Holiday on Ice

  Trevor texted that he was going to set up a face-to-face call with Haven, so he was staying in his room.

  That meant Grant was on his own tonight, which was fine with him. He returned a few calls, one to his agent, Liz Riley. She talked to him about finalizing his contract since the season would be starting soon. He told her he'd come in and see her as soon as he got back to town.

  Football season was gearing up, and he was due to the practice facility in St. Louis in two weeks.

  He was ready. He'd been in training and was in shape, and was more than ready for the season to start. This was a nice mini vacation prior to getting back to work, though. Soon enough he'd have his head in the game, and it would be all he thought about.

  After getting dressed in a pair of shorts and a sleeveless shirt, he made his way to the main bar at the hotel and ordered a beer. He grabbed a seat at one of the tables outside, content to sip his beer and people watch, one of his favorite pastimes.

  He saw a few of the models come outside. They sat at a table not too far from where he was, all of them talking and laughing.

  They were all beautiful women. Tall and slender, with great hair, pretty smiles, and amazing bodies. But he found himself searching for only one woman.

  He had no idea why, when she'd clearly blown him off. She was probably out on a date tonight with some hot male model. He'd seen a few of those guys today as well.

  But then he caught sight of Katrina coming through the bar. She was by herself, carrying a tote bag. She stopped to talk to the bartender, who nodded. Then she walked past Grant without saying a word, and pulled up a chair at a table by herself.

  Not with the other models, who seemingly ignored her as much as she was ignoring them.

  She pulled out a book and a pair of glasses, and one of the waitresses brought her a tall glass of what looked like iced tea with lemon. She opened the book and started to read, oblivious to everything--and everyone--around her.

  Huh. Not at all what he'd expected.

  He watched her for a while, waiting to see if she was meeting someone. After about thirty minutes, he realized no one was going to show up. He stood, grabbed his beer and went over to her table and pulled out a chair to take a seat.

  She lifted her gaze from her book and settled it on him. She didn't offer a smile.

  "Did you get lost on your way to some other table?" she asked.

  "No. But you were alone."

  "Precisely. On purpose."

  She waited, as if she expected him to leave. He didn't take a brush-off all that easily. "I thought you might want some company."

  "You thought wrong."

  "Does that icy cold stare work on all men?"

  "Usually."

  "Why aren't you with your friends over there?"

  She took a quick glance at the other table, then back to him. "Do you think models travel in herds?"

  She had a sharp wit. He liked that about her. "What are you drinking?"

  "Iced tea."

  He signaled for the waitress, then held up two fingers and motioned to their drinks. She nodded and wandered back inside.

  "Really, Grant. I'm fine. And I'd like to be alone."

  "No one wants to be alone."

  "That's bullshit."

  "Okay, fine. I don't want to be alone. I figured we'd have dinner together."

  With a sigh, she set down her book and took off her glasses. "Just because we worked together today doesn't mean we have anything in common, or that we shared a moment or anything."

  "Didn't we?"

  She paused for a few seconds, and he held her gaze in his. Damn, there was something about her eyes. He liked women just fine, and always had a good time with them. He'd had a few relationships that had lasted awhile and had ended amicably. But not one woman had ever shocked him with the same spark he'd felt with Katrina today.

  He wanted to explore that, see if he could push through her icy exterior.

  "I'm reading a book."

  "So you said. It's a good one. I've read it before."

  She frowned. "You didn't even look at it."

  "I saw it when I sat down."

  She crossed her arms. "Okay, fine. What's it about?"

  "There's this guy, and he works for the CIA. But he's a double agent, working both sides. You don't know throughout the book if he's a good guy or bad guy, or if the partner he hooks up with in South Korea is on his side, or out to kill him. So when they both show up on the train . . ."

  She held up her hand. "Stop. I haven't gotten to that part yet. Fine, I get it. You've read it."

  "You thought I was bullshitting you."

  "You wouldn't be the first."

  The waitress brought their drinks. "Thanks," Grant said. "Can we see some menus?"

  "I don't want to see a menu," she said to the waitress, who walked away anyway. She turned her attention back on Grant. "I don't want you to sit here with me. Honestly, are you always this rude?"

  "Not always. You bring out the best in me."

  She rolled her eyes.

  "So tell me why that book."

  "I like suspense and crime fiction."

  "You don't strike me as the type."

  Her brows lifted. "Type? Why? Did you expect I'd be thumbing through a fashion magazine? Or even better, that I didn't even know how to read? Do you expect all models to be dumb?"

  "That would be stereotyping, and I'd be the last person to do that. And no. You looked like the type to read books on . . . I don't know. Psychology or something."

  She laughed. "Why?"

  He picked up her dark glasses. "You look so smart wearing these."

  "I am smart. With or without the glasses."

  He could tell he was digging the hole even deeper with every word he said. "Sorry. I'm not getting this out right. I've dated a few models."

  "So I've heard."

  He sighed. "A lot of them have different interests. One was a certified scuba diver, so I learned to dive when I was dating her. One was a hiker and a climber. I did some heinous climbs with her."

  "You dated Elesia?" she asked.

  "Yeah."

  She wrinkled her nose. "She's a pit viper."

  He laughed. "I'm not even going to comment."

  "You have interesting taste in women."

  "I like women who intrigue me and challenge me. Not just a pretty face."

  "Good to know the modeling world isn't growing old and moldy with no men to date as long as you're around. After all, where would we be without our sports stars to take care of us?"

  "Now who's stereotyping? I've also dated a schoolteacher, an accountant, a scientist, and a landscape architect."

  She took a sip of her tea. "It's nice you're spreading it around."

  He couldn't help but laugh. "So tell me what interests you, Katrina?"

  ***

  Katrina didn't want to like Grant Cassidy. She didn't want him sitting at her table, yet there he was, drinking his beer and looking absolutely gorgeous.

  She'd wanted to be alone, and she'd thought about spending the evening in her room so she could read. But it was just too beautiful here, and the beach and sea air beckoned, so she'd put on a pair of shorts and a tank top to come sit beachside for dinner.

  Obviously a huge mistake, because no matter how hard she tried to insult the man, he simply wouldn't leave.

  And no matter how hard she tried to deny the chemistry she felt during their photo shoot today, she couldn't.

  She shot with male models all the time. Sometimes fully naked. She'd never felt anything. It was her job. She knew it, and so did the guys. But making eye contact with Grant Cassidy today, there'd been some kind of . . . she didn't even know how to describe it. A zing somewhere in the vicinity of her lower belly. A low warming that had spread when he'd laid his hands on her.

  Even now, hours later, she could still feel his touch, the way he'd looked at her. She'd wanted . . . more. And if there was one thing Katrina never wanted from a man, it was mo
re of anything. She was too focused on her career to spend any time at all thinking of men. Work was everything to her, and men were a distraction.

  Like now. He sat across the table from her, all big and tan and smiling at her like he had exactly what she wanted.

  Only she didn't want it. She wanted no part of anything he might have to offer.

  She couldn't want it. Still, she couldn't help herself.

  "I'm surprised you read that book," she said.

  "Now who's stereotyping? You think I'm a dumb jock, that all I read is sports magazines."

  "I didn't say that."

  "I actually have a degree in accounting. And yes, I did graduate before I went out for the draft."

  She studied him. "Accounting. I don't see it."

  "I was going to go for a law degree, but I like numbers better. I minored in finance. I wanted to make sure I could oversee my earnings with knowledge. I've seen too many football players blow it all or not know where their money is going, and a few years after they retire, the money is gone."

  He was smart, too. She liked that.

  She leaned back and looked at him. "Do you have an investment portfolio?"

  "As a matter of fact, I do. With the high income a successful model commands, I imagine you do as well."

  "I do. And I know exactly where my money is going."

  "See? I knew you were a smart woman, Katrina. Smart and beautiful--a lethal combination."

  She couldn't help but appreciate that he mentioned the smart part before the beautiful part. Too many men never paid attention to the fact that she had a brain. All they saw was her face and body and never even wanted to have a conversation with her. Which was why she didn't date. She didn't have time for men who were that superficial.

  Grant seemed . . . different. Yeah, there'd been that spark of chemistry at the photo shoot today, but so far all he'd done was talk to her. He didn't sit down to ogle her or hit on her. It was kind of refreshing.

  Not that she had any interest in dating him, but when was the last time she'd spent time talking with a man she wasn't connected to in the industry? She wasn't going to bed with him, but she could sit at the table and have a meal with him, right?

  "Okay, fine. Let's see what's on the menu for dinner."

  Keep reading for a preview of the next Hope novel from Jaci Burton

  LOVE AFTER ALL

  Available March 2015 from Headline Eternal

  Chelsea Gardner sat at the No Hope At All Bar, waiting for her friends.

  While she waited, she got out her notebook and doodled.

  Okay, maybe she wasn't doodling. She was on a mission.

  The ten-point list made perfect sense to her. She'd fine-tuned it, but really, she'd had this list in her head for a while now, and decided it was time to memorialize it, get it down on paper. Maybe even laminate it.

  Chelsea was thirty-two years old, and the one thing she knew and knew well was men. She had years of dating history, and she could weed out a decent man from a loser in the first fifteen minutes of a date.

  She should write a book about it. She'd probably make millions.

  Okay, in reality, maybe not. But she had a lot of experience in dating. She could offer up some valuable advice. At least advice on how to date the wrong man.

  Hence the list.

  Her list would ensure she found the right man--finally. She was tired of going out on useless dates. From now on, she was going to ask the correct questions, so she wouldn't waste any more time on the wrong man. If a prospective date didn't possess each and every one of the listed qualities, then he wasn't the perfect man for her.

  Her list wasn't going to focus on personality traits. She already knew in her head the type of guy she wanted--warm, caring, compassionate, with a sense of humor. If he didn't possess those basics, he'd be out of the running before they even got started. And those she could suss out right away without a list. Nor did she have a preference for looks. No, this list was compatibility based. That's where she'd run into roadblocks in the past and where she was going to focus her efforts in the future.

  She scanned her list, nodding as she ticked off the attributes in her head.

  1. Never married.

  2. Has to be a suit-and-tie kind of guy, because it means he cares about his appearance.

  3. Has to work a 9-to-5 job, so he'll be available for her.

  4. No crazy ex-girlfriends.

  5. Likes fine dining and good wine.

  6. Hates sports. Everything about sports.

  7. Must want at least two kids.

  8. Must love animals--preferably big dogs, not those yippy little dogs.

  9. Doesn't spend all his time at the bar with his friends.

  10. Idea of a perfect weekend getaway is somewhere warm and tropical. With room service.

  She studied the list, tapping the pencil on the bar top.

  "You look deep in thought."

  Her head shot up as Sebastian "Bash" Palmer, the owner of the bar, stood in front of her.

  Talk about the wrong guy.

  "I'm . . . working on something."

  He cocked a dark brow. "Yeah? I noticed you busy writing. Grocery list?"

  "Funny. And no."

  He leaned over, trying to sneak a peek. "The perfect--"

  She shut the notebook. "None of your business."

  He laid the rag on the bar. "Hmm. The perfect something. The perfect steak. That was it, wasn't it? You've got some secret recipe for the perfect steak. That's the way to a man's heart, you know."

  "You think I'd be trying to capture a man by cooking. Well, you're wrong."

  He laid his palms on the edge of the bar. "So, it does have something to do with a guy, doesn't it?"

  She refused to take the bait. "I didn't say that."

  A couple guys came into the bar and took a seat.

  "We're not done talking about this," he said, his stormy gray eyes making contact with hers before walking away.

  Oh, they were so done talking about it.

  Typical Bash, always up in her business.

  And he was definitely the wrong type of man for her.

  While Bash attended to his customers, she opened the notebook and checked her list.

  Yes, Bash was the perfect example of the wrong type of guy. She mentally ticked off all the items on her list that he didn't fit.

  He was divorced. And he was a jeans-and-T-shirt kind of guy. And while he might look super hot in said jeans and T-shirt, it still counted against him.

  She wasn't sure he even owned a suit. As owner of the No Hope At All Bar, he worked terrible hours. As a teacher, she worked during the day, and he worked afternoons and evenings. They'd never see each other.

  She had no idea who he was dating, but he was always going out with some woman or another, so he likely had some crazy ex-girlfriend somewhere in his past. She knew he was a beer-and-hard-liquor guy, and his idea of fine dining was a burger and onion rings from Bert's. He wouldn't know fine dining if it slapped him in the face. She had no idea how he felt about kids, but the guy lived at the bar, and he hadn't had a serious relationship since his divorce, so it wasn't like he was in any hurry to have children. And he didn't have any animals as far as she knew.

  Then again, she didn't have pets, either. But that wasn't her fault. Her apartment didn't allow them. She just wanted to make sure whatever guy she ended up with loved them. She wanted a dog. Or a cat. She'd never had either. Emma had two dogs, and Jane had a dog. Logan and Des had several dogs on the ranch.

  She'd always wanted pets, and had never been allowed to have any.

  She shook her head. Back to her list.

  Oh, right. Not hanging out at the bar with the guys all night. That answer was self-explanatory, since that was pretty much all Bash did. All the time.

  And she had no idea what his idea of a perfect vacation would be, but she highly doubted it involved room service. Bash had an ATV and she knew he was an outdoors kind of guy.

  Wher
eas Chelsea was allergic to everything outdoorsy.

  See? They were not compatible in the least. Bash had failed everything on her list.

  She closed her notebook and tucked it back in her purse.

  Why was she even comparing Bash to her list anyway? It wasn't like he was remotely in the running. Even if there had been that night she and the girls had come here during the holidays. And maybe she had been a little on the inebriated side, and maybe Bash had whispered something in her ear that even several months later still made her blush hot, and still kept her up at night thinking about--

  "The perfect drink."

  She pulled herself out of that very erotic daydream, and met Bash's teasing gaze. "What?"

  "You were going to give me ideas for the perfect drink. That's what you were writing in your secret notebook, right? I know you like to challenge me."

  She sighed. "Believe it or not, Bash, not everything is about you."

  He feigned a shocked look. "It's not?"

  She rolled her eyes.

  "What are we talking about?"

  Her best friends, Emma and Jane, grabbed seats on either side of her.

  "Chelsea's hitting on me," Bash said.

  "She is?" Emma grinned at her.

  "I am not hitting on Bash. He's being ridiculous."

  "She's writing love notes to me in her notebook and won't let me see them."

  She shot him a glare. "Are you twelve? Stop it."

  Jane looked over at her. "You're writing love notes?"

  She was going to throw her drink at Bash. "No. I am not writing love notes."

  "She doesn't want you to see them, because they're for me."

  Emma looked at Bash, then at Chelsea, a questioning look in her eyes.

  "He's full of it," Chelsea said. "And he's just giving me a hard time, because that's what he does."

  Bash slanted her that look again, the one he'd given her that night a few months back. Smoldering. Filled with promise. The kind of look that made her squirm on her barstool.

  "I have never given you a hard time, Chelsea." As if he hadn't just infuriated her, he calmly asked, "What would you ladies like to drink?"

  Jane and Emma both ordered sodas, so Bash poured their drinks, then went off to tend to his other customers.

  "He drives me crazy," Chelsea said.

  "He's funny. And so hot," Jane said.

  "He is not." Chelsea refused to acknowledge the way Bash's black T-shirt fit so snugly across his incredible chest, or the bulge of his biceps beneath the hem of the shirt. Or his flat abs, or his incredible ass.