Page 3
The last thing I notice about him—because holy hell, I’ve noticed quite a bit—is that his lips are full, the bottom one just a little puffier than the top. Said lips, which may be the most perfect in existence, are now quirking upward into a smirk and the first thing I think is, I wonder what he could do with that mouth.
The second thing I think?
He’s smirking at me because I am so openly checking him out, even at this very moment.
Maybe because my brain has been addled by such magnificence, or maybe because I’ve never been one to get easily embarrassed, I don’t even have a shred of decency that will cause me to cast my eyes away in shyness or shame.
So I hold his look as he walks up to the desk, places his palms flat on the Formica-topped surface and hits me with a brilliantly sexy smile that almost blinds me, and most definitely causes a pang low in my belly.
“I can see you recognize me,” he says, his voice deep and slightly accented.
I blink at him hard, his words penetrating, but not really. I’m still too dazzled by the whiteness of his teeth, and I’d swear I saw one tooth actually cast a sparkle.
“Um…excuse me?” I say, because I have no clue who this is or why he’s here, or why I should recognize him. Maybe he’s a famous model or an actor, and I rack my brain trying to place his face.
His smile turns into a bit of a frown and his brow furrows. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”
For some insane reason, I feel terrible because I don’t know who he is and he seems to be hurt by that. No, not hurt…that’s not quite right.
Intrigued?
Yes, maybe intrigued.
Sending my brain into overdrive while it searches my memory for every movie, soap opera or fashion magazine I’ve ever read, I flounder around trying to come up with this man’s name.
“Alex Crossman,” he says, letting me off the hook. “I have an appointment with Sutton Price. ”
Son of a bitch.
This is Alexander Crossman? Star player of the Cold Fury and potential GQ model, my new cohort in creating an outreach program for troubled youth and overall putz for being late and not calling? I don’t know whether to have an orgasm or be pissed that he’s walking in thirty minutes after our scheduled appointment.
“You’re late, Mr. Crossman,” I say, disapproval ringing through. “By about half an hour. ”
He doesn’t look the slightest bit chagrined, but his smile turns even brighter. Removing his hands from the desk, he actually sets a hip along the edge and I swallow hard as I notice the taut thigh muscles staring me in the face as the material of his slacks pulls against his leg. I make myself—absolutely make myself—immediately raise my eyes to his so I don’t inadvertently look at what may be in between those thighs, because somehow I imagine it has to be as magnificent as the rest of him.
Nodding over to the couch in the corner, I say, “If you’ll have a seat, it will be a moment. ”
He doesn’t move from the desk but just stares down at me, his smile no longer showing the brilliance of white but rather tilted up in amusement at me.
“Tell you what,” he says as he leans in a bit closer and murmurs, “I’ll go sit and patiently wait if you let me cook you dinner at my place tonight. ”
The muscles in my face go lax and with no means of support, my jaw drops open again. Alex Crossman, professional hockey player and most gorgeous man on the planet—nay, the universe—just asked me out?
No wait…that wasn’t asking me out on a date…that was asking me to his apartment.
For dinner.
A private dinner…in a private place.
Warning bells go off in my head and I realize with absolute clarity that Mr. Crossman extended that invitation with the hopes of getting in my pants.
Of all the—
Okay, again, not sure whether to orgasm or be offended.
I choose to remain professional—since I’m still on the clock—and go with offended.
Narrowing my eyes at him, I nod back over to the couch. “No, thank you. If you’ll go have a seat so I can get some work done…”
Looking at me a moment longer, he shrugs his shoulders, and I watch as the amused smile slides from his face
“Never hurts to ask,” he says with a wink before he walks over to the couch and plops down on it.
I try to focus on Mara’s case file but can’t help sneaking glances at Mr. Hockey Hottie. Gah, he’s utterly gorgeous, but also completely full of himself.
Oh, not because he asked me out. I mean, that was kind of flattering even though I’m not interested. No way I’d ever go over to a guy’s apartment for dinner as the first date. But he’s clearly full of himself because he thinks his time is more important than mine. It’s at this point I hope Minnie takes her time returning from the drug store so Mr. Crossman can cool his heels for a while and see how it feels for someone to be disrespectful.
As if appearing just because I was thinking about her, Minnie breezes in the door in a cloud of Estée Lauder perfume and sunshine.
“I’m back,” she chirps happily. “Thanks so much, dear. ”
I grin at her. “My pleasure, Minnie. ”
Standing from the desk, I grab Mara’s file and turn toward the couch where Alex is seated. I debate about leaving him here for a bit longer, but then decide against it. I’ve never been a very vengeful person. “Mr. Crossman, if you’ll come this way…”
He unfolds his large body from the couch and when he reaches his full height, I hear Minnie behind me give a slight gasp and murmur, “Oh, my. ”
Yup, Minnie. He’s definitely an oh my.
As Alex walks toward me with those longer-than-long legs, his eyes run casually down my body and slowly back up again until he’s pinning me with a direct stare. Appreciation shines through loud and clear, and it makes me self-conscious as hell.
Spinning on my heel, I call out over my shoulder, “Follow me. ”
As I walk through the locked door to the back area, my heels clacking on the tile floor, I can feel his eyes burned onto my ass the entire way. I’m only modestly thankful he’s probably ogling my body and not looking at the Sharpie-covered, scuffed heels of my shoes.
When I reach my office, I push the door open and motion for him to precede me in. He does so and I follow behind, closing the door behind me.
Walking past him, I say, “Please have a seat. ”
Rounding my desk, I put Mara’s file over on one of my bookshelves and sit in my cheap office chair with uneven wheels that squeaks every time I move. When I finally look at him across the desk, he’s gazing at me in stunned disbelief. “You’re Sutton Price?”
“The one and only,” I quip.
“Fuck,” he mutters, sifting his hand through his long hair in a show of irritation. “I thought Sutton was a dude’s name. ”
“Probably is,” I confirm. “Also happens to be my name. ”
“Christ,” he mutters again, and for the life of me, I can’t understand why my name seems to bother him.
The more I’m getting to know Alex Crossman, the more I am definitely not liking him.
Chapter 3
Alex
Son of a bitch!
The totally smoking hot woman sitting across the desk from me—the one I was imagining going down on tonight—is the f**king counselor I have to work with over the next year to build this outreach program?
This does not amuse me, because while I can actually be devastatingly charming when I want to be, I am loathing this whole charitable deal so much that I know I will probably be nothing but an ass**le to this woman. I know she doesn’t deserve it, but that’s just the way it is.
Yes, I know this is a worthy cause, and yes, like I said, I’m all for worthy causes. But it is chapping my ass that I’m being forced to do this as punishment and as a means to bring me to heel. The mere fact that I’ll be benched if I balk at doing th
is enrages me beyond my normal surly attitude, and I have a feeling that this poor girl is not going to know what hit her by the time we’re through here today.
If it were just a matter of walking away from a career I hate, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. I would have told Coach to blow me the other day and walked out. But unfortunately, this career that I hate so much is also very much needed, mainly because I have nothing else in life that I’m any good at. Good ol’ Pops made sure that I channeled all of my energy, efforts and talent into being one of the world’s best hockey players, so much so that I’ve never considered once what I would do when it was over.
As a result, I count every penny I earn and I sock it away for that day when this career is no longer there for me, so at least I’ll have some money to live on while I figure out what the f**k to do with my life. So that’s why I live in a small, two-bedroom apartment and drive a used Chevy Suburban, while my teammates live in mansions and drive luxury SUVs. Because my earnings are my ticket to freedom away from an overbearing and abusive father incapable of loving his son, and a career I’d just as soon vomit or piss on as I would anything else.
Looking at Sutton Price, I snarl inside over this unfortunate turn of events. I was hoping I’d get another crack at her before I left, fairly certain I could convince her to have dinner at my apartment. I’d even make something nice…certainly not Hamburger Helper. But no, this is essentially my jailer for the next year, which also makes her my enemy.
And I can’t f**k the enemy.
At least I don’t think I can.
“You’re actually one of the counselors here?” I ask, my voice dripping with skepticism, because I truly am not ready to believe this woman won’t be lying beneath me tonight.
She merely gives me a bland smile and says, “I can assure you, I’m a counselor here. ”
“You don’t even look old enough to be out of high school,” I mutter.
“I’m twenty-two and just finished my master’s degree. I’m qualified. ”
“Twenty-two and a master’s degree?” I ask skeptically.
“I started my master’s coursework while still in undergrad. It took me about a year to finish it after I graduated. ”
I study her hard, pinning her with an icy look. It’s made many women cry and some men quake in their boots. She just cocks an eyebrow at me and returns my gaze.
“Look, you might as well know I’m here under protest. ”
“Really?” she asks, her voice satiny smooth but filled with sarcasm. “I would never have guessed. ”
“You’ll find out soon enough that I’m not easy to work with. ”
“I’ve had experience with difficult people. ”
“I probably won’t show up half the time you’re expecting me and the other half I’ll be a prick. ”
“At least you’ve given me a heads-up. ”
Christ. Didn’t this woman know when to be daunted by something?
Sighing loudly, I lean back in my chair and cross my hands over my stomach. Searching her face, I look for some sign of weakness that I can exploit. A trigger…an insecurity…something I can do to get under her skin the way she is apparently getting under mine.
I get nothing but a pleasant smile and an unbelievable pair of green-gold eyes that pop because they’re surrounded by a mass of copper-colored hair.
Fuck. I’m crankier than normal because I’m attracted to this woman, in a way I don’t quite recall being attracted to anyone in a very long time. That puzzles me, intrigues me slightly but, yup, mainly it pisses me off.
Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out an envelope and pass it across the desk to her. “This is from Walt Prestonwood—general manager of the Cold Fury. ”
She takes it from me with curiosity and I watch as she takes a letter opener and breaks the seal. I don’t know what’s inside, but I have a very good idea. I watch her face carefully as she pulls out a single sheet of paper. I can see the Fury’s logo on the front and typed words, but past that the content is a mystery.