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The only thing I want to taste is his lips on mine.
And for approximately ten seconds (ten seconds thatfeellike forever), I think I’m about to taste just that. Logan’s gaze drops to my mouth. His smile falls away as his expression turns serious. His green eyes darken.
He hovers, so close but not quite there.
But he’s thinking about it. Hard as it is to believe, he’s thinking about it.
It’s a testament to the man he is that Logan doesn’t make a move. Not after what I told him earlier. Or maybe for other reasons. Maybe I don’t care.
If I were a different woman, maybe I’d take control and close the distance between us.
But I’m suddenly very aware of my inexperience.
My stupid anxious thoughts crowd in, making me worry about how exactly to line up our lips and if I need to tilt my head.
As if my loud, tangled thoughts telepathically reach Logan, his gaze meets mine. He looks startled. Stunned, really.
Then the weight of him lifts away, making me want to cry out. But he’s off, zooming across the ice to line up a perfect shot. Like nothing ever happened. Like it was all in my head. Like he isn’t affected in the slightest.
But I know he was affected enough not to finish whatever he was going to say moments ago.
The puck hits the back of the net, and Logan turns to me with a small smile. “Ready to call it a night, Pete? Some of us need sleep so we can get up early for practice.”
And some of us may never sleep again with the thought of this almost-kiss running through our heads.
CHAPTER12
Parker
There’s lessthan two weeks before our first preseason game. So, the next few days are a blur of meetings and filming and editing and posting a million social media things. It keeps me from thinking too hard about Logan.
And that moment on the ice where I swear we almost kissed. Or the time at my house when I felt the same tension crackling in the air between us. Oh, and let’s not forget Dad’s gala.
Which is tonight.
Arriving at my office early with a list a mile long of things to do before I finish the day, my head is buried in my phone. Which is why I don’t register the very important change until I sit down.
Immediately, I scramble to my feet and back away slowly.
“You’re not my chair,” I say.
The strange chair, obviously, does not respond.
A sense of panic unfolds. My old office chair was barely holding on. It complained loudly every time I moved. The lever to adjust the height broke off a year ago, which meant I looked not unlike a child sitting at an adult’s desk. There was one metal piece that always stabbed my shoulder if I made the mistake of leaning back. More than once I begged Javi to put in a request for a new one, and more than once he looked sad and mentioned budgets and blah blah blah.
Now, I stare at what is clearly a very fancy and expensive andpinkchair. I don’t trust it. This level of fancy doesn’t belong in my windowless office. And I didn’t know luxury office chairs came in such a fun color. Something is afoot.
“Where did you come from?” I ask the chair, clearly not learning my lesson after it didn’t answer my first question.
Honestly, I half expect the chair to come equipped with some kind of AI, which will answer me in a robotic voice, describing its hero’s journey from fancy factory to here.
Coach Davis pops his head in my doorway, and I jump. “Did you ask me something?”
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “I was just talking to … myself. Are we getting some kind of office upgrades?”
He lifts his baseball cap, smoothing his hand over the wispy white hair underneath. “Not that I know of. Why? Do you need something?”
I glance at the chair again. It’s like a Cadillac of office chairs. Scratch that—it’s more of a Lexus. Just looking at it, I feel my spine start to realign.
