Page 43 of Lucky Puck

“Don’t worry, I’ll smooth it all out and make sure they behave.

“We’re on our way back⁠—”

“We have a lot to talk about. It’s good that I’ve planned to visit for the Whalers Charity Fashion Show—remember you invited me?”

Shit. I forgot all about it. “That’s right. Next weekend.”

“We can talk then, and I can meet this young man and plan you a proper wedding.”

“What—”

“I suppose you’ll be modeling in the fashion show now that you’re an official WAG.”

My guilty oversized gut knots up in vain. There’s no way I’ll be modeling anything in that show unless they’re including plus-sized fashions. Having met many of the players’ real wives and girlfriends, I can say that’s as likely as me losing thirty pounds by next week.

“Mom, I don’t⁠—”

“Don’t worry. You’ll do fine. I’m so excited for you, sweetheart—or I will be once I meet this young man, Brody Holden. I hope he’s as good as he seems. He has a high bar to reach to be good enough for you.”

I laugh because only my mother would think this of the NHL phenom who also happens to look like a GQ cover model with muscles, charm, and more than enough money to last a lifetime already at not even twenty-one years old. Shit. He’s just a baby.

Hell. I’m just a baby.

“Gotta go, mom. I’ll talk to you later this week.” We end the call with our usual love-yous and kisses, then I raise my eyes to find Brody still watching me, a small lopsided smile showing one dimple and the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that makes my heart bob and flutter in spite of feeling suddenly self-conscious.

“You listened to the whole thing?”

He nods. I shrug.

“Good. In spite of the TMI vibe, at least that saves me from having to tell you we’re in deep shit.” I’m looking straight ahead and then I turn to him. “Lucky for you, I have a big shovel.”

“I wasn’t worried for a second, cream puff.” He leans in. “Not about me. I know it’s you who’s in the deepest shit.”

He pauses, and I give him the finger, feeling testy and like I’m at war, not necessarily with him, but my reaction is reflexive and my attitude generalized in the name of survival.

Undaunted, of course, he leans even closer so all the air I breathe is contaminated with his heady, irresistible scent. What am I supposed to do? Hold my breath? “Why didn’t you tell your mother the truth?” His words are gentle, not accusatory, more like genuinely curious.

I let out the breath I was holding and take in a deep gulp of him. “In the name of not going any further over the TMI line, you’ll just have to trust me that it’s better this way.”

“Ah. She’s no good with secrets.”

I feel like giving him the finger again, but I refrain.

“Don’t you have a call to make?” The stream of passengers boarding the plane is slowing to a trickle, so time is running out.

“Yes. My sister has threatened bodily harm if I don’t return her call in the next five minutes.”

He slips his phone from his pocket and pokes it, not taking his eyes off me and leaning close, facing away from the aisle. I would offer to switch seats with him so he can have more privacy, but it’s too late as his sister answers, and I hear every expletive she throws at him, not bothering to hide my smile.

“Brace yourself, little brother. I’m coming to Portsmouth tomorrow to see your new wife for myself—make sure she’s not a blow-up doll.”

“Cut us a break, Kara-boo. We’re on our honeymoon.” His dimple flashes at me, and I feel like he touched me. There’s no other way to explain the dampening of my panties. He must exude some kind of super pheromones or something. I back away until I hit the wall of the plane—which only gives me inches.

His hand darts out to hold onto me quicker than should be humanly possible, but then he’s not exactly human anymore in my mind. He’s a dangerously intoxicating combination of a super Casanova and the very devil. Is that redundant?

His conversation with Kara-boo is a hissing jumble of words that I can’t seem to concentrate on because all my thoughts and every cell of my being concentrate on his hand and the caress of his thumb across my cheek.

Then he puts his phone down, and his thumb stops as he withdraws his hand in a slow drag that leaves my skin tingly and numb. The numbness seems to reach my tongue because I know I should be saying something, but I don’t.