautiful young woman, and I’m an ordinary young man with my hormones amped up on adrenaline because of a big win and a fucking hat trick.

I almost laugh out loud at my ridiculous thought—the part where she’s an ordinary young woman because I know beyond reasoning or conscious thought that there’s nothing ordinary about Emery or her beauty.

She presses her lips together, then says, “I’m the one who should apologize⁠—”

“You’re the birthday girl. No apologies. In fact, I should be buying you dinner and drinks.”

She laughs. “You’re too kind. Dinner is crazy—I mean, of course, you shouldn’t feel obligated—I thought we were celebrating your hat trick.”

“I’m not taking no for an answer—unless you don’t…” Shit. What the hell is wrong with me? I catch Sabien out of the corner of my eye and wish to hell he was a legit wingman. If he were, I’d be motioning him to haul his ass over here in a blink.

But Sabien Dumas is no wingman—unless you want a wingman who’s more apt to flirt away whatever girl you’re into.

“I would love to. It’s just that I’m…” She looks down as if there’s something wrong with her, and for the life of me, I don’t get what she’s seeing because what I see is flawless. Right down to the scuffed canvas sneakers.

“You’re perfect,” I say before sanity can save me from whatever mind-blowing illness has taken me over. A vision of Cupid with a nasty grin and a smoking bow and arrow flashes in my mind.

Her eyes go wide. Fuck. I wish I could blame my response to her on a bang to my head, but I managed to escape the game without anything more than the usual minor scrapes and bruises.

My shin throbs to life, telling me the puck that hit me there may have been a shade past the usual, but it’s not like I’m limping. Or I’d better not limp. That’s the last look I want tonight.

Before I lose her, I say, “How about if we go to⁠—”

“And who do we have here?” Sabien Dumas interrupts over my shoulder as he comes to a stop on my right wing. His eyes are on my mystery girl and glinting in a way that forces me to shove my elbow in his gut in a subtle move that would escape even the sharpest referee if we were on the ice.

“This is Emery, and we were about to leave.”

“Well, hello, Emery. I’m the shooting star, Sabien Dumas.”

She shines her big golden eyes on him, and I resist the temptation to shove my best friend out of her field of vision. I take her elbow instead, grabbing her attention and all the sparkle from her eyes.

“Nice to meet you, Sabien,” she says over her shoulder as I walk her away from his flirtatious intentions.

He laughs and gives me a salute, acknowledging my possession, at least temporarily, of Emery’s attention. My mission for the night looms up loud and clear because, suddenly, it’s become the most important thing in the world to make my promise real, to make her birthday the most special and memorable one she’s ever had.

“You never said where you were taking me,” she says as we slip past the lingering crowd of media, friends, and fans. We head toward the exit at the end of the hallway. The corridor suddenly seems longer than I remember, endless.

“I’m taking you somewhere special, the kind of place you’ll remember. A place people go to have their photos taken for posterity and to dine like royalty.” My smile is sincere. My words, too.

“I don’t know if I’m dressed for a place like that.” Her smile is uneasy.

“Don’t worry about a thing, Emery. Who would turn away a beautiful woman like you?”

She blushes. And fuck, my dick comes to life. Because, when was the last time I met a gorgeous woman who didn’t know how hot she was and wore it like a crown? We reach the door, and I slide my hand to the small of her back as I push it open. The slope where her back meets the swell of her rear taunts my fingers with its perfection.

“You’re so sweet, but we both know it’s you they wouldn’t turn away.” She looks up at me with frank admiration, the kind of authentic emotion that can’t be mistaken for politeness, good manners, or lip service. The kind that slams me in the gut with a power I don’t remember feeling from any woman I’ve ever met. Shit.