DIRTY HOOKUP

A Slayers Hockey Novel

MIRA LYN KELLY

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any
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and retrieval systems, without written permission from the
author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places,
and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have
been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales
or organizations is entirely coincidental.

DIRTY HOOKUP

Photographer: WANDER AGUIAR PHOTOGRAPHY LLC

Cover Designer: Najla Qamber,

Najla Qamber Designs

Editor: Jennifer Miller

For Lori Rattay

Chapter 26
Epilogue

Also by Mira Lyn Kelly
Acknowledgments
About the Author

Chapter 1

Quinn

Last Season

hat’s it. No more bunnies.

One time I end up handcuffed to

a bed with a missing key and, months later, I still
haven’t lived it down.

Trashing the latest gif—this one courtesy of the

GM’s wife—I glare at the hospital vending machine
and the precariously balanced paper cup filled with
coffee. This is gonna hurt.

Bending to retrieve the cup is bad enough but

coming back up has me breaking out in a cold
sweat. Everything aches. My knuckles are swollen
and split. My shoulder feels like someone tried to
yank my arm out of the socket. And my knees—

damn, guys, sorry.

What a shit show.
We knew going in this game would be rough.

Even without a team grudge like the one we were
up against tonight with the Epics, hockey is a
physical sport. You don’t get on the ice without
understanding there are risks inherent to the game.
But Christ, it isn’t Thunderdome.

Now we’ve got two of our best players in the

hospital, and the fuck-face who started it from the
other team getting stitched up across town. It’s the
kind of night that makes me envy the players who
have someone to go home to. Someone real.
Someone they trust to listen to how messed up
things got.

Yeah, having a someone would be nice right

about now.

But still… no bunnies.
I heave a breath and round the corner to the

semiprivate waiting room where Greg Baxter, my
team captain, texted that his little sister is currently
freaking out. What he didn’t mention is she’s not
alone.

Holy shit.
Coffee hot enough to melt the skin off my

fingers sloshes over the rolled paper lip as I forget
how to walk, every cell in my body tuning in to the
redhead with a gentle hand on Nat’s arm.

Her hair is this short spill of fiery waves around

her face. And that face. I swear my heart just threw
in an extra beat. My feet are moving double time.
It’s like I can’t see the rest of her fast enough.

She’s not as tall as Nat, but I’d bet my left nut

she’s an athlete. There’s something about the
stance, confident and alert. She’s got a Foo Fighters
T-shirt on that fits just right, and her cargo pants
hint at strong legs and a phenomenal ass beneath.

Her arms and face are covered in pale freckles,

and her lips are full and wide. I can’t see her eyes
yet, but with every step closer I know I’m about to.
I want to. I need to.

Time fucking slows and I feel each heavy pump

of my heart. A smile I can’t quite explain starts
pulling at my lips.

And then I have it—eye contact.
Those honey-browns meet mine, and something

that feels a lot like recognition slams into me with
the force of a two-hundred-pound defenseman.
Only I’ve never seen this girl before. The way her
eyes flare tells me that hinky sense of something
isn’t one-sided.

Her lips part, and I wait for the smile that

answers my own.

This is the moment we’ll tell our grandkids

about. One look and I knew—

Whoa.
That’s not a smile. In fact, that lush little

playground has firmed into a flat line as

unwelcoming as anything I’ve seen before. And
those heart-and-soul eyes are suddenly hard as
stone, narrowing fast.

Natalie notices me then and I nod, handing over

the coffee as I get my shit together and try not to
gawk at the girl whose pissy stare is practically
daring me to engage.

Hospital, dipshit.
I’m here for Nat.
Only this girl is so intense, I can’t be chill. I

offer my hand. “Hi, I’m Quinn O’Brian. Don’t
think we’ve met before.”

She doesn’t take it, instead raising a brow as

she asks, “Sure you’d remember if we had?” Her
voice is husky and low, stroking softly against the
back of my brain, like she’s somehow managed to
scratch at the fringe edge of some hard-to-reach
itch. But then her words register, and I get it.

Shit. She already knows who I am. And not just

the hockey stuff.

“Reputation’s that bad, huh?” I ask, rubbing my

neck with a sheepish grin.

I know it is. I’ve seen the posts. The polls. The

bunnies running at the mouth about every Chicago
Slayers player they’ve scored and the frequency
with which my name comes up. It’s never bothered
me before.

Now?
I want to tell her whatever she’s heard isn’t

true. That it’s exaggerated… but I’d be lying. And
before I can come up with a joke or even think to
ask her name, she tells Nat she’s got a call to make
so her family doesn’t worry.

She’s that kind of girl.
It makes me smile because I like it, even if

knowing she’s that kind of girl means she’s even
further out of my league than she was ten seconds
ago.

I watch her take off and then turn back to

Natalie who’s the reason I’m standing here. I won’t
ask her about her friend tonight. Hell, with the way
that girl looked at me, all pissy indignation, I
shouldn’t ask about her at all.

But damn, I know I will.

George

UNFREAKINGBELIEVABLE.

Ducking around a corner, I press my back to the

wall and suck one shaky breath after another until
the spots behind my eyes finally clear, along with
any wayward thoughts about a third Slayers hockey
player needing a bed in the ER.

I can’t believe it. After all these years.
Quinn O’Brian.

Two feet in front of me. Giving me that same

smile. The one that put my belly into free fall the
first time I saw it. Left me breathless. And then less
than a day later, left me humiliated. Devastated.
Working up fantasies about the wrath I’d rain down
on him if I ever saw him again.

So much for that badassery. My knees barely

held me when I looked up to find those stupid sea-
green eyes twinkling back at me like some Disney
hero come to life.

Stupid eyes.
Stupid shoulders and muscles-everywhere body.
Stupid sandy blond hair standing up like some

foolish girl had just had her hands in it for the last
hour.

And that introduction.
Blowing out a breath, I shake my head.
He didn’t even recognize me. Though why I

ever thought he might is beyond me. Six years later
and I’m still reading more into that night than there
ever was. More into those soul-deep stares and
slow touches. More into those tender words that
turned out to be total lies.

And dang it, that shouldn’t hurt.
I shouldn’t be ashamed. But that’s exactly

where I am.

I’m ashamed to have let myself believe there

was a chance in hell this dickweed would
remember some girl from winter break six years

ago. That maybe he’d even have come to regret
what happened. But apparently no.

Well, now I know.
Pushing off the wall, I straighten up. Roll out

my neck and shake the circulation back into my
hands so I can get on with my life.

Quinn O’Brian doesn’t deserve a second

thought.

“A

Chapter 2

George

Postseason

nd you know what else?” I say,
pointing my beer at Natalie Baxter and
her sister-in-law, Cammy Wesley.

“There’s no way a guy looks that carelessly sexy in
the wild. I wouldn’t be surprised if some PA took
him for a ride in a custodial closet before his
segment shot, and then let Makeup work him over
too.”

We’re having a girls’ night at Belfast Bar. The

Slayers have just finished round one in the playoffs,
giving Nat a night off from worrying about her
boyfriend, Vaughn, and brother, Greg.

Cammy squints, looking from me to Nat, who

gives her a little shake of the head, like maybe I’m
going off the deep end again. But I’m totally not.

Biting her lip, Cammy sort of waves her fingers

around. “Sooo, are you saying he had sex with two
different people before visiting that sick little girl in
the children’s wing?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him.” I tip back my beer

for another swallow, trying to douse the fire that’s
been burning inside me since the night at the
hospital last spring. But it’s no good.

This guy is like a bad rash. After managing all

these years without a single encounter, suddenly
he’s everywhere, and thanks to Nat and Vaughn’s
relationship and the fact that Quinn happens to be
one of Vaughn’s only friends, our little circles seem
to have locked into an overlap that’s not going
away.

“Okay, seriously,” Nat asks, stirring a fry

through her ketchup. “What’s your beef with this
guy? I mean, I know he gets around, but from what
everyone says, he’s actually really nice.”

Nice?
Cammy’s nodding, her blond curls brushing her

shoulders. “Yeah, Julia says he’s not super
discriminating about the whole who, what, when, or
where business—and I mean, she told me not to
date him or anything—but I’ve never heard anyone
say anything bad about him… except you. So what
gives?”

The tips of my ears burn and I suddenly don’t

have any eye contact to give. Even Cammy’s sister
thinks he’s okay, and Julia Baxter knows all the
behind-the-scenes stuff from the sports world. How
does this guy have everyone snowed?

Belfast bar is busy around us with the afterwork

crowd, but no one we know is headed over to the
table to save me from the kind, expectantly waiting
look in Nat’s eyes. Or Cammy’s more impatient
knuckle-rap on the table, indicating my time is up.

I swallow, giving my girlfriends a sheepish shrug

while I study the label on my longneck. “I know
someone who hooked up with him in college. He…
umm… he kind of did a number on her. It was
pretty shitty.”

“College?” Nat asks, and I can feel those blue

eyes boring into me. Feel the heat pushing into my
cheeks.

“Yeah, but she wasn’t at Wisconsin with us.”
She nods.
Cammy takes a swallow of her iced tea and

then wags her head. “Okay, you know I’m not a fan
of dickheads who use girls and then toss them
away.” Considering she’s a single mom a few years
younger than us with a son she had in her teens,
that’s probably an understatement. “But that was
what, four years ago?”

“Six,” I correct quietly, knowing where she’s

going and not wanting to hear it even if she might

be right.

“Six years. So think about how much you’ve

changed in six years. Maybe O’Brian’s changed
some too?” Then, because she’s one of the good
ones, she adds, “But if it’s important to you, I can
totally hate him.”

Laughing, I shake my head. “I appreciate the

show of solidarity, but you’re right.” The
reluctantly reasonable part of me, the one that’s
normally in charge, knows it. Has known it from
that first night in the hospital. “It’s possible he’s
changed. But either way, you’re off the hook. If
I’m going to hold a grudge, I’ll do it on my own.”

Taking another swallow of my beer, I wonder if

it’s even possible for me to let go of the resentment
I’ve held toward Quinn all these years. To accept
that he might not be the same person he was back
in Mexico. If maybe I might be ready to put the
past behind me.

Nat’s phone lights up and she blanches,

showing the screen to Cammy, who groans.

“What?” Only then I sense it. There’s a

disturbance in the Force. A rustling of bodies and
rise of voices toward the front of the bar.

And I just know.
Nat bites her lip. “I’m so sorry. I told Vaughn

we were coming to Belfast, but didn’t clarify it was
a girls’ thing.”

I can feel my eye start to twitch as I turn to

where three Slayers Hockey forwards are cutting
through the crowd.

Vaughn Vassar is in the lead, followed by Doug

Shore and stupid sexy-haired Quinn O’Brian, who’s
probably only bringing up the rear because he
stopped to get a back-alley blowjob from some
bunny on his way in.

God, I hate him.
I hate how broad his shoulders are and how his

mouth seems to be hooked in this perpetual half
smile, like he’s always ready to laugh. And I hate
how once the guys pull an empty table alongside
ours, he automatically slides into the chair beside
mine.

I hate that I remember what it was like to sit

next to him that first day and that invisible tug in
my belly when his eyes met mine. How badly I
ached to close the distance between us.

“This isn’t just tonight, Georgie… It’s real. Tell

me you feel it too.”

“Are you growling at me?” he asks quietly, that

hooked half smile pulling into the real thing.

Why is this guy so happy?
He should be slow-roasting over a pit of guilt

and self-loathing.

“No.”
He leans closer, issuing a hmm near my ear that

reverberates all the way through me. “I think you
were. Such a fiery little thing.” He sits back. “I like

it.”

“Don’t care what you like.” I sound like a child,

and that he’s driven me to it gets added to the ever-
growing list of things I hate about him.

“Like that too.” The guy actually purrs,

shooting me a look packed with the kind of smolder
a less-informed girl might melt over.

Not me. Not ever again.

Quinn

FROM THE FIRST night in the hospital, I knew
this chick hated me.

Logic dictates I let her go, walk away. Find

some eager bunny just dying to bounce on my lap
for a while. But apparently logic left the building
the night I met George.

And it’s not like I’m one of those guys who gets

off on being abused or like I’ve never been able to
walk away from a challenge either. I have. Plenty
of times. But the challenge this girl offers is like
nothing I’ve felt before. And I want her.

Which means I’ll take any kind of attention I

can get.

I’ve tried talking to her. Tried being sociable

and looking at her like a friend instead of the girl

I’m dying to get a taste of. But whatever epic
grudge she’s nursing is too great, and every decent,
respectful, legitimate interest I show in her as a
human being makes her distrust me all the more.

Nice doesn’t net results.
But what does? Giving her what she expects. A

guy who’s nothing but game. And hello, negative
attention is better than no attention at all.

So I’ve become a toddler. Or a total douche.

Probably the latter. But hell, if it gets me one of
those sizzle-and-burn scowls or a taste of that sharp
tongue… then so be it. I’m in.

“So Georgeous, what’s good here… besides

you?”

Doug coughs out a laugh from my other side,

but I’m all about George.

Her head cranks around, her eyes burning like

the embers of hell. So hot.

“What did you just call me?”
Shit. “Georgeous? Yeah, well if the shoe fits.”

Crash and burn, man. Crash and burn. I shouldn’t
have said it out loud, but every time I see her, it
slides through my mind. Still, there’s my negative
attention. Even if that one wasn’t totally
intentional.

“Are you serious right now?”
Just about her. “Nah, I’ve been here before.

Everything’s good,” I say, reaching for the small
bar menu wedged up against the exposed brick wall

beside her. No touching, because that would be
bullshit. But an unobstructed close-up of the arm
I’ve caught her staring at a time or two, why not?

Sure enough, her eyes go a little hazy as I linger

a few seconds longer than necessary. And when she
eventually looks up at me, I wink.

“God, I hate you,” she mutters, clear enough

for me to hear, but probably not the rest of the
table.

“You sure?” I ask, sitting back. “Because it

kind of seems like you might like me. Just a little.”

She lets out this half laugh that has me

physically aching to hear the real thing. “Geez,
O’Brian, didn’t anyone ever warn you you’ll go
blind if you keep stroking your ego like that?”

“You could stroke it for me.” I’m truly ashamed

of myself. Just not enough to stop.

“Not in a million years.”
“Whoa, bold move throwing down the gauntlet

like that,” I bait.

Her eyes snap back to mine. Pissy. Curious.

Beautiful. Engaged.

“I mean, considering how guys like me operate

and all.”

Cold as stone, she answers, “Explain.”
“We get off on challenges. Can’t ignore them.

Everyone knows this. So now I’m wondering if you
like the idea of me coming after you, maybe more
than you want to admit.”

Goddamn, I’m making myself sick. And I’m

pretty sure one of my teammates is going to have
something to say about my bullshit here pretty
quick. But this is the closest thing to a conversation
we’ve ever had.

I’m waiting for her next quip, anticipating the

gleam in her eyes as she takes me down a peg. Only
when she looks at me, it’s like she’s letting me see
something real for the very first time. Something
that’s not quite so sharp and has a little less edge…
It stops me in my tracks and makes me want to
reach out and take her hand. Ask her if she’d let me
find someplace where we could talk. Talk for real,
for once.

But then she just turns away. “No.”
And it feels like I’ve lost something I can’t even

describe.

Christ, what is it about this girl?

Chapter 3

Quinn

Preseason

e’re halfway through training camp,
and my mind is on how fast that

rookie was out on the ice today. How he might
measure up against me. Right now, I’ve got him
beat, but he’s younger, with room to grow. Walking
back from the shower, I drop onto the bench beside
Vassar. He’s got his head in his phone, probably
texting love notes to his girl Nat.

We’re playing Detroit tomorrow night and I

wonder if she’ll bring George to the game.

I pick up my phone but the only message I’ve

got is from my mom asking what I think about this
latest “once-in-a-lifetime investment opportunity”

my brother’s been pitching.

Blowing out an even breath, I fire off a quick

text: Don’t do it.

I’ll have to call her later. Explain the legalities

of why my financial guy warned me off investing,
and let her know I floated Pat a few bills for rent
and groceries since he’d sunk everything he had
into this scheme already.

It pisses me off that he turned around and went

to Mom, but seriously, I should have known he
would.

“What’s the deal, O’Brian? Your dick rotting

off or something?” Baxter barks out, scaring the
shit out of me as he walks up with his wingman Rux
on his heels.

“The fuck?” I cough, grabbing my junk—my

perfectly fit, clean and virile junk, thank you—
through the towel slung around my waist.

Shoving the overlong hair from his face, Rux

cuts his buddy a disbelieving look and mutters,
“Dude?”

Baxter turns to him and shrugs. Like the words

he’s just thrown out there for the damn universe to
play with are the kind you hear every day. “What?
We talked about this.”

“Talked about what?” Okay, and pretty sure my

voice just cracked like puberty’s about to hit or
something.

“About easing into it.” Rux smooths the air

with his meaty paw. “There were half a dozen
scenarios why this bunny bait stopped sharing his
dick like a party favor, and that’s the one you lead
with?”

“Guys?” I choke out.
That dickhead Vassar isn’t texting anymore.

Suddenly he’s all ears and—I guess that’s a smile.
With him, it can be hard to tell.

Baxter’s shaking his head. “Yeah, but that’s the

one I’d be worried about, wouldn’t you?”

Rux cuts me a sympathetic look and ruffles my

hair. “No one’s worried about your dick rotting
off.” He pauses, mid-ruffle. “It’s not, right?”

“My dick is fine.” It’s fucking clean as a

whistle. Pristine. Immaculate… barring some
possible chaffing courtesy of a particularly vivid
dream about my favorite little hothead this
morning.

We were on a beach, the wind blowing her hair

around her face. And she was—

“See?” Rux says to Baxter and the six other

guys who are now standing around to watch the
show. Then back to me. “So what’s with the sudden
bunny-free O’Brian? You got a girl?”

One comes to mind, but she’s not my girl. No

matter how bad I might want her to be. “No.”

Popov juts his chin at me, crooked smile

spreading. “You got a guy?”

I’m about to say no to that too, but then Rux

throws his head back and groans before turning on
him. “Poppy, enough. Even if O’Brian did swing
that way, the answer’s no.” He turns back to me,
brow raised. “You into guys? Because Poppy’s
brother is a world-class douche, but I got a friend
—”

Jesus. “Thanks for the offer, but no. And what

are you going on about my dick for?”

This time it’s Vassar chiming in. “Word’s out

that you haven’t hooked up with a bunny in months
and they’re trying to figure out if it’s because you
picked up an STD or started seeing someone.”

Rux clamps a hand on my shoulder. “Your

captain cares about your shit, man. We all do.” His
smile goes flat, and I’m pretty sure this is what it
feels like to be lined up across from Rux for a puck
drop because the look he’s giving me says he’s not
messing around. “So what’s the deal?”

Vassar shoves off the bench, heading toward the

showers. “He’s hung up on Natalie’s friend.”

I gape at his retreating form. And to think how

long I kept his fucking secret.

The hand on my shoulder turns into a vise. “He

talking about Cammy?”

Now I’ve got both Baxter and Rux staring me

down like they’re about to take me apart. Cammy
is Baxter’s sister-in-law so it makes sense, but Rux?

Whoa. “No, man.” The vise loosens.
“George Bowen?” Rux asks with less intensity.

Poppy lights up. “George? You do like guys.

My brother is not douche—”

“Save it, man. George is a chick.” Rux looks

back to Baxter. “What’s it short for?”

And this I’m interested in.
“Shit, Nat told me once. It’s like, Georgia or

something. But seriously, I’ve known her since they
were freshmen together, and I’ve never heard
anyone call her anything but George. Something
about her brothers—”

He breaks off. Then, rubbing a hand over his

mouth, checks in with Rux. Who wags his head and
shrugs.

Christ, these two have got that whole psychic

connection thing on and off the ice.

“You know she’s got like four brothers, right?”

Greg asks, a glint in his eyes.

I didn’t, but I can see it. “Okay. You saying

they’re going to have a beef with me?”

“Them? No way. But I was just thinking, of all

of Nat’s friends who score surrogate little sister
status with the team, you picked the one I’m least
worried about. George can take care of herself.
Those brothers of hers are meatheads, but one look
from her and they’re grabbing their junk and
running for their lives. So…” He shrugs and grins.
“Knock yourself out, man.”

George

“YO, George, inventory says we’ve got more
twenty-six-inch tubing, but I can’t find it
downstairs.”

I look at my youngest brother, Gary, and

wonder, not for the first time, how he could literally
have grown up in this shop, worked here since he
was twelve, and still have no idea where half our
inventory is or how to handle anything but the most
basic bicycle repair.

Gary’s the baby of the family at twenty and the

closest to me in looks—he’s got the same bright red
hair, brown eyes and freckles. But we couldn’t be
more different when it comes to drive and sense.
And that missing tooth he kept knocking out and
finally decided to live without.

If he wasn’t my brother, I would have fired him

six times already. But while I’ve been managing
The Bike Shop for four years and have every
intention of taking it over one day, for now, my dad
stills handles the hiring and firing of family
members.

Wiping the grease off my hands with the rag in

my back pocket, I wave for him to follow me out to
the back hall and down to our stockroom in the
basement.

“You know which one you need?” I ask, waving

to the racks at the far wall.

“Yeah, I got it.” He gives me a gap-toothed

smile that has me rubbing the top of his head like a
puppy. “Thanks, George.”

On the stairs, my phone lights up with a call

from Nat. Swiping across the spiderwebbed glass, I
answer, “Yes, I’m still planning on going to the
game tonight and no, I haven’t decided about the
Five Hole after.”

She laughs through the line. “Come on, it’ll be

fun. We don’t have to stay long, but Rux is always
so jacked up when they get back on the ice, he’ll
probably be breakdancing in the back room. You
don’t want to miss it.”

“Cammy and Margo coming?” I ask, turning

back into the shop to see my second-youngest
brother Ross helping a customer at the counter.
He’s got this, so I drop back into the chair by my
laptop.

“Matty’s got a fever, so Cammy’s out. And

Margo’s got a dinner meeting with a client. Come
on. Don’t leave me hanging.”

I’m not sure leaving her with her super-

attentive boyfriend after his game constitutes
leaving her hanging, but if she wants me to come,
then I will.

PRESEASON ISN’T QUITE as intense as regular,
but tonight’s game was great, and a win is exciting

no matter how you slice it. And when Nat asks me
to come to the Five Hole after, I’m too amped up to
resist.

For years I let my fear of running into Quinn

keep me from attending games or joining Nat when
she was hanging out with her brother or the guys
from the team. And what a waste. Because I love
hockey. I love to play it. I love to watch it. I love to
celebrate it with people who share my sentiments.

Edging my way up to the bar, I find the barest

gap. Just enough to flag the bartender and signal
four longnecks. The guy to my left signs for his
drinks and, vacating his little stretch of the bar,
leaves me staring into an all-too-familiar pair of
sea-green eyes.

Quinn. Ugh.
His lips split into an aggravating smile that just

reeks of sincerity and has every muscle down my
spine tensing. We haven’t seen each other since
that night at Belfast when I let my guard slip and
showed this guy more than I meant to. I try so hard
to keep him out, but that night, suddenly all I could
think about was what it was like in Mexico. How
every single thing about him from the first second
we bumped into each other at the ice-cream stand
until the last when he dropped me at my door had
seemed so sincere. So genuine.

Even thinking back on it now, knowing what

happened, I feel the echo of my racing heart and

butterfly flutter in my belly. And for a beat of time,
all I want to do is ask the guy I thought he was how
I could have been so wrong. Ask him why he
couldn’t have been real. Because somehow that
guy who never actually existed feels like one of the
greatest losses of my life.

And that’s maybe the worst part of this. Every

time Quinn looks at me like he is right now, I see
that guy. And I have to remind myself, no matter
how real it feels… it’s not.

He knows I don’t want to talk to him. But

rather than just being cool and giving me the jut of
his chin or feigning interest in his phone, he slides
into the open space between us.

I wait for him to ask me what I thought of his

game, but instead he leans his forearms on the bar
and says, “So, a bike shop, huh?”

“Yep.” The pop of that P and my cold shoulder

are meant to signal the end of the conversation.

But this guy doesn’t quit.
“Vassar says you’re crazy about cycling. And I

just think that’s cool. There aren’t enough people in
the world who get to do what they love.”

I shouldn’t look. I shouldn’t give him the

satisfaction. But I can’t help it. My head cranks
slowly around until I’m staring at him, searching for
any sign that he knows what he’s doing.

But there’s nothing. He’s either the best faker

on the planet, or Quinn O’Brian really doesn’t

remember that he’s had nearly this exact
conversation with me before. And when I say
nearly, I mean that the first time he asked me what
I planned to do after college, I’d been eager to
answer, to engage with his spiel about people doing
what they love.

What happened then shouldn’t matter. Just like

whatever he’s after now shouldn’t either. But I’m
still pissed, because it hurts. It hurts to think that
for six and a half years I’ve been trying to put that
night behind me—when it’s not even a blip on his
radar.

“Look, I don’t know what your deal is,

O’Brian, but I’m not interested. I’ve tried to be
obvious about it, making sure not to be nice… But
either you don’t get it, or you think I don’t. Either
way, back off.”

There. I wait for the sense of relief that should

come from telling this guy to take a hike. But it
doesn’t.

In fact, that slight wince he gives up—the one

that ought to be the most satisfying thing since
bubble wrap—leaves me feeling wrong. Guilty.
Like even after what he did, I’m the one with
something to feel bad about. Which is bullshit.

Quinn nods, taking the couple beers he ordered

and stepping back from the bar. Again, I wait for
relief. Again, it doesn’t come.

But before I can think too much about it, he’s

back, brows furrowed and those sea-green eyes as
stormy as I’ve ever seen them.

“Look, I know you’re not into me. And I’m not

pushing for something that isn’t there. But I thought
we could be friends. You know, since our friends
are friends.”

That niggle of guilt I’ve been experiencing is

incinerated by the red-hot rage boiling up inside
me. Friends? After everything he did, he’s trying to
be friends? “Are you for real right now?”

But even before he answers me, I see it.
This guy absolutely is for real.
He has no idea why I’ve been such a

monumental bitch. No idea why I’m taking a
blowtorch to every olive branch he extends.

And as if Quinn O’Brian hasn’t made me feel

crappy enough… Now I feel even worse.

“Never mind. Just forget it.”
I pay for the beers and take them back to the

table where Nat’s sitting in Vaughn’s lap, chatting
with Popov and Vsev about the 12U girls’ team she
coaches. Congratulating the guys on their game, I
set the bottles down, look at the empty seat waiting
for me and then across the bar to where Quinn is
talking to a couple of fans in Slayers gear, his eyes
still on me.

I’ve had it. “Hate to bail, but I’m wiped. You

guys drink these and I’ll see you around.”

Chapter 4

Quinn

hen Vassar told me where he was
heading tonight, I was more than a

little surprised to learn this is how he likes to spend
his downtime. The guy isn’t exactly the snuggly
type, so kids don’t seem the most natural fit. But
then he went and did that creepy thing where he
busts out the smile that’s mostly myth and legend,
and I had to come.

I’m glad I did, because watching these kids’

faces light up when we came out on the ice with
them was like a balm for my soul. There weren’t
any camera crews. No one shouting directions
about adjusting lighting or barking about timetables.
This was about the kids and the sport they love and

being a part of something kind of magical.

We’ve just finished handing out Slayers gear to

our pint-sized fans and I’m dropping the empty
bags behind the bench when a tiny roar of cheers
erupts from behind me and then— “Hey, guys, too
late for Nat and me to get in on Sharks &
Minnows?”

No way.
I stand, looking toward the corner door where,

sure enough, George and Nat, red faced and
sweaty, are getting swarmed by two dozen special-
needs kids giving them the kind of reception Vassar
and I could only dream about.

She straightens, a little stitch pulling between

her brows. Something inside me dies, because I’m a
guy who knows how to read the plays. And I know
she’s about to turn and see me, and when she does,
that bright-as-the-sun smile’s going to be gone.

She looks. Our eyes meet. And sunset.
Sometimes it sucks to be right.
Fortunately, the little guy standing in front of

her reaches up and takes her hand, and it pulls her
back into the moment that shouldn’t be about
anything but these kids.

We fire it up, playing the games I’ve been

playing since I was a first-year Mite up in
Minnesota. We practice drills. And when the kids
beg for George to show them her goalie moves, she
drops into a split so deep I’m sure I’m going

straight to hell, because that move is definitely
getting deposited into the spank bank.

After we’re done, I hang back, talking with a

couple of the parents and coaches while Nat and
George talk to Vassar. By the time I’ve signed
everything that got put in front of me and taken
whatever pictures we were asked for, George is
standing alone by the bench… waiting for me.

I skate over and, stepping off the ice onto the

rubber flooring, bring up my hands in front of me.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here. Vassar
was talking about coming out tonight. He didn’t
even mention that Nat was going to be here.”

The Zamboni creeps onto the ice, and George

gives me a single-shoulder shrug. “Not a big deal
and not like I’ve got any more right to be here than
you. The kids had fun tonight.”

“Especially once you showed up. Looks like

you’ve got more fans out here than Vassar and me
put together.”

“It’s the splits. The kids love it.”
They’re not the only ones.
“Look, Quinn.” She licks her lip and meets my

eyes. “About the other night, you were trying to be
friendly, and… I shouldn’t have been rude. I’m
sorry.”

I don’t say anything for a minute, letting her

words sink in. I could tell her it’s okay, no sweat,
except that I can’t. “Full disclosure, I wasn’t just

trying to be friendly.”

Her breath huffs out in a short laugh that feels

like the closest thing to a win I’ve ever had with
this girl. “Even so.”

I don’t want to hover over her or do something

stupid like reach out and touch her, so I sit back on
the bench and start in on my laces. “I don’t get
what I did to piss you off so much.”

She takes a slow breath and then another,

watching the Zamboni make another pass. “Look,
everyone says what a great guy you are,” she
begins slowly, and I have to force myself to keep
my ass on the bench, no sudden moves. Because I
think she might actually be about to tell me. “I
mean, sure, you get around, but I don’t care about
that. The thing is, you hurt… someone I care about
with your player bullshit.”

My mind strains toward a blur of faces and

jumble of names. I’d like to think I’ve always gone
out of my way to be honest and upfront with the
women I’ve been with, to make sure they
understand the limits on our interactions before
anything happens. But even with the best
intentions, hurt feelings aren’t avoidable every
time. “I don’t know what to say. I— Shit, I’m sorry.
Who was it? What happened?”

She shakes her head, turning as far away from

me as she can get. “It was a long time ago. It
doesn’t matter who, just that there was someone,

and she told me what happened between you. And
when you and I met, all I could think about was
how much you hurt her.”

“A long time? What are we talking about, a

couple years, college?”

A nod.
Shit. “Okay, so I try really hard not to be a dick,

but I can say with absolute certainty I’ve gotten
better at it with maturity and experience. Still, I
can’t think of anyone I was seriously bad to.” I run
my hand over the back of my head. “Did she catch
feelings I didn’t return… or was this something else
altogether?”

“Forget it. I have the sense even if you were

staring her in the face, you wouldn’t remember. It
doesn’t matter anymore.”

“The hell it doesn’t, George. You can barely

stand to look at me.”

At this, she turns so she’s facing me head-on.

“It doesn’t matter, because nothing you say is going
to change how I feel about you.”

Her words hit me square in the chest, and it

takes a beat, but I recover. I shove my feet into my
shoes and, slinging my bag over my shoulder, push
to my feet. This time I don’t try to keep the
distance between us, instead reaching for the end of
a single curl to brush a knuckle against its softness.

Her lips part and her eyes come up to mine.
“Remember what I said about not being able to

pass on a challenge back at Belfast?”

“Yes,” she answers warily, hell, a little

breathlessly.

“I was just screwing around that day. Saying

any douchey thing I could to get a rise out of you.
But so we’re clear… this challenge? George, I’m
coming for you. And sooner or later, you’re going
to like me. Just a little.”

“I

Chapter 5

George

remember those 12U tournaments,
Nat. They were a blast. For us. The
parents and coaches?” I cringe,

thinking about the late nights, head counts, pool
parties, room checks, pleas for us to be quiet, and
the seemingly inescapable puker. “I love helping
out with the team, but you couldn’t pay me enough
to go on one of those overnights.”

She grins up from the couch where she’s

stretched out, poring over some old-school three-
ring. “Good, because this doesn’t pay at all.”

Contrary to all logic, that little deet has me

biting my lip, wrestling over whether I should say
yes. “Do we have to hold their hair if they barf?”

Before she can answer, the front door sounds

with an obnoxious thud.

“You got to knock that shit off, man,” Vaughn

bellows from down the hall. “We haven’t even hit
regular season. And here you are risking it all,
because you can’t say no to anyone in a skirt.”

There’s only one guy on the team who gets that

kind of shit. And heck, there’s really only one guy
Vaughn’s willing to string more than five words
together for too.

Quinn.
My mouth tastes sour, and I want to grab my

own shoulders and give them a shake. What do I
care about who he’s with? Except apparently I do,
because I’m hushing my bestie with some hand-
flailing as I crane my neck to hear.

Quinn told me, warned me he was going to

break me down. Get me to care. And up until a
week ago, I wouldn’t have thought that was
something within the realm of possibility. But then
he went and showed up at Nat’s 12U girls practice,
racing onto the ice wearing Vassar’s jersey, lining
up with the girls who couldn’t stop giggling,
watching with awed eyes and openmouthed smiles
as he ran at the mouth about being late for practice.

I tried to muster up a solid mad. Tried to get

good and pissed about the disruption. But it’s Nat’s
team, and I just help out when I’ve got the time…
and she wasn’t pissed.

And then he went and did it. “Coach Baxter, I

know I was late. What’s my punishment?”

Because you don’t come on the ice late without

a consequence. Everyone knows.

I watched as she tapped her chin, knowing what

she was going to say and hating myself for holding
my breath for it.

“Push-ups, O’Brian.”
The girls all started bouncing in their skates,

singing, “OOOooooh, he’s in trouble!” and then
chanting “Push-ups! Push-ups!” as he went down
to a plank on the ice, his hands in his gloves.
Holding that position, he looked over at me and
flashed a wink and another panty-melting smile
before knocking out one perfect push-up after
another.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I watched every

single one.

He didn’t stay long—after taking a team

picture, he wished the girls luck in their season and
left us to our practice.

I should have known that wouldn’t be the end

of it.

On my way out after practice, the guy who

sharpens skates caught me and handed me a note.

I’m a guy who takes responsibility for my

actions.

Tell me what I can do to make this better.

For a minute I almost felt bad. Because there

wasn’t a thing he could do.

Not that that stopped him. Then there was the

game last Thursday. Nat swears she didn’t tell him
I’d be there, but from the minute he came onto the
ice for warm-up, he made sure I knew he knew I
was there. Rapping his stick on the glass as he
passed our seats on the first lap, dropping into a
classic canoe paddle as he passed on the next.

Thankfully his head was in the game once it

started, but once we were back at the bar, he
started up again, getting player after player from
the team to come over and deliver a testimonial
about how not-douchey he was.

By the end of the night my stomach hurt from

laughing so hard.

But no matter how much this guy flirts or jokes

or makes an ass of himself to get my attention, it’s
not going to change anything. He’s still the guy who
made a sport of playing me almost seven years ago.
Still the guy who took things I can never get back
and threw them away without a backward glance.

He’s still the guy who cared so little about his

actions that he doesn’t even remember that
everything he’s trying to get from me now… he’s
already had.

That’s what I’m thinking in Nat’s apartment as

Quinn barks out a laugh. “Jesus, Vassar, she was
seventy years old! She needed a hand.”

Eyes saucer wide, Natalie covers her mouth,

and I’m shaking my head no. Because even if every
rumor about Quinn O’Brian is true… he wouldn’t.
Would he?

“Ever hear of Ted Bundy? That motherfucker

just needed a hand too.”

“It was raining and she clearly didn’t know how

to change it herself.”

The guys come into the living room. Both men

are soaked from the knees down, their socks
making squishing noises as they step, water
dripping off the brims of their hats, and in Vaughn’s
case, the ends of his hair. Quinn is sporting a
muddy splatter that covers what was once a white
thermal, his neck, and jaw… except for a clean
circle of skin with a single mauve lipstick kiss dead
center.

“Oh my God,” Nat gasps as I nod, feeling the

smile I’m not even trying to hide spreading fast.

That’s when the guys notice us. Vaughn’s whole

face lights up as he starts in on how Quinn has a
death wish and pulled over to change this woman’s
tire.

“This isn’t your first rodeo,” he chides Quinn.

“You’ve been mugged before, man. You know
better.”

My breath catches, and my belly goes tense at

the thought of him facing that danger.

“You’ve been mugged?” Nat asks. “Here in

Chicago? Were you hurt?”

Quinn waves her off. His eyes keep cutting to

mine like he wasn’t expecting to see me here and
now that he has, he looks almost embarrassed.

Which can’t be right.
“No, back in college. Just a couple punks

looking for trouble, not money. Broke my nose.”

That nose I’ve stared at so many times,

wondering what happened and when, because it
was straight as an arrow the first time I met him. I’d
always assumed it happened on the ice.

“See?” Vaughn comes back. “And that was

before you had your face plastered across
billboards and popping up in the highlights reel a
couple times a week. Now? You know what it
means to be a part of a team like this. People get
weird fixations. Guys. Girls. Grandmas.”

Quinn blinks, and when his eyes come up, they

find mine and hold. And for a second, it’s like I can
read everything he’s saying in one glance.

Grandmas? Can you believe this guy?
I answer him with a firm no.
And then, as if it’s not bad enough having our

eyes carrying on a conversation, I feel my smile
synching up with his. The both of them getting
bigger as that crazy pull that never quite goes away
starts tugging harder.

Does he even realize he’s still wearing that little

old lady’s badge of gratitude?

He turns back to Vaughn, our eye contact

lingering before it breaks. “Dude, she had no idea
who’d be coming down that road or whether they’d
even stop.”

“Crime of opportunity, man. Crime. Of.

Opportunity. She could have taken one look at you,
realized who you were, and thought, ‘Tire iron to
the back of the head. Get him in the trunk. Keep
him in my basement to use for my personal
pleasure from now until I die.’ And then, after
enduring years of that indignity, you’d starve to
death down there.”

I can’t help it. I don’t want to tease this guy.

But it’s just too tempting. “Chalk this up to the
latest bunny incident.”

Only three of us bust out laughing, but the smile

on Quinn’s face says he doesn’t mind at all.

Natalie takes a pinch of Vaughn’s shirt. “Baby,

this needs to go in the wash like now. Straight back
to the bathroom, please, and try not to touch
anything.” Vaughn leans in carefully like he’s going
to kiss her cheek, but at the last minute clamps his
arms around her and tugs her in to his soaked body.

“Touch anything like this?”
I spent a lot of time playing hockey with that

girl, and no prank, no spray of ice to the face, no
injury has ever earned a squeal as loud as what she
lets out now.

There’s a round of “You didn’t” “I did” I watch

with a kind of fascination, because again, Nat and I
go back. And she’s maybe the only girl I’ve ever
known who was as guarded about guys as I am.

It makes that soft and squishy place inside me

warm to see her so completely in love.

I cut a quick glance back at Quinn, who’s

watching me like he’s reading me again. And damn
him, I don’t want him inside my head so I turn back
to my friend who’s now half-soaked herself and
shoving Vaughn down the hall toward the bedroom.
Looking back over her shoulder, she points to the
guest bedroom.

“Quinn, there are towels in that bathroom. Go

take a shower and clean up. You can toss your
clothes in the washer and grab a pair of Vaughn’s
sweats and a T-shirt from the dryer for while we
watch the movie.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, already heading that

way.

And with that, it’s time for me to take off.

“Hey, I’ve got to get over to my cousin’s. Call me
tomorrow about the dates on the tournament. If
there isn’t a wedding or baptism, I’ll go.”

She nods, and then squeaks again as Vaughn

hauls her over his shoulder and they disappear
down the back hall.

The shower turns on in the guest room and I

groan.

I don’t want to think about Quinn in there.

Naked.

Dirty.
Sporting the hot-pink badge of his good deed on

his jaw.

I don’t want to wonder what his body looks like

now. How different it must be from what it was like
then.

I don’t want to think about him at all.
Holding my breath, I grab my hoodie and

messenger bag from the coffee table and beat feet
down the hall. Shoot, phone. I’m elbow-deep in my
bag, fishing around for it, not looking where I’m
going and—wham!

I slam face-first into a solid wall of damp skin,

hard-packed muscle, and everything I’ve been
meaning to avoid.

I drop my bag and stumble back, but no more

than a step as Quinn, wearing nothing but a towel,
catches me with a hand at my waist.

“Whoa, you okay?”
I swallow, try to look away, but he’s right there.

The man whose body I wish I could forget, now
bigger and broader and packed with the kind of
layered muscles it’s hard to believe exist outside of
photoshop and CGI… burning its way even deeper
into my memory.

I try to take a steadying breath, but all I get is

him. That woodsy, masculine scent with a hint of
cologne.

“Georgie,” he says quietly, his hold at my hip

wide and warm. Relaxed but not going anywhere.

Georgie.
I blink up at him, the blood rushing to my head

as I step back from his hold. From that easy
familiarity he sometimes falls into.

He doesn’t remember me. He’s never given me

a second to believe otherwise. But hearing him call
me that again…

I search his eyes for recognition, fear and

nerves wrestling inside me. Because as mad as it
made me that he doesn’t know who I am—I’ve
come to appreciate it was the best possible scenario
come to life. My secret is safe. I’ll never have to
see the look in his eyes when he realizes who I am
or what happened back then. I’ll never have to
know whether he’d feel sorry for me, laugh, or—

“Did I hurt you?” There’s a tinge to his dirty

cheekbones and he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I
wasn’t looking.”

I take a breath, and seeing that my hand is

resting on the bare skin of his abs, I snatch it back.
The tips of my fingers tingle from where they made
contact, from how good it feels to be this close to
him—and I hate it. Like I hate how bad it feels to
have to admit that he still affects me. That no
matter what kind of bastard he was to me when we
first met, somehow that imprint of first love, no
matter how wrong or foolish it was, won’t go away.

“You can’t hurt me at all. And don’t call me

Georgie.” Not when I still wake up to the echoed
whisper of it every now and then.

Having the fresh reminder of how it sounds on

his lips is the dead last thing I need.

Quinn

GEORGE PUSHES PAST ME, her cheeks on fire
as she flees down the hall and out the back door.

My heart is still slamming beneath that spot

where her hair brushed against my chest—like
every fucking fantasy I’ve had about this girl since
the night I met her. Okay, and possibly longer than
that.

The red hair.
Shit, it’s my kryptonite. Though before I met

George, the hair in my dirty, faceless fantasies was
always long. Spilling over my pillow or around my
face, tickling a path down my shoulders, chest and
abs.

But now, there’s nothing nameless or faceless

about the fantasies assaulting me on the regular for
the past seven months. It’s George. Her fiery eyes,
heavy-lidded as she peers up at me through russet
lashes. Her always full lips, kiss swollen and parted

as she watches me. You’d think I’d still be giving
her the long hair since it’s one of those deep-rooted
kinks, but from the day I met her the hair was
suddenly a short spill of wild waves, not quite
falling to her shoulders.

But no matter the length, I always see it against

my chest. I always touch it but end up with this
frustrated sense that I’m missing something.

Now I know what those wild waves feel like

against my skin. And it was enough to knock the
breath out of me and have me fighting the boner of
the century while I stood there like an ass in front
of the girl I want so bad it hurts.

Fisting the towel at my side, I step back into the

laundry room and pull my shit out of the washer,
grateful I hadn’t known how to start the thing.

Because now that George isn’t standing two

inches in front of me, and there’s no chance of
coming off as an even bigger dick than she already
thinks I am, I’m hard as a post.

Okay, and not just because of the cheap feel I

got off her hair when she plowed into me, but
because of the way she reacted when she noticed I
wasn’t wearing a shirt.

That wasn’t disgust in her eyes.
Not even close.
That was heat. And now that I realize she’s not

completely immune to me, I need to get the hell out
of my buddy’s place. Because no way am I going to

make it through a shower in his guest bathroom
without thinking about that look in her eyes. The
one so close to my fantasies it fucking hurts.

Shoving my arms and legs into my soaked

clothes, I hop back down the hall to the spare room.
Turn off the shower and grab my phone to fire off a
text.

Raincheck on the movie. Something came up.

Chapter 6

George

can’t peddle fast enough. Quinn
O’Brian has a hold on me, and I’ll
never be able to shake it. I cut through

the city streets, just wanting to get away. But all I
can think about is what it was like to be that close
to him.

What it had been like when we were that close

before. How my heart nearly burst out of my chest
when he leaned in and, after hours of waiting for it,
finally kissed me.

How it feels like I’ve been waiting ever since

for someone to kiss me like that again.

A horn honks beside me and I cut back up to

the sidewalk, swing my leg over the seat and coast

a while before hopping down. I don’t even know
where I’m going, except that it’s not home. If
there’s one thing I can’t handle after this it’s my
brothers tearing the walls of our apartment down
around me.

The evening commuters bustle by, fallen leaves

in rose and gold trailing behind their feet.

I look east toward the lakefront. I could ride the

paths, watch the waves rush the shore. I look west
toward the rink. I could unwind watching the kids
practice or maybe catch a game, depending. But
even at the youth level, hockey’s too close to the
man I’m trying to escape.

What I really want right now is a friend.
Nat’s out of the question for all the obvious

reasons. Cammy’s making slime with her little guy
tonight. Helene is always a great listener, but she’s
really more Nat’s friend and I wouldn’t want to
make things awkward for her. And while I’ve got a
slew of cousins and guy friends always up for a
beer… I kind of feel like I need someone closer to
the situation.

I climb back on my bike and take off.
When Margo opens her door, she’s wearing one

of those gunky green clay masks you let dry on
your skin, a pair of sparkly rhinestone earrings that
dangle all the way to her shoulders, PJs with
unicorns on them and Styrofoam separators
between a set of half-painted toes.

I’m not even sure she checked to see who it

was in the hall before opening up like this, but she
lets out a squeal when she sees me.

Maybe it’s weird that I’m here. I’ve known

Margo for less than a year and only through Natalie
who knows her through her brother’s buddy’s wife.
But somehow, I’ve become a part of that group of
girls. And of all of them, Margo has always struck
me as the straightest shooter. The most like me
when it comes to saying what’s on her mind, and
the least like me when it comes to these girly rituals
and what is normally her gorgeous sense of style.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt the self-care

marathon, but I was sort of in the neighborhood and
—”

“Ooh, I love the random stop over. Nobody just

shows up anymore,” she says, waving me into her
apartment. “Go sit. I’m in the living room, but if
there isn’t a free spot, move whatever you need
to.”

Margo is indeed occupying her living room…

which at its bones looks like a light and airy space
with clean lines and the occasional splash of bright
color. Pale gray walls, white couches and chairs,
each with throw pillows in a pretty teal.

Her coffee table is covered in what looks like a

full recycling bin-worth of paper, magnifying
mirrors and a selection of nail polish. I move a neat
tray of serums and scrubs I wouldn’t begin to know

what to do with onto the floor by the foot spa and
sit in her overstuffed chair with the chunky violet
throw.

The fridge closes in the kitchen and a minute

later Margo is back with a can in one hand and one
of those not-messing-around-sized wine glasses in
the other.

I raise a brow as she pops the top and proceeds

to pour.

“I see you judging me over there,” she sings,

looking delighted as she hands me the glass and
then lifts hers to clink. “But this canned stuff is
fantastic. Fresh fizz every time! It’s like the perfect
single serving.”

I know from experience that telling Margo I’m

more of a beer girl is pointless. She’s a drink pusher
and honestly, whatever she puts in front of me is
always pretty tasty, so I click glasses with her and
take a sip that tickles my nose.

One perfect ebony brow arches at me

expectantly. “Nice, right?”

It really is.
“Okay, so what’s got you popping by all spur of

the moment? I know my company kicks ass in
general, but you’ve got a bit of a beat-up look
about you. What gives? Boy trouble? Girl trouble?
Bike trouble? Family trouble? Bank trouble? Dairy
—”

“Stop,” I cough out, because I seriously think

she could keep going all day and never get bored.
“It’s Quinn O’Brian trouble.”

She takes an impressive “sip” and leans in.

“Okay, lay it on me.”

I tell her about Mexico. About the chance

meeting at the ice-cream stand and the shock of
that instant connection. About the hours of laughter
and conversation, and how from almost the first
minute, Quinn was all in. No pretense of cool, no
guarding his cards. He told me he wanted me, but
not for some single night.

I tell her about his plans to come up and see me

at school and how he wanted me to come to
Minnesota in the summer. And I tell her about the
way the air seemed to charge between us and how
he swore he never felt anything like it with anyone
else before.

“What haunts me are the memories. What

drives me crazy is that, even after everything, I still
can’t think about his kiss without getting butterflies.
And what’s worse, other guys don’t even stand a
chance in comparison. I’ve let some really good
guys kiss me.”

“And more than kiss you too, right?” she butts

in, a panicky look in her eyes. “Please, tell me you
didn’t close up shop just because—”

“Margo. No. I’ve had sex. But it’s hard to get

caught up in the moment when all you’re thinking
is how much better some jerk was than the decent

guy you’re with now. I mean, how annoying is
that?”

“So annoying,” she agrees solemnly. Tapping a

blunt nail to her lips, she stares at me. “He can’t
actually be that good.”

Maybe she wasn’t listening. I open my mouth,

but she cuts me off.

“Seriously, the first time you kissed, you

believed you were in love with this guy. No way
that kiss was being judged on its own merit. I mean,
think about it. Your head and your heart and your
body all start working together, pulling toward this
one guy in a way you’ve never felt before?”

I nod, the echo of that pull strong enough to

have me wrapping my arms around my belly and
folding forward.

“That’s some pretty heady stuff, George. But

it’s not real.”

Peeking up at her, I ask, “What are you saying?

I built what happened with Quinn up in my mind…
and by the time I was willing to dip a toe back into
the dating waters—” more than a year and a half
later, “—I convinced myself he was more than he
actually was?”

“Exactly.” She gets up and walks back to the

kitchen, returning with two fresh cans. “It’s time
you stop giving this guy so much power over you.”

“How do you suggest I do that?”
“Positive affirmations and a mani-pedi to start.

Take your shoes off and stick your feet in the spa.
Then say it after me, ‘Quinn O’Brian is not all
that.’”

Chapter 7

George

egs stretched out beneath the early
October sun, I’m parked on the stoop
behind The Bike Shop waiting for Vaughn

and Nat to swing by and pick me up. They’re
hosting a barbecue to celebrate the official season
start tomorrow. This time of year, the days are still
pretty warm, but it cools off quickly in the evenings
so I’ve got a jean jacket in my bag.

A big black SUV turns into the alley, taking up

most of the width as it edges down the cracked
concrete. Not Vaughn’s car. I check my phone, but
no messages from Nat.

It slows, and I squint to see who’s inside. But

with the sun glinting across the windshield, it’s not

until Quinn stops in front of me that I realize what’s
going on.

“Don’t get excited, I’m just doing a favor for a

friend,” he says, leaning toward the open passenger
window, that all-charm smile getting harder and
harder to ignore.

I’m about to tell him we aren’t friends when he

holds up a finger. “And by friend, I mean Vassar.
Nat left her phone at the shelter, so he asked me to
swing by and grab you while they ran back.”

My mouth clamps closed, and he grins. “And

they say I have an ego.”

I don’t want to do it. I try not to, but I can feel

that smile fighting for freedom at the corner of my
mouth.

And Quinn being Quinn, shakes his head with a

quiet, “Almost.”

This guy never quits.
I hop up from my step behind the shop, and

signal for him to wait where he is while I grab my
stuff. It’s Sunday, so we’re closed and the boys are
nowhere to be found, but still, I don’t like the idea
of anyone seeing Quinn here.

If word got back to my dad… I don’t even want

to think about it.

Inside, I do a last check that everything is

locked up. My phone pings with a text from Nat
apologizing for the change in plans and making sure
I’m not currently burying a body in the stockroom.

I’m about to text back when the air changes

and a warm hand grazes the small of my back. I
jerk up with a gasp, gaping at Quinn as he leans
past me.

“Relax,” he says with a wink. “This is all about

the potato salad.”

Flicking a glance down to where his hand still

lingers, warm and wide at my hip, I manage, “Is
that so?”

He follows my gaze and stares like he doesn’t

know how that hand got there. Which I wouldn’t
believe for a second if it weren’t for the ruddy
shade burning up his cheeks.

“No way. Are you blushing?” I laugh, barely

keeping from reaching out to touch him.

Because I don’t want to touch him at all.
“Please,” he coughs, offended like I asked if he

needed help taping his stick. “I’m not blushing. I’m
a strapping, hot-as-fuck pro-hockey player. My
kind doesn’t blush.”

Our eyes meet and I lift my shoulder. “But you

are.”

And the thing is, it’s kind of freaking me out.

Because a guy can fake a lot of things. He can lie to
your face. Sound as sincere as the day is long. He
can look at you like you’re his next breath when
you’re nothing more than the next couple hours to
kill… but the one thing he can’t fake is a blush.

Which means the look Quinn O’Brian is giving

me right now isn’t part of some game or play or
anything else.

It’s real.
And if this is real, then it’s possible that maybe

some of the other things he’s been showing me
these last few months are real too. And that’s
something I’m not sure what to do with.

“Well, your kind should probably take his hand

back before he loses it,” I say with less bite than I
intend.

And there are those quick hockey reflexes in

play. Along with another dark stain across his
cheekbones as he turns and gathers the bags and
cooler still on the floor beside me.

“Let’s get over to Nat and Vassar’s before they

starve, yeah?”

I give him a small nod and follow him back to

the car, wondering not for the first time since he
butted back into my life, just how much of what
he’s been giving me is actually real.

Quinn

IT TAKES EVERYTHING I’ve got to keep my eyes
on the city streets and my foot on the gas instead of
slamming the car into park and demanding to know

what exactly George is thinking looking at me like
she is on the ride over. Because this sure as hell
isn’t the cold glare or mysteriously accusing glower
I’ve become accustomed to.

This is more like a reluctant mix of curiosity

and dismay. Which is wreaking havoc on my recent
commitment to stop dissecting every stern look and
nasty barb she throws my way.

Somehow we make it to Vassar’s in one piece,

and then George is slipping out of the car and
running over to greet Nat without a backward
glance. And it’s party time.

For a guy widely considered to be the Slayers’

least likeable player last season, Vaughn Vassar has
completely turned it around. Most of the team is
scattered around his backyard, kicked back on
cushy outdoor furniture, hanging with family and
friends.

We’re all jacked about the season starting,

talking about the off-season trades and teams we’re
lined up to face.

I’ve been manning the grill for about a half hour

when Diesel walks over, shaking his head. Great.
This guy.

“Dude, how the hell do you get any chicks at

all? You’ve got zero game and you burned both
those turkey burgers.”

“What?” I ask, forcing my eyes away from the

fiery redhead who’s been occupying way too much

of my attention, and down to the grill where there
are, in fact, two burgers that look eerily similar to
the pucks I make my living shooting. “Ah, hell.”

I grab a whole-grain bun from the station beside

the grill and slap both pucks down on it before
shoving the whole mess into his chest.

Laughing, he holds the atrocity up like he’s

toasting me with it. And then takes a big bite.

“So what’s the deal with this girl, anyway?” he

says around the mouthful. “She doesn’t seem like
your type. You know, with the brains and the
personality. Not to mention her being so tight with
Nat. This girl has strings.”

A part of me wants to be offended, mostly

because there’s just something about Diesel that
grates. He’s a badass d-man, and not a total dick as
I understand it, but on a team filled with bloated
egos, his tends to stand out.

“Doesn’t matter. She’s not into me.”
“No?” And I don’t miss the interest in his tone.

“Wonder what she would be into?”

And now he’s got my attention. “Hey, D, those

all your real teeth?”

“They are.” He flashes me a mouth full of

pearly whites, showing them off with pride.

I wave him closer, keeping my eyes on his so

there’s no chance of missing my meaning. “You
wanna keep ’em?”

Barking out a laugh, he steps back. “Yeah, man,

I do.” Smoothing his burger-free hand over his
styled hair, he whistles. “Message received,
O’Brian.”

It fucking better be. George can go out with

anyone she wants. Except him. Or Popov. Okay,
anyone who’s not good enough for her.

My eyes narrow as I scan my teammates,

eliminating one after the next until I finally land on
her. And whatever bullshit territorial freak-out I
was working up is gone.

Because she’s watching me. Again.
Which is different.
Up until today, George didn’t want to look at

me. She didn’t want to talk to me. She didn’t want
to laugh at my jokes or breathe the same air as me.

But suddenly, tonight, she’s looking. Because I

accidentally put my hand on her?

And despite what she might have thought, it

was an accident.

I’d gone in to help, period. But the hallway

wasn’t that big, and I kind of am. Shit, I didn’t want
to knock her over when I leaned past her.

But then she pointed it out. And there it was,

my hand at the small of her back, like it belonged
there. It threw me enough that even then, it didn’t
occur to me to move it. That’s how right it felt.

And maybe it felt right to her too. Maybe that’s

why she’s suddenly looking at me with questions in
her eyes instead of straight-up loathing.

Maybe it’s time I let the physical connection do

some of the heavy lifting here. Instead of shutting
that shit down because I’m trying to make sure she
knows I’m interested in her and not just some dirty
hookup.

So I give her the smile that’s been begging to

come out and play every time I see her. The one
that’s not friendly at all. The one that swears I’m
about to give her the time of her life.

And yeah, that startled stare, the soft parting of

her lips on a gasp I can feel but not hear… Yup,
that one says that smile landed just right.

Chapter 8

George

kay, what the heck was that?

That dirty, all-mischief smile with the

subtlety of a sledgehammer.

That smile is new. That smile is disconcerting on

a level I don’t quite know how to deal with. And
something tells me, that smile is just the beginning.
Which is why I sped out of that backyard an hour
ago and have been hiding in Nat’s bedroom with
her ever since.

We’re propped up against the headboard

together watching tape from the girls’ first game.

“See, this move right here from Anita?” she

says, pointing down to the tablet between us. “That
pass is where we should have had them.”

“Yep, it opened up the play, but Chelsea wanted

the point. Didn’t even notice Shayna falling into
position.”

“That was a pretty good look though, another

inch to the right and that puck would have been in
the net.” she says, closing out the footage.

I hum my agreement, checking out the pictures

and knickknacks that have accumulated in this
space since she moved in.

So much love. There’s evidence of it

everywhere.

I point to the picture of her and Vaughn in a

heart-shaped frame, their smiles so wide it’s nearly
blinding. “New?”

She nods, getting that dopey smile on her face

that I seriously never thought I would see Natalie
Baxter wearing.

“Quinn took it a few weeks ago when we were

down at the lake. I didn’t even see it at the time,
but then last week, he gave it to me out of nowhere.
It was all wrapped up in frilly paper with the bow
and everything.” She laughs at the side-eye I give
her and holds up her hands. “Hey, you’re the one
who asked about it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I am. And now I have another

question about the guy I don’t want to be thinking
about at all. “Why would he do that?”

“Okay, I know he’s got a player past. But

seriously, I think he’s kind of a romantic at heart.”

I hop off the bed like I’m dodging oncoming

traffic. Turn to my best friend in the world and
gape. “Are you… trying to sell me on this guy?”

“No! It’s just that maybe… even if he used to

be some epic dick… what if he’s not the same guy
anymore?”

The bedroom door swings open and Vaughn

pokes his head in, sees the tablet Nat is subtly
trying to push aside, and throws up his hands.
“Allie, baby, tell me you did not watch the game
without me.”

She pulls a face that’s guilty and apologetic, and

has me heading for the door as Vaughn walks in.
“I’m sorry!” She squeals when he catches her up
against him. “I got the email that it was ready and
—”

“Mm-hmm. I get it. You were excited to

watch.”

“I was. But I promise, we can watch it again

later, together.”

I close the door behind me, because after

running around in secret for so long, these two
sometimes forget when other people are around.

They’ll come up for air in a minute or twenty

and rejoin the party then. But for now they deserve
to be alone.

There’s a crowd in the living room watching

Greg Baxter get his ass handed to him by his wife
on Xbox. FIFA, it looks like. I watch for a minute

because Julia’s such a badass, but then head for the
kitchen to grab a beer. Not noticing until it’s too
late there’s someone else there.

Once again, my body gives that single short jolt

of reaction. The unwelcome tug of awareness. A
pull toward the thing it wants, even knowing better.

Quinn. “O’Brian.”
He’s got a bottle of water in his hand and

glances up at me as he tosses the cap in the trash
under the sink.

“Hey, Georgeous.” Leaning back against the

sink, he takes a swig and gives me another one of
those rated-M-for-mature smiles. “What can I get
for you?”

A little peace of mind would be nice, but when

he crosses his arms over the powerful expanse of
his chest, flaunting his biceps without even trying, I
know I’m not going to get it.

I don’t care about this guy’s body.
I care about who he is and what he did.
Only even as I think it, I hear that quiet,

divisive voice in my head asking, who he is or who
he was?

It doesn’t matter. Giving him the flat expression

I’ve taken to hiding behind, I move to the fridge.
“Just grabbing a beer.”

He nods. “How long you been coaching with

Nat?”

I check the counter for an opener. The drawer

next to the fridge. “Few years.”

“That’s pretty cool. I bet the girls love you,” he

says, watching me move around the kitchen in
search of the opener. There's a glint of challenge in
his eyes, like he knows what I’m after but won’t let
on until I ask.

Forget that.
I search another drawer and double check that

the cap isn’t a screw off. It’s not.

“What the heck?” I grumble.
He pushes off the counter, but as he walks past

me, his big hand wraps around the beer, pulling it
from my hand as he crosses to the butcher block
where—sure enough—there’s an opener mounted
beneath.

Thank God.
I hold out my hand, but he doesn’t give it back.
“Come on, Georgie. Tell me I’m your hero.”
“Pass.”
He takes a step closer, the deep green of his

eyes roaming over my face. “Why not? I just saved
your beer.”

“Because I think your ego’s big enough,” I say,

reaching for the bottle, ready to be done with this.
Only I’m too caught up in the smug challenge in his
eyes, and when my fingers wrap around the bottle,
they brush his, causing a tingly shock to run up my
arm and squeeze my heart enough to cause the
smallest betraying gasp.

His eyes darken and he rasps my name like a

plea. “Georgie.”

I blink as time touches back on itself, to that

night in Mexico. The gravel-rough sound of his
voice at my ear. My fingers tangled in his hair.

He’s looking at me with those too-hungry eyes.

Giving me the same pickup bullshit he’s probably
doled out to every bunny since high school. In a
way it’s a relief. Because superficial is
straightforward. It’s simple.

And there’s that voice again… It’s tempting.
No.
“Don’t you ever wonder what it would be like

to give in for just a moment? To see what this thing
between us would feel like if we gave it a chance.”

I take a swallow of the cool beer and shake my

head. Hating that I do. I wonder about him all the
time. More than I can stand.

This time when I hear that tiny voice whisper, I

don’t mind it at all… Maybe it’s time to stop
wondering. Maybe it’s time to take away his power.

Quinn is doing that sort of sexy thing guys do

when they want to emphasize how much bigger
they are than you. How powerful. I’ve heard my
brothers discussing the art of the carefully executed
arm plant and Quinn is definitely working it like a
pro. He’s not exactly crowding me, more like
teasing the edge of my bubble with one arm braced
against the cabinet overhead.

And I’m not going to lie. It works.
He looks good doing everything, and for once,

I’m not telling myself not to notice. I’m not beating
myself up for appreciating the pretty outer layer.

Instead, I take a half step back. All the better to

look him over and enjoy the show.

He’s right. I’m curious about that mouth, but

only because I’m ready to knock it off its pedestal.
I’m tired of hating that the kiss no other can
compare to came from a guy I wish I could forget.

It’s time to take back control.

Quinn

I SEE it the second it happens. That shift in her
eyes. In the way she looks me over… like maybe
she’s trying to decide whether I’m worth it.

My heart starts to pound because this is

different. Really different.

It’s uncomfortable to be sized up this way, but

at the same time, it feels good to have her eyes on
me. Even for this little while. That scrutinizing gaze
burns up my body, scorching my chest, my neck,
my mouth. She doesn’t bother with my eyes, but
somehow it doesn’t surprise me.

Finally, she shrugs. Like she really couldn’t care

less and, reaching for my T-shirt, tugs me down to
her mouth.

What. The. Fuck?
There is no way this is real. No way she did

that. No way my mouth is actually fused to hers.

Her eyes flip open from barely an inch away.

Big and brown and seriously annoyed. She breaks
from the… kiss? And huffs a breath.

“O’Brian, are you going to do this or not? Show

me what you’ve got.”

And that’s when I come back online. When it

clicks. This is my chance. Probably the only chance
I’ll ever get with this girl. I need to make it good.

My mouth curves, because I’m a guy who

thrives under pressure.

“You asked for it.”
I kiss her. I kiss her like I mean it. Like I’ve

been thinking about it from the first night I met her.
And this time I’m not the one who hesitates. I’m
not the one too stunned to react. I slide my fingers
into the fiery strands of her hair, stroking the back
of her head as I pull back just enough to murmur
against her lips, “Come on, Georgie. You kissed
me.”

A pause. I let my lips play over hers, feather

light. A tease. A whisper of what I want, but only if
she wants it too.

And then that weighted moment breaks and

she’s got her hands bunched in my shirt, one at my

shoulder and one at my chest. She’s pulling me into
her with a little growl.

I’d planned finesse for this kiss. A controlled

thing meant to show her how masterful my manly
skills were. But there’s nothing controlled about
what’s happening between us. This is insanity.
Desperation. Heat and want and yeah, anger too.

Hers, because she hates me.
And mine, because it feels like I’ve been

waiting years for her. Forever. But not like this.

Not that I’m going to stop. Hell no. I’m going to

feed this little red hot my tongue and devour her
mouth until the very last second.

She growls again, angrier. And those hands that

were bunched in my shirt are fisted in my hair.
Every lush curve I’ve only imagined to this point,
pressed against me in the cruelest tease.

This kiss isn’t going to last. The second she

comes to her senses she’s going to shove me away
and tell me to go fuck myself.

But until then—my tongue swirls, meeting the

wet rub of hers, and my hands slide over her
phenomenal ass so I’m cupping her from behind
and pulling her up and against me.

And this time that sound she makes isn’t a

growl. This time, it’s something wholly different.
It’s needy and soft and—

“Stop.”
Over. Christ, I don’t want it to be over. I don’t

want one kiss to be all I ever have of her. But
already I’ve let her go.

I’m breathing hard like I just played twenty

minutes straight and my heart feels like it’s ready to
burst.

Head bowed, I open my eyes to find her hand

balled in the front of my shirt again. Right over the
heart that’s pounding just for her.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” she says, her

voice low and shaky. Angry, like always. That little
fist gives my chest a slow thump like she wants to
make sure she has my attention before she shreds
me, telling me this was a one-time thing. A mistake.
“I’m. Using. You. Got it?”

It takes a second. Another deeper look at the

eyes burning into mine. But then, holy fuck, I think
I do. “Got it.”

She moves to step away, but I catch her around

the waist and haul her back into one more hot-as-
hell kiss it kills me to end.

Then— “Text Nat that you’re leaving. Now.”

Chapter 9

George

knew I was screwed the second his
mouth met mine. That my ingenious
plan to take back control was flawed.

Because I never considered that this perfect kiss
from my memory, the one I was trying to prove
didn’t actually exist—same as the man who’d given
it to me—might actually pale in comparison to what
he was capable of now.

And then I thought, well, hell, if I’m doomed to

spend the rest of my days painfully aware of how
this jerk ruined me for all other guys…

George!
I should have come to my senses by now.

Realized what a huge mistake I was making and

told Quinn to take me home. But I haven’t. All I
can do is sit in the passenger seat as he cuts through
Chicago traffic like he’s on a breakaway headed to
score.

We don’t talk. Don’t touch. He pulls into a tall

building not too far off Lake Shore Drive and takes
the parking spot inside a private gated area.

The car is off, but he puts his hands back on the

wheel, gripping it tight enough that his knuckles
turn white.

It shouldn’t be sexy, but I have to squeeze my

legs together trying to alleviate the ache between
them.

“I’m not going to touch you until we get

inside.”

I nod and look out the windshield with him.

“That’s probably a good idea.”

“You only had the one beer?”
Somehow it doesn’t surprise me that he asks.
“Not even a full one. If anyone’s about to be

taken advantage of, it’s you.”

He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it

and turns to me, a little hitch at the corner of his
mouth. “Right. You’re about to use the fuck out of
me.”

My eyes drop to his mouth. I want to lick it. I

want to nibble on that full bottom lip and suck it—

“If you don’t stop looking at me like that, we’re

not making it out of this car. And I don’t know

what this plan to use me entails, but I’d like to think
the execution will be better on a bed. Or the floor.”
The leather creaks beneath his grip as his eyes run
slowly down my body. “Against the wall… Over
the couch.”

I’m nodding, one dirty image assaulting me

after another. “Or maybe I just get it over with,” I
whisper, inching into his space, “and use you right
here.”

He growls, releasing the wheel to rub a hand

over the swell at his fly. “George.”

So. Sexy.
I can’t wait. I don’t have enough experience

managing this kind of attraction.

The garage is empty. My principles are lying in

tatters back on Nat’s kitchen floor.

I’m halfway onto his lap, my mouth already

locked with his, when he lets out a tortured groan
and opens the car door. His arm bands around my
back as he eases out of the seat, pulling me with
him.

He kicks the door closed, and then my back is

against it, my legs spread as Quinn kisses me hard,
grinding against me just right. I want more. I want
him inside me. That kiss I was supposed to hate, the
one that should have paled in comparison to my
memory… that kiss was a thousand times better,
hotter, more addicting than what I’d remembered.
That kiss was the stuff of legend—minus the

romance or emotional connection, of course. And
now I’ve lost all control.

His tongue thrusts past my lips, stroking firm

and filling me with his taste and need. Making me
ache low in my belly and hot deep between my
legs. “Want this,” I gasp when he breaks away.

“Baby, you’ve got to let me go then.”
Right. Because my legs are wrapped around his

hips and my arms are wound around his neck, my
fingers buried in his hair… holding tight.

I swallow, trying to pull myself together as I

disengage.

When I’m standing and he’s done some

adjusting to the steel pipe in his jeans, he nods
toward the private elevator that reads Residents
Only.

He reaches for my hand and I shake him off.

“No hand holding.”

“Right,” he says with a low laugh that’s such a

good sound I feel it all the way through me.

Quinn punches in a code and the elevator door

opens. But before I step into the gleaming car, the
little voice is back with a guilt trip that has me
holding up a finger. “I know you like me. But that’s
not what this is about. It’s not leading anywhere but
to a good time.” Or if I’m lucky, maybe just an
okay time. “Really.”

“This is sex. Got it.”
Then because I’m not sure he does, or maybe

because I just need to say it— “This is me, using
you for sex. Not the other way around.”

He gives me a very serious face that doesn’t

really look serious at all. “Never.”

Satisfied, I step in and Quinn follows. He

presses a button and props a shoulder against the
mirrored brass, watching me intently. “And the
distinction is important?”

Critically so. “It is.”
“Then that’s how it is.”
I swallow, suddenly feeling my nerves kicking

in. I’ve never done anything like this. I mean, I’ve
had sex with guys I wasn’t serious about. But even
that one friends-with-benefits night of casual
mediocrity two years ago was more meaningful
than what’s about to happen here.

We ride to the eleventh floor and when we step

off, it’s into a simple but elegant hall with only four
doors. He lets us into the first one on the right and
starts kicking off one shoe and then the other a few
steps into the apartment.

“So tell me—” He reaches over his head and

pulls his shirt off. Slowly. “How exactly does this
‘using’ business work?”

He drops the shirt on the floor, leading me

toward the back of the apartment and into his
bedroom.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to snap back, “You

tell me.” Only this isn’t about pointing out every

wrong this man has ever committed. This is about
some mutual satisfaction… achieved on my terms.

Thing is, I’ve never intentionally used someone

before. Still, I don’t want to give up my control. So
I say, “You do what I tell you.”

The corner of his mouth hooks again. “Mmm.

Bossy, huh?”

Okay, and now I’m pretty sure he’s thinking

I’ve got a kink I don’t actually have. “No. Yes.
Okay, not like that. Not that there’s anything wrong
with it. But— Just take off your pants and let’s get
on with this.”

He laughs, and it’s easy and warm and makes

me feel like I’m getting played all over again.
Because I can say I’m in control, but does that
mean I actually am?

But then I stop thinking so much because Quinn

is undoing his thick leather belt. He’s unzipping the
fly on his jeans and again, it’s like a slow-motion
Tumblr gif from back in the day.

He slides his hand into his open fly and rubs it

over his cock, and I think I’m about to come from
that alone.

“And then what?” He looks as sexy and smug

as I’ve ever seen a man look.

“Naked,” I choke out. And his smile gets even

dirtier as he pushes his boxer briefs down his thick
thighs and off completely.

“I want you on the bed.” My voice is shaky, too

quiet, too breathy, but he doesn’t say a thing. He
just moves to the edge of his giant bed and sits back
on the charcoal duvet.

“You going to let me taste you, Georgeous?” he

asks, leaning back on one arm as he lazily strokes
his shaft with his free hand. “You going to kneel
over my face and let me make you come with my
mouth?”

Oh my God. My inner walls clench and liquid

heat pools in my belly at the thought. Still, I shake
my head. “I’m going to get on top,” I whisper.

Running his tongue along his bottom lip, he

makes a sound of feigned disappointment, like he’s
actually bummed he can’t eat me. And seriously,
the guy is good at going down. But it’s too close to
what happened last time. I remember that
desperation and desire to get his mouth on me, and
I don’t want to fall for it again.

I don’t want to think about it.
“I just want to… umm… screw.” Crass. Cold. I

can totally do this.

He holds up a finger. “And I am all about that,

but before we get ahead of ourselves—” He leans
over to the nightstand and pulls a condom out of
the drawer.

I’m not quite sure what I expected him to do

next, but it wasn’t to flatten out the foil and give it
a closer look.

Then, seemingly satisfied, he slaps it down on

the bedspread beside him. This time when he looks
up at me, that smug smile I’ve been clinging to so
fiercely, the one that makes me feel safer than
anything smacking of sincerity, is gone.

He swallows. “Sorry, just… umm… needed to

check the date.”

Right, because I’m supposed to believe this guy

hasn’t been burning through the Trojans faster than
they could possibly expire. Whatever.

“Good?” I ask, reaching for the hem of my T-

shirt.

“Not yet, but you’re about to be.” He waves me

closer. “How about you come over here and let me
help you with all those extra clothes.”

In my book, that sounds like seduction, and I

don’t want to be dreaming about the way this man
peeled my clothes off. I want the focus on the feel-
good physical.

“Thanks, but I got it,” I say, whipping my T-

shirt overhead. I reach behind me and unclasp my
bra, dropping the green satin beside me and then
popping the button on my cargoes so I can shuck
them with my panties and shoes all at once.

I mean this to be a no-nonsense kind of

encounter, but the half-tortured sound emanating
from Quinn’s chest and the hungry way his eyes
burn over me say I’m not totally successful. Dang
it, I’m going to remember that look.

“Tell me you’re sure about this,” he rumbles,

eyes locked on my tits as I crawl over his lap.

“About wanting to use you once, and then

never again? Yeah, I’m sure.”

I’m a liar is what I am. Because the barely

functional, rational part of my brain is telling me
this is the biggest mistake I’ve ever made, but I’m
too far gone to listen.

“Thank fuck,” he groans, capturing my hips in

his big hands, pulling me flush against him.

My knees are spread wide over his thighs, my

tits pillowing against his chest as our mouths meet
in a devouring kiss. God, this man can kiss. No
wonder it’s haunted me all these years. Our tongues
tangle and roll, stroking wet and hot and hungry
against one another.

His fingers flex and spread, sliding over my ass

and pulling me in to meet him just right. He’s so
hard. So thick and big.

“So wet for me,” he groans against my lips. He

reaches between my legs from behind, stroking
through my slickness and then pushing a thick
finger inside.

That’s good. So good. And not because it’s

Quinn O’Brian touching me. Definitely not.

Because it’s been so long, that’s all.
His touch is just a little rough. And the way he’s

moving, easing in and out, filling me with one, and
then two—

It’s so good.

“Quinn,” I gasp, and then mentally give myself

a shake for not calling him baby or stud or you
there. Some generic label meant to remind me this
could be anyone. That it’s not Quinn turning me on
and driving me insane, it’s the mechanics. That’s
all.

I want that to be all.
But my hands are roaming hungrily over the

chest and shoulders I spend too much time
studying. Up his neck and into the hair that feels as
thick and soft as I remember. So good between my
fingers, as his mouth moves to my ear. His breath a
hot tease against the whorl. Familiar.

“You feel so fucking good, Georgie. Even better

than I imagined… Christ, I’ve dreamed of this.”

And that gruff praise and ragged admission is

what does it. I’m clamping down on his fingers,
spasming around his touch, coming harder than I
ever have before.

“That’s right, baby, come for me.”
Wave after wave of pleasure pound through my

center, and only after the last tremor passes does
Quinn ease out. I should tell him thanks for the
good time and go, but already I hate the loss of his
touch, miss the sensation of him within me.

Ripping open the packet, he rolls the condom

on and lines up beneath me. “Need to get inside
you.”

Yes.

He’s thick at my opening, wider than his

fingers, for sure. And the pressure as I hover above
him and our eyes meet has the breath stalled in my
chest.

“Georgie, slow, baby… nothing ever felt so

right…” Echoes of that first night play at the
fringes of my mind. But this time is different. This
time I understand where the lines are drawn,
because I drew them.

So why am I suddenly terrified?
“Hey,” he says gently, easing back to his

elbows. “You’re in charge. Anything you want.
Nothing you don’t.” His eyes are hot, burning with
need, but he doesn’t move at all. “If you want to
use me, use me. If you’ve changed your mind—”

“I haven’t.” The words rush past my lips before

I can even process them. But it’s true. I want this.

And then I’m lowering myself that first inch.

The decadent stretch is so intense, so overwhelming
—oh my God, so good—my eyes connect with his,
locking us in place.

“Fucking beautiful, Georgie.” His hands fist in

the comforter beneath us, the muscles in his abs
and arms and neck standing out in stark relief as he
holds himself back from taking charge.

I can’t look away as I sink over him. I can’t

keep my hands from pushing over his pecs or my
soft cries contained when the slick friction of his
body filling mine has me nearly ready to come

again.

“Slow, baby,” he grits out. “Don’t want to hurt

you.”

I want to tell him that he can’t hurt me. That

those days are over. But even I know that’s not
true.

This, what we’re doing right now, this choice is

already hurting me. Because it’s too good. It feels
too right. Too perfect. And not just the way his
body fits with mine. But the way he’s looking at
me. The way he sounds.

It feels like it did that first night, and that first

night was a lie.

But even with all of that swirling through my

thoughts, I don’t want it to stop.

And when I’m seated completely, having taken

him as far as my body will allow, he cups the side
of my jaw, stroking my cheek with the rough pad of
his thumb.

“Okay?”
I nod, hating the vulnerability I feel from that

touch alone.

His hips press up, making me gasp as he pushes

himself even deeper inside me.

Yes.
“Then ride me, baby. Use me so good.”
And I do.
I start to move, easing over his shaft, grinding

down and rocking against him as he fills me fuller

than I’ve ever been. My hips snap time and again,
all the while Quinn is beneath me, arching up as I
come down, whispering one dirty encouragement
after another. Telling me how bad he wants me…
How good I feel… How tight I am around him…
How hard I’m using him and how much he fucking
loves it.

And when I get close, he licks his thumb and

presses it against my clit, rubbing just right until I
shatter, coming apart around him.

I collapse over his chest, wondering if I’ll ever

catch my breath again. Wondering if I’ll ever stop
wanting this.

Quinn’s warm hand strokes over my back,

following a possessive path over my ass and then
back up into my hair.

“You good, Georgie?”
I’m amazing. “Yeah.”
“My turn?” he asks, his lips brushing my ear.
I hadn’t really thought about that, but it seems

only fair. “Your turn.”

His arm bands across my back, holding me

against him as he rolls us. And then I’m beneath
him, his shaft still buried deep, his groin pressed
flush against my sensitive sex.

It feels even better like this.
I wanted to be on top because there was less

vulnerability in that position. I felt like I’d be more
in control. And I was right. Because beneath him, I

feel helpless. I feel like I would let this man do
anything to me, take anything from me. That, like
this, I might even believe the lies in his eyes again.

It’s dangerous, but it feels so good, there’s no

way I’ll tell him to stop.

“Are you going to use me now?” I whisper, my

fingers trailing over his chest.

The look he gives me sets off every warning

alarm I have, even as it releases a thousand
butterflies deep in my belly and stirs the need he
just sated.

“Not even close, Georgeous.”

Chapter 10

George

argo opens the door and pulls a
spoon from her mouth. “Oh man,
what did he do now?”

I take a shuddering breath, fighting the quiver in

my chin. “That bastard made love to me!”

She chokes a little and waves me in.
Tonight she’s wearing an expensive-looking pair

of low-riding white sweatpants and a matching
cropped hoodie that looks amazing against her dark
skin and would probably leave me looking like a
washed-out corpse.

I follow her into the living room and stop while

she gathers up… I don’t even know.

“What’s this?”

“Vision board,” she mumbles, moving a

corkboard covered with magazine clippings, scraps
of ribbon and a bit of fabric to the coffee table so I
can sit beside her.

“If you want a drink, I’ll get you one but not

until after. I want an unclouded, fully detailed
account.” Gripping my hand, she leans in close.
“There is no such thing as too much information.
Blink once if you understand.”

Man, she’s intense.
I blink. But then an eyelash or magazine mote

gets in my eye and I end up blinking about thirty
times, which puts Margo into her huffy place.

“What does that even mean?” she shrieks.
“I get it! You want details.” I sigh, rubbing at

my eye with the back of my hand. “But I’m not
really a sharing kind of girl.”

She gives me a pointed look. “No?”
And okay, so I’ve maybe been sharing more

with her lately. But it’s not like I run around
flapping my gums to everyone who crosses my
path.

“Fine. I share. But only because Quinn’s driven

me to it.”

She gives my hand a sympathetic pat, then

seeming to think better of it, raises a brow and
chucks my arm. “Better?”

A little. “Thank you.”
“Okay. Talk. And spare no detail. Quinn’s game

is reportedly next level. I don’t know anyone who’s
actually been with him before, but I feel like
everyone I know knows someone who has.”

And now I kind of want to go throw up.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
“What’re you going to do?” I shrug. “The guy

isn’t too particular. It’s not like I was testing him
out to see if the boyfriend material felt good against
my skin.”

“Mmhmm.” She’s nodding. And then shaking

her head. And then finally any attempt at keeping
her cool is blown straight to hell when she scoots
even closer and grins like a fool. “Okay, so what
exactly were you doing? Because last I heard, you
were strictly on a no-Quinn diet. No chitchat, no
laughing, no looking—though seriously, every time
I see you, you’re either looking at him, looking up
something about him on your phone, or talking
about him. So… when did looking become
touching?”

My mouth is hanging open a bit and I want to

protest, but the guy has been sucking up a lot of my
attention lately. With his stupid smile. And those
liar eyes. And that body. So much better without
clothes on.

Big and broad and powerful. Everywhere.
Cripes, I can still feel him inside me.
Fingers snap in front of my face and then

Margo’s right there too.

“Remember the blink? That was a binding

agreement. You are going to tell me in graphic,
explicit detail everything that went on behind those
eyes just now.”

I open my mouth to spill and then then flop

back on the couch, hating myself more than a little.
Quinn O’Brian hasn’t earned my loyalty or respect.
But suddenly, I’m looking at Margo with an
apology in my eyes, because I know I’m not going
to tell her a thing.

She frowns and crosses her arms. “Fine, how

about you start by telling me how you ended up
letting the guy make love to you.”

“It was an accident,” I mutter, picking at my

thumbnail.

“Oh, okay. So he just fell in, then.”
My eyes narrow because is that laugh really

necessary? “I wanted to take back some control.
He was taunting me with that whole ladies’-man
hotness thing, asking me if I ever thought about
what it could be like with us. Flaunting his big
muscly arms and—and I thought about what you
and I talked about. How I was giving him too much
power. So I thought maybe if I kissed him, you
know, going into it with my eyes open, I might get a
better read on the quality. See that Quinn’s kiss
wasn’t actually all that. And then maybe I’d be
able to stop comparing it to every fresh kiss I get.”
It seemed like such a solid plan at the time. “I

wanted it to be terrible.”

“And?” she prods, eagerness in her eyes.
I sigh. “It was even better than the first time.”
Her nose scrunches up. “Practice makes

perfect, huh.”

Why does that bother me? “Probably.”
“So you started kissing and ended up in bed.

Wait—” Her chin pulls back as she gasps. “Weren’t
you at that team barbecue at Vaughn and Nat’s? Oh
my God! Did you do it in the creepy room with all
the boxes?”

“What? No!”
She waits.
And for this part here, I can’t quite meet her

eyes. “We kissed in the kitchen and then I told him
I was going to use him for sex. And he said okay,
and then we went back to his place.”

And now she’s choking on air, looking at me

like she either thinks I’m crazy or her hero. With
Margo, it’s probably both. “Wait, you told him?”

“Yes, I told him! If I’m going to use someone…

it’s going to be with consent.”

“So what went wrong?”
I look down at my short nails still half-coated in

the slate polish she picked out for me last week. I
should take it off, but I don’t have any remover and
I kind of like it. “Well, then it was his turn.”

Her brow edges up. “And he wasn’t using you.”
I cover my eyes with my hands, wishing I could

unsee the way he looked at me. Wishing I could
forget the way he touched me. Like I was precious.
Like I was everything. Like he wasn’t going to stop
until I saw what he was trying to show me.

I wish I could forget the way he sank into my

body, how he moved so I felt him everywhere. How
he brought me close time and time again,
whispering: almost… not quite… just a little longer,
baby. Telling me he’d never last if he felt me
coming around him again… and he wanted it to
last.

Liar.
“No. And as if that isn’t bad enough, the jerk

got me off two more times before he quit.”

“Bastard,” she gasps. Then her eyes narrow and

she reaches for one of my still-damp curls and gives
it a tug… Just like he did. “Did you shower at home
and then come over here?”

I shake my head, ashamed. “I was mush. I

couldn’t resist when he brought me into his
shower.”

One brow pushes into a neat arch. “And?”
“And he washed my hair for like twenty

minutes straight, massaging my scalp and kissing
my neck. While I was the one getting most of the
spray.”

“Whoa.”
“He wanted me to spend the night. Tried to

tempt me with takeout.”

“Okay, don’t hate me, but that sounds kind of

dreamy.”

It was everything I never wanted it to be. “Or

like someone trying to take back my control. And
screw that.”

She doesn’t seem convinced. “So how did you

leave it?”

“He asked if he could take me out tomorrow

after the game. I told him no, but thanked him for
the good time.”

“Cold.” She gives me a little fist bump. But

then looks away in a very un-Margo-like way. “But
I mean, you could see him again.”

“What?” I choke out. “No. Haven’t you been

listening? This was a one-time thing.”

Hands up, she starts nodding. “Right. Right.”

Then squinting one eye at me, asks, “So you feel
like you’re in control again?”

“Not even close.” I sigh. “But another night in

Quinn’s bed is the last thing I need to fix that.”

Standing up from the couch, she starts toward

the kitchen. “Drink time. You earned it.”

Chapter 11

Quinn

This Season

bounce off the boards and come after
Lorenski, my focus on one thing and
one thing only. My puck.

He’s pushing hard, but I’m pushing harder. I

take it off his stick and cut back. The defense is on
me while trying to cover Vassar too, but it’s no
good. We’re about to light up that goal.

I flick a pass across the ice, watch it land on

Vassar’s stick and use the beat it takes to come
back, jockeying to get clear.

And then the puck is flying, and I’m taking the

shot as it comes into range.

Thwack!

It’s going top shelf, slicing through that barest

gap Otto struggles to protect. My heart stops,
breath holding even as I race to get myself
positioned for a rebound— But it’s in!

The crowd erupts as Vassar comes at me like a

freight train. One set of arms thuds around me and
then another and another. I can barely see as they
rattle my helmet and we circle to the bench.

Heart slamming, lungs on fire, I scan the crowd

in search of that sexy mess of red waves and the
edgy eyes that sometimes fill the spot beside Nat.
But tonight Baxter’s seats are filled with his wife
and that football guy who retired last year. And
Vassar’s look like maybe he put them up to be
auctioned off for charity or something, because I
don’t recognize the guys filling them.

It’s not like I’ve got any delusions about what

happened between us suddenly meaning I’m going
find her wrapped up in my number, rattling a poster
against the glass. But maybe I wouldn’t have
minded seeing her face after I scored. Catch her
cheering for me before she shut it down and gave
me that disinterested stare that never quite does the
job it’s supposed to.

Not tonight though.
And that means I won’t see her at the bar after

the game either.

Shit. I want to see her.
We win 2-1. It’s one of those games where it

could have gone either way. Where the tension
doesn’t let up for even a second. Perfect way to
start the season. My interviews after the game are
thankfully brief, but even by the time I’m showered
and suited up, getting ready to leave the locker
room, that edge is still there. I keep thinking about
George. About what it was like to be under her.
Surrounded by her. Fuck, buried to the hilt inside
her.

I could text.
Offer up my body for another meaningless night

of rolling around in bed. Only no way would I be
able to let her take the reins when I’m like this. If I
got my hands on her tonight, I’d be the one in
control. I’d set the tone and the pace and how
many times she came and how hard and—

“Whoa, dude, put that thing away.”
I blink to find Rux tossing a towel at me and

waving in the general direction of my junk. Which
is in fact hard.

“Thought Popov was the only one who got

wood after a win.” He shakes his head. “But shit.”

Fuck me.
This is not going to go away quietly.
Baxter walks in in a towel and juts his chin at

Rux. “What’s up?”

I’m expecting Rux to start running his mouth,

but it’s Vassar who chimes in like a total
douchecanoe. “O’Brian’s sporting wood.”

“Seriously, man?”
My buddy shakes his head, a hint of a smile

tucked into what the fans coined his Resting Prick
Face. “Thought you were going to hit me with it
when you turned around.”

“Man.” I was on this guy’s side when no one

else in the city was. And now this? Damn, I miss
the days when these two could barely stand to
share the same room let alone the same
conversation.

He grimaces—or smiles. “It was terrifying.”
Baxter is back. “That thing’s a monster.”
It goes on like that for a while, one guy after

another taking his turn.

I don’t want to, but then I’m laughing, taking it

in stride. Fairly certain I’m not going to hear the
end of this for the rest of the season. Probably
longer.

I cut a glance to Vassar and see he’s got his

phone. “Are you filming this?”

He holds up a finger and points to where Rux is

on the ground, hands up and face twisted in feigned
terror like he’s trying to ward off an assault from a
monster dick. And then Baxter is slow-motion
running… throwing himself in the path of said
invisible monster as Diesel cups his hands around
his mouth and slow-motion yells, “Close your
mouth,

man!

Heeeee’sssss

goooooonna

bloooooooow!”

Vassar wags his phone at me, grin on his face so

big I barely recognize him. “Nat’s going to love
this.”

Awesome. “You sending it to her now?”
“Nah, she and George are meeting us at the

Five Hole. Show it to her then.”

And suddenly he’s not the only one grinning

like a fool.

George

“YOU SEE that play by O’Brian in the second?”
says the guy who couldn’t wait for Movember to
grow out his mustache. He’s talking to his buddy,
who somehow knows Nat from a charity thing they
worked together. “I’m telling you, that’s the guy to
watch. Nat, your boys are ass-kickers, for sure, but
you see how O’Brian kept setting shit up?”

She’s nodding, the hockey fan in her stepping

ahead of whatever loyalty she feels toward the two
most important men in her life. “It started coming
together for him last season. But did you see Rux?”

Movember leans back and groans like he’s in

ecstasy, and I start to feel a little dirty, like maybe
I’m intruding on a private moment or something. I
love hockey. But I’m not nearly as into the men’s

national games as I am into playing myself or
watching Nat’s 12U girls kick ass.

Part of it’s grudge-holding. From as far back as

I can remember, the boys’ teams have been getting
the lion’s share of the attention. Whether they
deserve it or not. In high school, my girls’ team
went to state three years in a row. But the boys who
hadn’t made it even once always got the best ice
time.

In college, Nat and I played on a championship

team, but the arena never filled the way it did for
the guys. The conversation at the bars was rarely
about my shutout or Nat’s killer breakaway. It was
usually about some dude on the guys’ team.

But the thing is, tonight, the only thing keeping

me out of dominating this conversation is the fear
that if I open my mouth even once to voice how
amazing I think Quinn O’Brian played and how I
think he’s gelling with the team and stepping into a
leadership role… I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to
stop.

And seriously, I need to stop.
I need to stop thinking about him. About the

way he kissed me. About the feel of his strong arm
around my back as he flipped us over in his bed and
the way he sank into me when his weight settled
between my thighs.

I need to do what I came here to do.
See him. See that even though every single

minute he was inside me has been tattooed into my
mind for time eternal, that once was enough. That
I’m still in control.

And then I’m walking out of this bar alone and

never coming back again.

Nat groans about a missed call from the first

period and I’m really only half paying attention
because the players have started showing up. I see
Popov and Vsev in their sharp suits, surrounded by
fans in jerseys. A minute later Diesel. They can’t go
more than a foot or two without pausing for a
backslap, fist bump or handshake. There are a few
bunnies sort of trotting along beside them, tits
pressed into the guys’ arms—except for Vsev,
because everyone knows that guy is a family man
who doesn’t mess around. So for him, the girls give
him one of those sort of platonic hugs that I still
wouldn’t love if I was his wife, but is definitely the
lesser evil in the bunny brand of congratulations
and team support.

Not for the first time I wonder what it must be

like to be one of these guys. To have women
throwing themselves at you just because of your
job. And weirder still, that quasi-celebrity status
probably started back in high school.

I wonder about Quinn and whether he’s been

with either of the girls already latched onto the
players they hope to take home.

Does it get lonely?

Does it get old or boring, or is the bunny buffet

as exciting the last day as it was the first?

Natalie perks up looking at her phone and then

cranes her neck watching the crowd until Vaughn
appears.

She’s out of her seat and bouncing into his arms

for an embrace that’s equal parts hug and kisses,
and makes me ache just a little seeing the love
between them. And then it’s not Vaughn and Nat
I’m looking at, but the man stepping around them, a
warm smile on his face and six bottles of beer
caught between his fingers. Quinn’s eyes come up
and a slow smile spreads across his lips. “George.”

Geez. Just my name on his lips is enough to

make my stomach flutter and a warm heat starts to
churn low in my belly. It’s strictly a physical thing.
But still.

“O’Brian.” There, I said it. And yeah, it was a

little softer and maybe kind of breathless sounding,
but I didn’t stutter and with the crowd and the
music it’s not like he’d be able to really hear
anyway.

Except the way his eyes go dark makes me

think that maybe he did. All the guys look good in
their suits, but there’s something about the way
Quinn wears his that has me struggling to look
away.

Vaughn and Nat break away from their kissy,

nuzzly, I-haven’t-seen-you-in-hours reunion, and

Nat drops back into her seat as Quinn pulls up a
couple stools for him and Vaughn to do the same.
Movember scoots his stool closer to mine, making
room for Quinn and Vaughn on his other side.
Which makes me wish I could remember his actual
name because the guy just did me a serious solid.
And while he’s nowhere near as big as the players,
he’s big enough to make a nice shield between me
and Quinn.

At least I thought he did. But then the guy is

scrambling off his stool, dragging it back with some
muttered apology or excuse I don’t understand until
he’s out of the way and I have a clear, unobstructed
view of the epic death glare Quinn is giving him.

I’m too stunned to react. Too stunned to do

anything more than watch as Movember drags his
stool around to my other side. Looks back to Quinn
and then keeps going until he reaches his buddy’s
far side.

At which point Quinn scoots closer to me,

summons one of those Mr. Congeniality smiles and
sticks his hand toward Movember to shake. “Hey,
man, Quinn O’Brian. Nice ’stache.”

It’s the kind of entitled caveman bullshit that

makes me want to puke. Normally.

But tonight… ughh…
I’m seriously not proud of the state of my

panties, because that fast, they’re soaked.

For what it’s worth, Quinn doesn’t do anything

else. He asks me about the shop and whether I’ve
got any games coming up myself.

I ask him how his ribs are after getting bounced

off the boards at the start of the third. Then
Vaughn’s pulling out his phone as he starts into
some locker-room talk that quickly reveals itself to
be the funniest damn thing I’ve ever heard. And it’s
about Quinn.

“Wood?” Movember chortles, and I realize I’ve

missed the guy’s name again. But really I’m not
thinking about anything but how Quinn’s just taking
the ribbing about getting busted with a hard-on in
stride. How he’s the kind of guy with the
confidence to laugh along with the joke instead of
losing his shit about being the butt of it.

I don’t want to start a conversation with him…

but there’s no way I can ignore this. Pushing my
beer out a bit, I turn to him. Watch the way his eyes
brighten, and something happens to his smile when
our eyes connect. God, that smile is dangerous. Not
because it’s making dirty promises, but because it
looks so sincere. Because it’s almost enough to
make me believe.

“Is that a thing? Do guys get hard from a win

like that?”

His jaw shifts to the side as he leans in close.

“Some guys do. Popov does. Not me.”

I nod. The story was too good to be true. And

now I get why he’s so easygoing about the whole

thing.

Only then Quinn leans even closer, so our

shoulders touch and his long fingers rest lightly on
my upper arm. “My problem was, I was thinking
about you.”

My heart skips a beat and then another as I

force my eyes to the table in front of us, telling
myself not to look. Not to give in.

I need to get away from this man. I need to hold

on to my power. I need air. To go home. To stop
thinking about how thick and hard his cock gets
and the fact that he got that way in a roomful of
guys thinking about me.

I stumble off my stool onto shaky legs, that

tremor in my belly building with each second that
passes.

Quinn slides back, standing beside me.
“Okay, Georgie?”
I nod. Take another unsteady step only to feel

his big hand cup my elbow. “Fine, I maybe need
some water or something.” Some air. Some distance
from the man who is making me insane. I need…

Our eyes meet and I bite my bottom lip as my

belly goes into free fall. He gives me the barest hint
of a nod. And it’s on.

Chapter 12

Quinn

’m on her before the door to the
upstairs bathroom closes. We’re frantic.
She’s pulling at my tie, my hair. The

lapels of my jacket as I fumble behind me to throw
the slide lock. This section of the bar isn’t open, but
no way am I taking a chance on someone else
seeing my girl like this. And then I’ve got her up,
her arms around my neck, her legs around my waist
as I grip her ass and press her against the door.

Thrusting my tongue between her lips, I grind

the hard-on that won’t go away against the spread
of jeans-covered legs. The breathless cry she gives
me in return goes straight to my balls and has me
rocking back.

“You going to use me again?” I ask against her

kiss-swollen lips.

“So hard.” This girl.
I’m dying for her, aching from the tight cling of

her knees at my hips and the hungry way her mouth
finds mine. This needy, desperate thing between us
is only getting stronger.

Squirming, she bats against my hands. Her feet

touch the ground and less than a second later she’s
shoving her pants down and pulling one leg free.

“Fly,” she urges, reaching for my belt. And I’m

back in action, ready to get on my knees and thank
her the best way I know how. Only she’s got
something else in mind. “Condom. Hurry.”

And then she’s back in my hold, open to me.

Slick and ready.

“Tell me if you need it gentle,” I say, my

forehead pressed against hers as I hold myself back.
I’m on edge, so close to having what I want but not
quite there.

The fingers in my hair get tighter. “Not gentle,”

she whispers against my mouth, punctuating the
words with a nip to my bottom lip.

Fuck yes.
I drive into that warm, wet space between her

legs, burying myself in one hard thrust that ends
when I’m as deep as I can get. And it feels like I
can breathe for the first time since she left my place
two nights ago.

“Quinn,” she moans, her body gripping me

tight.

I love getting inside her. I love how she loses

track of the distance she likes to keep between us.
And most of all, I love to hear her say my name,
because this is the only time she uses it.

“So good,” she pants, her words unsteady.
I pull back and then sink deep again. I’m not

giving her everything I have because even though
she says she doesn’t want gentle I can’t stop
thinking about how tight she is around me. And as
bad as I want to take her completely, pound out the
depth of my need until she can’t feel anything but
me—I want it to be good for her more.

So I listen, and on the next stroke, when I sink

just a little faster, just a little harder, and she moans
just a little louder—fuck, that sound—I give her
just a little more. And then more after that, until I
can’t hear anything but the sounds of this woman’s
pleasure raining down around me as my body meets
hers again and again and again.

“Quinn, please… like that.” There’s nothing but

the rhythmic grip of her pussy clenching around me
every time I hit that spot so deep inside her. “I’m…
I’m… Quinn!”

She’s there. Shaking in my hold, coming apart

so hard her cries go silent as she clings to my
shoulders and buries her face in my neck.

“Georgie, you feel so sweet coming all over

me,” I pant, because I’m almost there too.

She clenches again and, hell, add to the list of

the things I love, the way she responds when I talk
a little dirty to her.

My name slips past her lips on a whimper, and

I’m done. Pounding hard, I give myself over to her,
to the sensation built up low in my spine and
surging through my balls.

Minutes later, I’m still buried inside her. Still

half-hard where she’s pulsing around me. Still
holding her against my favorite door in all the land.
Wondering how long she’ll let me keep her this way
before brushing me off to go back to her friends.
Before she’s back to not looking at me or talking to
me or dealing with me.

Because I’m not the kind of guy a girl like her

wants for more than this.

She lets me hold her longer than I expect and

doesn’t complain when I kiss the side of her head
as I set her down and hold her steady while she gets
her legs back.

And it feels amazing. So good I can almost

convince myself it’s real. That this is more than just
some dirty hookup for her.

I know what she’s going to say before I ask, but

the glutton for punishment I didn’t know existed in
me has to do it anyway.

“Come back to my place, Georgie.”
She’s already shaking her downturned head

against my chest, making me wish for about the
millionth time that things were different, or at least
that I’d gotten my shirt open so I could feel those
soft waves of red against my skin.

“Can’t,” she says in a voice as soft as she’s

ever given me.

Keeping my arm wrapped around her shoulders,

I hold her to me for another minute, only letting go
when she eases back. She leans against the door as
I handle the rubber and tuck my still half-hard dick
in my pants.

Laughing softly, she waves a hand in the

general direction of my fly. “Does that thing ever
go away?”

“Not around you.” True story.
I crouch down, and damn, now I’m feeling it in

my knees, all right. She rests a hand on my shoulder
for balance as I help her with her jeans, sliding
them back up those gorgeous legs and then taking
more time than strictly necessary with her fly…
Dropping a kiss on the top button when I’m done
and pushing my luck every which way by sliding
my arms around her hips and resting my forehead
against her belly.

“Why are you trying so hard to convince me

you’re this sweet?” she whispers, her voice
sounding sluggish, weary.

Sad.
My eyes open and I look up at her.

I take a long breath and push to my feet in front

of her. I’m too close, towering over her in a way I
generally go out of my way to avoid. Only this,
right now, I need George to look into my eyes and
see the truth.

Because enough is enough. “Let’s go. We need

to talk.”

She blinks, glances away. “We can’t talk in

here?”

“No. If we’re in here for even five more

minutes, I’m going to have you up against that door
again, making you come so hard, so many times,
that when I’m finally finished you won’t be able to
walk on your own. And when I carry you out, you
can bet your sweet ass it’s going to be back to my
bed and nowhere else.”

Shit. That came out a little more intense than

intended. But everything about this girl gets to me
in ways I can’t seem to predict or even begin to
understand.

She’s still. Probably as shocked as I am.
And when her head starts to come up toward

mine, I brace for her to tear me a new one. Only as
our eyes meet, the weariness is gone and it isn’t
righteous indignation I find burning in their depths,
but something much hotter.

Oh shit. I’m hard as a spike, and she’s reaching

for the belt I just fastened, those deft fingers curling
around the leather as she tugs me closer.

“Okay.”
“Okay?” I’m not sure I’m following the

meaning of that one word. Like I’m over my head
with preschool vocab instead of holding a degree
from arguably one of the best schools in the
country.

She nods, rolling her hips into contact with

mine. “The door thing. Let’s do it again.”

The door thing that ends with her in my bed.

My mouth crushes hers, my arm banding tight
across her back as I draw her chest in hard against
mine. And she’s ready to go. Groaning as she opens
to the demand of my kiss, sucking on my tongue.
Reaching between us to cup me in her palm.

“Fuck!” I jerk back, my heart slamming harder

than it did in tonight’s game. “No.”

Okay, and if I wasn’t so completely on edge and

ragged in ways that only have to do with her, I
would laugh at the look on George’s face right now.
She’s like a little kid who spilled her triple scoop
cone.

I brush a thumb across her cheek and shake my

head. “Baby, I want you like I’ve never wanted
anyone in my life.”

“But you’re done letting me use you?” she

whispers.

“No.” Not on her life. “But we need to get a

few things clear first. We need to talk. And then
once we do, you’re welcome to use me as often as

you like. And if you want, I’ll even bring you back
here for the door thing before I carry you like a
caveman back to my bed and start all over again.”

Something passes over her eyes, and I’d swear

it was relief, only it’s gone too quickly to be sure.

“Okay. We’ll talk.”

Chapter 13

George

he Five Hole is a sports bar. It’s not
some swank place with velvet ropes

and bouncers guarding a VIP section for the sport
elite. The guys come for a beer after the games
sometimes and they sit in the back part of the main
bar. But apparently there’s more to the Five Hole
than meets the eye. And no surprise Quinn knows
all about it.

I don’t want to think about how many bunnies

he’s done up against that bathroom door. Or how he
knew about the closed-off second-floor bar that
apparently only gets rented out for special
occasions. But that’s where he’s taking me, leading
me by the hand because I’m too tired to fight him

on it and, even if I wasn’t, if feels too good to give
up.

There’s bleacher seating at one end of the

room, the biggest TV I’ve ever seen mounted at the
other, and against the length are semicircular
booths with little round tables that each look like
they were made by pouring epoxy over a couple
dozen pucks. It’s pretty cool, but being up here
with Quinn is making it hard to appreciate.

How often does he bring girls here?
At least the positioning of the little puck drink

tables to the booths makes me think chances are
good I’m not going to actually be sitting somewhere
that Quinn nailed another woman.

And then he goes and grabs a tabletop like

maybe he’s done it a hundred times before and
moves it out of the way.

Is this his favorite booth?
There’s a crummy feeling in the pit of my

stomach thinking about it, which is completely
stupid because the only thing I want from Quinn is
what he’s been giving all the bunnies. A handful of
orgasms. A good time.

It doesn’t matter how many have come before.
The more the better. Anything to remind me

that this isn’t special. I don’t want it to be.

“Come here,” he says, dropping into the

cushioned booth and holding out a hand for me to
slide in beside him.

“This is only because you’re big and warm and

you melted my brain with the whole dirty sexy
business.” Not because he’s wearing me down or
anything.

He gives me a smile that’s half boyish and half

cocky man. “Got it. You got what you wanted back
there—”

“Not quite.”
He huffs a short laugh. “Right. Not quite. And

now you’re using me for my body heat.”

There’s nothing but warmth in the eyes looking

down at me, but still, I have to ask. “You mind?”

“About that? Nah. Soak up my hotness. Maybe

you’ll get hooked and every time you get chilly, I
can look forward to having you pressed against
me.” He rubs his hand over my arm, pulling me in
closer. “But I do mind how off base you are about
me.”

All those muscles that had gone lax in his arms

ratchet tight. “You think I’m off base?”

“Yeah, George, I do. I’m not the guy you think

I am.”

I hate this feeling in my chest, but hearing

Quinn tell me I’m wrong about him is exactly what
I need to remind me not to let him any closer.

“Okay, over the years there have been a lot of

girls. And I don’t know what happened with your
friend, but I’ve never, ever lied or tried to hustle
them to get in my bed.” He rubs a hand over his

jaw and cuts me an apologetic look. “And—Christ,
I can’t believe I’m actually going to say this, but I
think it matters, so here it is—I don’t have to.”

For a beat I’m too stunned to respond. To do

more than blink and eventually suck some air into
my lungs, but then I’m shrugging out of Quinn’s
hold and stepping to the far side of the table he just
moved.

His shoulders drop and a slow breath eases out.

“I know how arrogant that sounds, but this job is
different—”

“I know how easy it is for you to find women. I

don’t care about any of that.” Which is mostly true,
anyway. Or at least I wish it was. “I care that
you’re telling me you’ve never lied or hustled a girl
into your bed. Ever.” My vision starts to tunnel, my
heart beating too fast.

I shouldn’t care. I don’t want to.
Except he’s hustling me right now! I can still

feel him inside me, still feel the ache of wanting
more… and he’s looking at me with those heartfelt
eyes that promise he’d never lie… and that’s
exactly what he’s doing. Only this time, it’s not to
get me into his bed. It’s to get something else. It’s
to get me to trust him, when right now he’s proving
he doesn’t deserve it.

“George, I haven’t. Aside from having a

reputation for being with a lot of women, I’m pretty
sure that’s as bad as it gets. Check the bunny

boards or search my name, you’re not going to find
a lot of scorned girls.”

He says it with such confidence. I almost want

to laugh, because what? Does that mean I really am
special? I don’t think so.

“God, you’re a liar.”
I can’t believe a damn word he says.
And now he’s on his feet, raking a frustrated

hand through his hair. “Why do you keep saying
that?”

“Because you’re lying to me right now, Quinn!”
His head snaps back and honestly this guy

deserves an Oscar for the bewildered look on his
face.

Throwing my hands out to the sides, I let out a

bitter laugh and turn. “I’m done.”

Whatever this guy’s game is, it doesn’t matter.

He’s never going to work me again.

I got what I wanted from him. I’m out.
“Jesus, Georgie, you’re killing me.”
He’d have to have feelings to be hurt and the

more he tries to convince me they exist, the less I
believe him. “Then why keep coming back for
more?”

“Because every time I try to stop, it feels like I

can’t fucking breathe. Like something vital is
slipping through my fingers and if I let it go, I’ll
never be okay again.”

I don’t believe him. Of course, I don’t. So why

does it feel like I’m the one letting something slip
through my fingers? That I’m the one tossing away
something infinitely valuable?

This needs to stop. And there’s only one way to

make it.

“Quinn, the reason I can’t believe you is that

I’ve heard all this before.”

Quinn

EVERYTHING GRINDS TO A STOP. Finally we’re
getting somewhere.

“Okay, George, I want to understand, so let’s

back up. Who are we talking about here?”

“What do you mean?” she coughs out, her

hands coming together in front of her. “My friend. I
told you that.”

I wave her off. “I know, your friend. What I

want to know is which one. Look, I get that you
don’t want to betray her trust. But you’ve got to
give me more to go on. You’ve got to at least give
me a chance to understand.” She’s already shaking
her head, but I keep pushing. “I won’t contact her.
Not unless you give me permission. But at least tell
me her name and when this happened.”

“Her name doesn’t matter—”

“What do you mean her name doesn’t matter?

George, this is the reason you don’t trust me. It
matters.”

I try to be careful. To be as brutally honest and

upfront as possible so there isn’t room for
expectations to misalign… but from time to time, it
happens. Still, I’ve wracked my brain trying to
come up with a time I’ve been good and ashamed
of myself—and I can’t. “You’ve got to give me the
chance to explain, to figure out where the wires got
crossed. Something!”

“Wires?” She huffs out a laugh, but there’s no

humor in it. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever seen her
so angry. So betrayed? “Is that what you call it
when you spend hours convincing someone what’s
happening between you is real… When you take
her back to your bed and swear you’ve never felt
this way… When you ghost her the next day?
Just… crossed wires?”

Jesus.
“No.” The word is out before I can think about

it. I don’t even have to. “I’m sorry, George, but
your friend made a mistake.” It’s better than telling
her that her friend is a liar, but I’m willing to give
this nameless, faceless girl the benefit of the doubt.
Which I’m feeling pretty big about until I see the
thunderous look on George’s face.

“There was no mistake,” she says, her voice

layered with a deadly certainty that has something

cold and hard forming in the pit of my stomach.
“She told you she was okay with it just being one
night, and you told her no. That you wanted more.
You made her believe it. And then the very next
day she saw you pulling the same slick moves on
someone else.”

Holy shit. This is bad.
“George, you need to listen to me. What you’re

describing sounds awful. But it wasn’t me. I take
relationships seriously and I don’t mislead women
about them because it’s bullshit to treat people like
that. So I don’t take girls out to dinner and I don’t
take them to movies. The only events I bring dates
to are when a teammate needs a favor.”

The look in her eyes is more than disbelief. It’s

more than outrage on a friend’s behalf. It’s almost
—Christ, it’s almost like I’m hurting her worse with
every word.

“And I’m supposed to take your word over the

word of a girl I know as well as I know myself?”

I wish she would. Because it’s the truth. But

I’m guessing that’s not happening.

“Don’t take mine then. You can ask anyone.

Ask the guys on the team. They’ll tell you what
you’re describing isn’t me. Hell, ask the women
I’ve been with.”

She blanches, and yeah, the idea of George

around any of the bunnies I’ve spent the night with
isn’t something that sits well with me either. “Or,

Jesus, just let me talk to her. We can straighten this
out with one phone call. One cup of coffee.”
Because a part of me is expecting this girl to take
one look at my face and say, “Wait, you’re Quinn
O’Brian? My bad.”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you, Quinn.”
My arms shoot out. “Why not?”
“Because she’s already seen you since. It was a

few years later. And you didn’t remember her. At
first she was pissed, but then she was relieved. I
think at this point, she’d rather just put it behind
her.”

I reach for George’s hand, needing her to think

about this. To give me a chance. “Then where does
that leave us?”

“Nowhere.” One word. Soft. Sad.
I’ve been trying to give her space, but now I’m

right in front of her. Taking her hands in mine and
begging her with my eyes to listen. “George.”

“I told you from the start what this was and

what it wasn’t,” she says, her stubborn chin starting
to tremble.

“Fuck that, George. You feel this too. I can see

it in your eyes. Taste it in your kiss. Feel it in those
little touches I don’t even think you realize are
happening, but I live for. Those moments when
we’ve taken all we need from each other, when
we’re breathless and weak. Those are the moments
when I know this isn’t just one-sided.”

She studies the floor in front of her feet, not

saying a word.

Damn it. I can’t let this go.
“Can’t you please look at me and judge me for

who I am today instead of on something that may
or may not have happened years ago?”

Then something she said comes back to me, and

the hairs at the back of my neck stand up.

“You said this was back in college… but that

she saw me a few years later and I didn’t remember
her.” Honestly, most of the hookups I’ve had over
the years weren’t memorable enough that I’d
remember the girl I was with… But what if—
There’s no way. I don’t want to ask, except
suddenly it’s the only thing that makes sense. “Was
she in school with me, or did this happen
somewhere else?”

Christ, I don’t like the look on George’s face,

because it tells me I’m right.

“George, was this in Mexico?”
She doesn’t even have to answer. I already

know.

And now I understand why she can’t forgive

me. Because I don’t fucking deserve it.

Chapter 14

George

exico.

Of all the things Quinn could

have said, this was the dead last I

expected.

I search his face, studying the features I don’t

want to know as well as I do. The eyes I’ve been
telling myself not to trust since the night he came
back into my life.

Is this it? The moment he admits to

remembering who I am?

The moment I finally get the explanation I been

waiting for, for almost seven years?

Moving back to the booth, I sit.
“Okay, Mexico.” The words are stiff, awkward

coming off my tongue. But if he notices, there’s no
sign of it.

I don’t know what I want to hear. There’s a part

of me that’s waiting for him to tell me that I wasn’t
a complete fool. But I was there— I was there!

And he has to know it, or he wouldn’t have

brought it up. So why was he trying to convince me
that he had no part in the crime I accused him of?

Unless this was all about getting me to admit

that I was the girl in Mexico?

I grip the base of the seat I’m on, holding tight

as a million questions rattle around my mind.

“I was down on vacation with my brother and a

couple guys I grew up with.”

Thad, who likes fruity cocktails and Camden,

who had to buy new trunks because his ripped on
the waterslide. And Patrick, who looks so much
like his brother it’s uncanny.

“It was winter break, so hockey season was still

going, but I had the week between Christmas and
New Year’s off. I was the only one who played at
the college level or had any kind of shot at the
draft, so the guys were cutting loose in no small
way. And even though that’s not how I generally
am—” he takes a breath and looks at me with such
regret, I feel it all the way through me, “—I
must’ve gotten caught up in it.”

“Are you talking about drugs?” I whisper. It

would have to be, because I spent the entire day

and evening with him and he didn’t have a single
drink. Neither of us did.

He jerks back with a cough. “Drugs? Not on

your life. I had my eye on a pro career, no way in
hell would I have risked that. Not just getting
caught either. Booze, painkillers. That shit hits me
harder than most people and sometimes a bit
sideways. Recreational drugs scare the shit out of
me. But back in college, I guess maybe I didn’t
have the same handle on my tolerance for alcohol I
do now.”

There’s a nervous tension growing in my belly,

and suddenly I’m leaning into the space between
us, into his explanation.

“What happened?” I asked, my throat dry, my

lungs barely functioning. I can’t believe he heard
me, but he goes on.

“Truth? I don’t 100% know. One minute I’m

having lunch with the guys, and the next I’m
waking up in my room with more than twenty-four
hours I can’t account for and the mother of all
hangovers.”

“You— You don’t remember that day?” There’s

no way. He can’t be serious.

He shakes his head. “My brother was there

when I woke up, looking more worried about me
than I think I’ve ever seen him before or since.
You’ll have to take my word for it, but Pat is one of
those guys who only worries about himself. So

seeing that freaked-out look in his eyes told me it
was serious. I waited for things to come back into
focus, for the blanks to start filling in. But there
was nothing.”

There isn’t enough air in the room. Maybe not

enough in the whole city.

“Did you… Bump your head? Could something

have happened to you on your way back from—”

“Nah,” he says quickly enough that I hope he

didn’t catch that near slip. “My head was fine, but I
reeked like booze, and barfed up half my stomach
within two minutes of sitting up. But even as
messed up as I was, I realized I hadn’t—uhh, been
alone the night before.”

“Did your brother tell you?” Did he explain

about the redhead he’d met coming out of your
room?

A slow shake of his head.
“No.” He clears his throat, looking even more

uncomfortable. “He’d been boozing too and didn’t
remember seeing me with anyone.”

“Wait, what? No, he—”
“I, uh, knew about the girl because there was a

condom wrapper next to the bed.” He swallows,
looking down at his feet. “And some other stuff.”

“What about a number?” The cocktail napkin

he’d had me write it on because his phone was
broken and my phone’s battery had gone out hours
before we even made it back to his room.

“Believe me, I looked.”
A used condom wrapper was all he had left of

me. I feel sick, but then I feel angry too. “But your
brother, he—”

What can I say? That I know he was there?

That his brother is a liar? That I know because my
“friend” happened to mention he’d been there and
hadn’t come across as trashed, just a little douchey,
teasing her about her name. Giving Quinn shit
about his plans to meet her parents the next night.

No.
The truth is I have no idea what happened with

him or his brother after he dropped me back at my
room. All I know is this wasn’t what I thought I
would hear.

When I don’t say anything else, Quinn shakes

his head.

“Look, I know this is still just my word and I

guess I can’t really expect you to believe me, but—
maybe you could at least tell your friend what
happened. I felt like shit about that night. But now
that I know what I said… Christ, it’s so much
worse. Tell her I’m sorry.”

Chapter 15

George

e didn’t lie.

He didn’t deceive.
He didn’t make me fall in love

with him for the sole purpose of seeing if he could.

After all these years, it turns out I wasn’t a

game. A bit of sport. Or one of so very many, he
couldn’t even remember my face.

I’m still reeling as I trudge up the stairs to my

apartment. If ever I wished I lived alone instead of
with three of my brothers, it is now. Before opening
the door, I hear whoops and hollers, a crash
followed by a beat of silence, and then laughter so
loud I don’t know how we aren’t getting complaints
from people down the street.

“George! Where you been?” Ross croaks in

that two-pack-a-day voice he’s had since he first
learned to talk.

Eli slaps a hand on the table. “We’ve been

saving a seat for you.”

Saving is probably a stretch. My guess is none

of these nimrods could scrounge up a fourth for
their poker game and were hoping I’d sit in.

But as much as I enjoy playing for candy corn

and Swedish Fish most nights, tonight I’m not sure I
can even make it past the kitchen before breaking
down. And if that happens, these boys will lose
their shit. One of them will be on the phone with
my dad in thirty seconds, while the others try to put
me in a headlock to “cheer me up.”

No thanks.
All I need is some time alone. Some time to

think. Some time to process the fact that everything
I thought I knew was wrong. And that maybe, just
maybe, Quinn O’Brian hasn’t been trying to snow
me from the start.

God, maybe he’s every bit as perfect as I

thought he was only pretending to be.

“Thanks for the offer. But I’m gonna pass.”
They start razzing me as I head out of the

kitchen, so I call back over my shoulder, “Gary,
looks like there’s a card or two stuck in your
sleeve.”

It was just a guess, but with the commotion that

ensues, it’s safe to say at least with these guys, I
know what’s going on.

I walk through the apartment, stepping around

the shoes and laundry and miscellaneous crap my
brothers leave everywhere until I make it to my
bedroom. And when I close the door behind me, I
punch the thumb lock and then throw the slide lock
I installed myself because my brothers are dicks
who think invading each other’s privacy is fun—I
give in, slowly sliding to the floor.

It wasn’t a lie.

Quinn

MORNING SKATE IS rough as hell. And it has
nothing to do with how hard I got slammed into the
boards last night and everything to do with George
and Mexico and a girl I’d resigned myself to never
being able to make it right with seven years ago.

A girl I most likely still won’t be able to make it

right with based on George’s text at two a.m.

Her friend appreciated understanding what

happened back then but still wasn’t interested in
letting me apologize in person.

I don’t know how I feel about it. Guilty, I guess,

because hearing that my actions were affecting her

after all this time should’ve been the only thing on
my mind. But I can’t get Georgie out of my head.

I don’t know where we stand but I hope to hell

it’s somewhere.

I have lunch with the team and meet with the

assistant coach to talk about tonight. I’m usually
raring to go. I like away games. I like changing
things up. Meeting different people and eating
different food. Seeing a different skyline.
Whatever.

But today I’m hating that I’m leaving when

nothing is resolved.

When I get home, I leave my gear by the door

and start to pack before getting a nap in.

I check my phone like the thirteen-year-old girl

I’ve become, looking to see if maybe she messaged
me back. If maybe I somehow cleared the
notification by accident. But there’s nothing after
my message asking her if I could stop by to see her
today, and no answer means no.

An hour and a half later I’m ready to go,

waiting on my ride from Vassar to the airport.

A knock at the door sounds, and I grab my bag.

“Dude, I would have come down— Georgie,” I
cough out, shaking my head like I’m not sure she’s
really there.

But then I pull my shit together, because she’s

totally there.

“You gave me clearance downstairs?”

She isn’t quite making eye contact, instead

looking in the neighborhood of my shoulder.

“Wishful thinking, I guess.”
What is she doing here?
“Kind of casual with your security,” she says,

offering a slight shrug, her eyes inching to my chin.
“Vaughn would be disappointed. I mean, you know
how some fans get.”

She’s joking with me, and it’s so completely

foreign that for a minute I don’t even know how to
respond. Except then it clicks—George is here,
standing in my hall, trying to make a joke.

She’s here.
And that’s about a million times better than her

being anywhere else.

Propping a shoulder against the door, I cross my

arms—fine, and flex some too. Hell, I know she
likes my body and I’m not above working it to my
advantage. Especially when I wasn’t entirely sure I
was going to get to see her again at all.

“You in the mood to use me, Georgie?” I’ve

only got about seven minutes before Vassar shows
up. But I’m a guy who knows how to deliver. In
fact, I might even be able to get her off twice.

Only then she’s not just not quite looking at me

anymore. She’s looking at her feet and down the
hall to the elevator.

Like maybe she’s counting the seconds until

she’s able to leave.

What if this is goodbye? What if the only

reason she came over here at all was to tell me we
were over?

Shit, shit, shit.
“Georgie,” I choke out, reaching for her hand.

Stroking my thumb over the soft skin when she
doesn’t pull back. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

She bites her bottom lip, and I feel it in my gut.

“I don’t want to use you anymore, Quinn.”

My throat clamps down on itself and all I can

do is nod. Hold her hand until she takes it back. I
let it go even though it feels like the most wrong
thing I’ve ever done in my whole life.

Only instead of turning and walking away, she

rests that hand against my chest. And pushing to
her toes, peers up at me with eyes that are shy and
warm and nervous and determined—eyes that take
my fucking breath away.

“I just wanted to come by before you left and

wish you good luck.” Then soft and light, she pulls
me down and presses the most perfect kiss I’ve
ever had to the corner of my mouth.

“Have a good game tonight. I’ll be watching.”

Chapter 16

George

’m crashed out in Julia Baxter’s living
room, cocktails littering the table in
front of the oversized couch that’s

nearly swallowing the five of us whole as we watch
the Slayers dominate the Maple Leafs in period
three. Cammy snaps a picture of Rux in the penalty
box, a sour look on his face.

Swiping her finger around the screen at

lightning speed, she then flips the phone to show us
the cartoon dunce hat she drew over his helmet.

“It’s too soon. I know. But tomorrow, he’ll

laugh,” she assures.

For about a second this summer, I thought there

might be something going on between them, but

Nat says no. Being Julia’s little sister, Cammy
scored little-sister status with the team too, and
apparently no one takes that more seriously than
the assistant captain. The guy even babysits her kid
once in a while.

Turning to me, she shakes her head. “I can’t

believe you turned O’Brian down when he offered
to fly you out for the game. How crazy cool would
it be to drop everything and jaunt off to another
city. Just like that!”

Nat nudges me with her foot. “Maybe next time

we can go together?”

Rubbing a hand over the nervous tension in my

belly, I take a shaky breath. “I don’t even know
where we’re going with this thing. From day one,
I’ve been shutting Quinn down. Giving him this
impossible obstacle to overcome. And now that the
challenge is gone, who’s to say whether he’ll even
be interested.”

It starts with a cough. And then a snort. And

then every single one of my so-called friends is flat-
out laughing.

Cammy’s the one who inches closer and pulls

me into a side hug that’s actually kind of awesome.
She has a way with the hug.

“Umm, I’m pretty sure you’re okay on the

challenge front, because… girl, you’re a handful.”

I blink, looking from one face to the next,

finding only warm smiles of agreement with their

nods.

Nat rolls her eyes. “Seriously, you are the most

challenging girl that man could pick, and not just
because you didn’t want to date him after what he
did to your friend.”

My eyes meet Margo’s but there’s no judgment

there. I have the sense she understands why
sometimes secrets need to be kept.

Julia nods, standing up from the couch. “I

second that. Also, Laurel’s on her way up and she’s
going to want wine. Anyone else want a glass or are
we all still good with whatever it is Margo’s mixing
here?”

Everyone’s good. Though I’m probably a little

too good because I’m getting all kinds of choked up
about having these amazing women on my side.

Nat goes on. “Quinn is going to have to stay on

his toes if he wants to keep up with you.”

I look at my oldest friend and feel a sharp pang

of guilt over having kept the truth from her all this
time.

But even now, I can’t make myself admit what

happened.

If things don’t work out with Quinn, then I’d

rather keep this bit of personal history to myself.
And if they do work, then I’ll have to tell him.
There’s no way to get around it with my family and
maybe his too—I still don’t know what to make of
Patrick’s claim not to remember me. But if and

when I do tell Quinn what happened, it’s not going
to be after half the people he’s friends with already
know.

“Okay, so maybe the challenge isn’t my only

concern.” I take a slow breath. “I guess I don’t
really know what this thing looks like now that I’ve
stopped saying no.”

The elevator doors open and Laurel glides out,

phone stuck to her ear, smile bright as she waves to
everyone and heads toward the kitchen. “Law,
that’s incredible news, but Boston, wow… What
does Shelly think?”

Julia’s brows shoot high and she turns to Margo,

who’s gone stone still. Or maybe I’m reading in, but
I kind of don’t think so.

“Is her brother moving?”
Margo’s shoulders come up around her ears as

she pours her drink back in one slug. Then, looking
for all the world like she doesn’t have a care, says,
“First I’m hearing of it. But… I thought he and
Shelly broke up.”

Julia waves a hand and rolls her eyes.

“Apparently it was more of a ‘break.’ Which
apparently is over now. Or maybe not. I guess it
depends on what’s happening with Boston.”

Oh man.
“Hey,” Cammy pats my knee. “You don’t have

to know exactly what this thing with Quinn looks
like. Just that you want it, right? And it makes you

feel good.”

I nod, my throat tight. “I think I do. And yeah,

it really does.”

Quinn

WE TEXTED AFTER THE WIN. Not all night, like
Vassar and Nat, but back and forth for about an
hour until the plane took off and then a couple
times once we got to the hotel.

Truth is, I probably would have been happy

chatting with her until the wee hours, just going
back and forth about nothing in particular, so long
as I kept getting more of the bits and pieces filling
in the picture of who she is. How we might fit
together now that she isn’t holding back with
everything she has.

Christ, I like what I’m seeing.
We’re at the arena watching tape to get ready

for this afternoon’s game. I’m loving that it’s a
matinee because there’s a chance I’ll be back in
Chicago early enough to see her. I want to feel her
in my arms. I want another taste of that kiss from
before we left. The one she gave me because she
wanted to… not because she hated that she wanted
to.

“You meeting up after we land?” Rux asks,

when the coaches wrap up the talk.

I drop onto the mat and start stretching while

the team chef works on getting lunch. “I don’t
know. I want to see her. Bad. But I don’t want her
to think I’m only after the hookup. I mean, it’s not
going to be much of a date at eleven or whatever
time I can make it to her place.”

He snorts out a laugh. “Sorry, man. Just

imagining you showing up at her door tonight at
booty-call o’clock and four of her brothers
answering.”

“Three. Her oldest brother is married.”
The corner of his mouth is kicked up in that

perpetual smirk. “More than enough to get the
jump on you—especially after a back-to-back.”

Hell, two would be enough. This I know from

personal experience, though in my defense
whoever the little punks were who jumped me did it
like a bunch of pussies, attacking from behind
before I even realized they were there.

“Still, might be worth it.”
He laughs again and shakes his head. “You got

it bad, brother.”

“From the first day I met her.”
She texts me before warmup and I step out into

the hall to call her back.

“Don’t you have a game or something?” she

answers, her husky voice filled with a warmth not

usually directed at me. It’s fucking amazing.

“I’ve only got a minute, but wanted to say hi.”

Hear her voice so I know we’re still on the same
page from before I left.

“Well hi, then. And… it’s nice you called. I’ve

been thinking about you this morning.”

I rub over that warm spot spreading through my

chest. “Been thinking about you too.” Forever.

“Nat says you’re getting back pretty early

tonight. I know you’re going to be tired after two
away games in a row, but I was thinking if you
wanted—”

“I want,” I cut her off, sounding eager as hell

and not caring a bit.

She laughs softly, and then she does it—she lets

out this soft, breathy humm I feel straight through
to my groin. “Yeah, I want too.”

And great. I’m standing in the hall with people

walking past every fifteen seconds sporting wood.
Christ. I make a quick adjustment to my junk so at
least I’m not so obvious.

“Can I call you once we’ve cleared customs? I

can grab a car and pick you up on the way.”

I’m looking for another one of those sweet

humms, but she’s quiet. And I realize what that
sounds like. “Or maybe we could hang out at your
place. Watch some TV and order in.” For a crowd.
Which is totally okay with me, so long as I actually
get to see her. And kiss her, at least once.

She coughs, stuttering before starting over, the

warmth and ease missing from her tone. “No.
That’s umm… not… Hey, how about I hang with
Nat and meet you there. Then Vaughn can go
straight home and we can grab a Lyft or something
back to your place?”

The breath I didn’t realize I was holding

whooshes out, and I’m grinning again. My blood
thumping through my veins. “That’s perfect.” Just
then, the assistant coach peeks out the door and
signals it’s time. “I gotta go.”

“Have a good game, and I’ll see you tonight.”
Fuck yeah.

Chapter 17

George

don’t want to admit it, but watching
Quinn play this afternoon has me
aching with a need to get him alone

soon.

I was completely worthless at the shop,

watching in back on the shitty TV I’m pretty sure
we got before Gary was born. Threatening my
brothers’ lives when they kept interrupting me with
the six million questions they definitely should have
known the answers to themselves, but never do.

I was riveted.
Then in the second when Quinn juked out the

opposition for a breakaway and scored with that
shot so lightning fast I had to get an inch from the

screen to actually see it on the replay… oh man. So
hot. And I was ruined, because all I could think
about was the fact that in so many hours, that man
was going to be mine.

I couldn’t wait.
And apparently everyone could tell, which was

a little bothersome, because—well, because they
weren’t supposed to be able to tell. This thing with
Quinn… it’s new. But even if it wasn’t, they
wouldn’t understand.

After we close, I escape to my room for a

shower and to clean up, paying attention to the
little details in ways I normally don’t. Now I’m
about as buffed and polished as a rough-around-
the-edges girl like me can get. I’ve got a light coat
of dark brown mascara and some tinted gloss that
doesn’t taste like candy. I’m wearing a blue sweater
Cammy was moaning over when she riffled through
my closet last week. One I don’t normally wear
because apparently it does something for my tits
that make them impossible to ignore, but tonight,
for Quinn?

Blue sweater, it is.
After all, if I’m stuck lusting over him all dang

day, then he deserves a little lusting too.

My hair is pretty much my hair. There aren’t a

lot of choices since I’m afraid I’ll burn it off if I try
one of those straightener things, but I do put some
of this squirty stuff in it my cousin gave me for

Christmas last year. I’ve got to say it’s looking
pretty good.

My phone pings and it’s Nat asking if I’m

leaving soon because she’s jumping in the shower
after practice with her girls. I step out of my room
and stop dead finding the three stooges lined up in
front of me, blocking my way.

“I fucking told you it was a guy.”
“Check the hair.”
“Is that makeup?”
“George, I’m only going to say this once.

Change your fucking sweater.”

I draw a slow breath, and after giving them

each a glower that has them taking a solid step
back, I reply to Nat.

Me: Take your time.
Forty minutes later I’m on my way.
I don’t feel fantastic about what just went down

—I mean the lying part, not the putting-my-
brothers-in-their-place part. That never gets old.

But seriously, there was no getting around the

guy thing. I don’t dress up a lot, and for as much as
they’re a bunch of knuckleheads, they aren’t
completely blind.

But there was no way in hell I was going to tell

them about Quinn.

I mean, not yet.
So this is how it went…
Yes, I was meeting someone.

No, they were not going to meet him.
Yes, I’d known him a while.
No, Pop wasn’t meeting him either.
Yes, I knew what I was doing.
No, I hadn’t talked to Pop about him. Or Aunt

JoAnn. Or cousin Carol.

Yes, I was sure this guy wasn’t just some asshole

out for one thing.

No, I wouldn’t be back tonight. And no, they

didn’t need to call Pop about it.

All that was true. But it was probably better for

everyone involved to let them think I’d be spending
the night with a loan officer from the local branch
of our bank, a guy I’ve known since junior year of
college who happens to be friends with several of
my friends… instead of sharing that I’m back in
bed with the guy who broke my heart and
humiliated me in Mexico.

It’s a little lie. And it’s not forever.
The Lyft drops me outside Nat’s place, and I

come up through the seldom-used front way. It’s
chilly, but at mid-October we easily have another
month or two before we need to worry about snow.
Still, I’m rubbing my arms beneath the glow of the
front light as Nat opens the door in a rush.

Her hair’s damp, falling around her shoulders in

dark spirals that soften up into pretty waves when
they dry. She’s a kindred spirit when it comes to
maintenance.

“Hey, come in! Vaughn texted that they landed

and cleared customs. They ought to be here pretty
soon.”

“Quinn texted me too,” I say with a smile.

Being in the know with firsthand information about
him instead of catching the details from someone
else’s account is different. Heck, being able to
admit to myself that I want that information is
different too. And also filed under “different”… “Is
it weird wearing Vaughn’s number?”

Peering down at her Slayers jersey, Nat smiles.

“Maybe a little at first. I mean when I went to
Greg’s games, I’d wear his, but you know.”

I laugh. “Yeah, neither one of us was ever

wearing some guy’s number on our back in college
—we were wearing our own.” I look between us
and bite my lip. “You think he’ll care that I don’t
have his number on?”

She rolls her eyes. “The only thing he’s going to

care about is the fact that you’re here. Besides, that
sweater. Damn.”

“Right?” I say, running my hands down the

sides. “I have no idea what makes this thing magic,
but it is.”

She bites her lip, staring in concentration. “We

should get Julia or Cammy to explain.”

“They’d totally know.”
“Yeah, but not tonight. Quinn’s going to take

one look at you and drag you out that door inside

thirty seconds. Guaranteed.”

Ten minutes later, we’re standing in the kitchen

dissecting today’s game when the back door opens
and the guys come in. Vaughn’s got Natalie caught
up against him in a heartbeat, calling her “Allie”
the way he does every now and then, giving her this
smile I’ve never seen him break out for anyone
else. She’s giggling, her feet off the floor, but I’m
more interested in the man standing off to the side
behind his buddy.

Quinn’s still wearing his suit from after the

game, but his slate tie is loose at his collar. He’s got
his jacket hanging over one arm and his overnight
bag slung over his shoulder. His shock of dark
blond hair looks like he’s had his hands through it
about sixty times… but it’s his eyes that have my
attention.

“Hey, Georgeous.”
“Hey, Quinn.”
For once, he doesn’t look like he’s sizing up the

play, trying to figure me out. He looks happy. Like
a guy who knows where this is going.

Which is good, because suddenly I don’t. I just

know I want to find out.

Coming around Vaughn, he starts over to me

and then stops dead. Those warm, welcoming eyes
that have been locked with mine track over me in
slow motion. They get to the vicinity of my chest
and his mouth drops open to a satisfying gape.

The sweater.
And then he’s moving again. Intensity coming

off him in waves, the look he’s giving me making
wet heat pool between my legs.

“Thanks for the ride, man,” he says, without

taking his eyes off me. Grabbing my hand, he drops
a kiss to my temple. “We gotta get out of here or
I’m going to have you up against their fridge in
about thirty seconds.”

Well, Nat called that one.

Quinn

I CAN’T GET her out of here fast enough.

I tried to be cool. Hang back and give Vassar a

second with his girl before I was all over mine—
only that first look at her past his shoulder—damn.

It might feel like she’s my girl, that she has been

all this time. But this thing is new. And while I
could see George was happy to see me, there was
no missing the hint of nerves shadowing her eyes.

So I figured I’d go in slow. Hand at her back

instead of buried in her hair. Kiss on the cheek
instead of mouth-fucking her like I’m dying to do.

That was the plan until I stepped around Vassar

and got a good look at her.

That sweater.
Shit, I knew she had spectacular tits. It’s

impossible to miss. But damn.

And more than that, she did something with her

hair. Something sexy and still so totally her. There
was a hint of makeup where I’d never seen it
before—and while I think this woman is perfect
just exactly the way she’s looked every other time
I’ve seen her since the day we met… knowing she
went out of her way for me—it floors me. Humbles
me.

It’s sweet and sexy and special and I appreciate

it.

But also, it turns me on and I need to get her

alone. And not just so I can get inside her—though
that’s on the list. But so I can wrap her up in my
arms and tell her how fucking pretty she is and how
much I’ve missed her and kiss her the way she
deserves.

Vassar’s got my gear in his truck and is going to

pick me up for morning skate, and it looks like
George doesn’t have anything other than that
bottomless messenger bag. So it’s a quick exit, and
she’s smiling at me as we walk out front.

I stop her before we clear the mostly private

walk.

“Forget something?” she asks, but I can see in

her eyes that she knows I didn’t. That this is about
her and me.

“No.” I slide my hand around her neck, feeling

the soft fall of her hair on the backs of my
knuckles. I lower my mouth to hers, hesitating a
breath from her lips. And when those honey-brown
eyes come up to meet mine, looking at me like this
kiss is all she wants in the world, I sink in.

So good.
Her mouth is sweet and soft and lush and

inviting as she parts beneath the press of my lips.
As her soft moan washes over my mouth, and she
closes the distance between our bodies so I can feel
her all the way down. As her arms wrap around me
like she wants to hold on to me as much as I want
to hold her.

And when I pull back, it’s her mouth that’s

following mine, chasing the break like she isn’t
ready for it. Her fingers closing around my tie.

“George, I want you so bad,” I say against her

lips and cheek. “But if we don’t stop now, I’m
going to have you right here, and I’m pretty sure
there are cameras out here for security.”

“I—I just…” She lets out a soft laugh and

meets my eyes. “I’m not used to feeling like this.
It’s like, once I stopped fighting it—”

“You got a taste of what I’ve been going

through since the day I met you.”

A shadow passes behind her eyes, but whatever

doubt it was is gone in a blink. And then she’s
smiling up at me even brighter. “Yeah, I guess so.”

And the way she says it… it’s like she believes

it. Believes in me.

And then I’m smiling even bigger than she is as

we walk out to the waiting car.

“You got a limo?” She laughs, raising a single

brow.

“Leg room?”
And honestly, I didn’t want to risk some Uber

or Lyft driver paying more attention to who they
had in their car than they were on the road.

We climb into the back and while the privacy

partition is up, I’m not going to maul her like some
dick on prom night.

It’s a short trip. I can wait.
Or I think I can until George starts playing with

my hand as we talk. She’s tracing the outline of my
fingers with the tips of hers and I must be seriously
hard up because the feel of her moving in and out
of the spaces between has me getting harder than
stone.

I could pull my hand away, except I can’t. It

feels too good. Too sweet. Too fucking familiar
even though I’ve never felt anything like it before.

“You okay, Quinn?” she asks, a knowing look in

her eyes. That bit of edge making me laugh and
look out the window so I don’t do something like
pull her across my lap and start grinding with her a
block before we get to my place. Not when we’ve
got to walk past Bobby in the lobby.

“Not yet. But I will be soon.”
She laughs softly. “You get hurt in the game?”

She presses closer, those spectacular tits teasing my
side.

Don’t touch them.
“I could kiss it and make it better.”
I let out a groan and scoot forward so I can

adjust my junk. But what I don’t do is tell her to
stop.

“Baby, you better brace yourself because I’ve

just about used up the very last of my restraint.”

She lets out a strained breath and nods. “Me

too.”

Chapter 18

George

uinn’s hold is firm but gentle as he walks
me in through the airy open lobby. He
greets the guy at the security desk, Bobby,
like a friend but doesn’t stop on our way

toward the waiting elevator.

Anticipation thrums through me, my desire for

this man confusing me with its intensity. I’ve been
with him before. But mostly on my terms. Mostly
keeping my feelings out of it—or trying to.

Mostly sure I could walk away without it

costing me emotionally.

But this, now.
Quinn isn’t the guy I thought he was.
He’s the guy I hated myself for believing he

might be seven years ago.

Maybe for the first time since that night, I’m

not worried about holding something back. And if I
don’t have to worry about staying in control, about
giving him the chance to play me, then I can just be
here with him completely.

The elevator doors glide closed and Quinn’s

eyes lock with mine as the car starts up to his floor.

We’ve barely touched, nothing more than

holding hands, but my skin is tight and sensitive.
My breasts feel heavy. And between my legs… I’m
aching for him.

His thumb brushes over my hand and my breath

catches as chills shoot up my arm.

Neither of us is talking.
Neither of us can look away.
The elevator dings at his floor, making me jump.

Quinn guides me out of the car and down the hall to
his place.

He lets me in and then pulls the door closed

behind us. The lock tumbles and his bag thuds
against the floor. I turn and he catches me around
the waist and back of the neck, bringing me in hard
against his body. Our mouths collide in a ravenous
kiss so sexy and intense, my insides twist with a
need I can barely breathe through.

“Want you,” I whimper into his mouth, my hips

shifting restlessly against him. Our hands are
everywhere. I’ve got his shirt open and his fly

undone.

My sweater comes off and my back hits the

wall beside the door as Quinn palms my breasts,
firming his hold and then brushing a thumb across
the sheer satin covering my nipples. Need grips my
center hard enough to make me gasp.

“Fuck, I love the way you sound.”
Another brush of this thumbs and this time it’s

less gasp and more of a cry as the edge of desire
sharpens.

Quinn’s eyes lock with mine and again, I get

that crazy sense of connection. Like he knows how
bad I want him—how this thing is so much more
than physical.

His mouth crushes over mine and what comes

next is nothing short of savage. My legs lock
around his waist and his tongue thrusts deep and
hard between my lips. I roll against him, moaning at
the feel of his cock, steely between my legs.

We get half his shirt off and my bra ends up on

the floor beside his shoes. He looks down at my tits
pressed against his chest and groans like he’s in
pain.

“In my mouth,” he grunts as I go weightless for

the second it takes him to pop me up higher against
wall, somehow hooking his arms under my knees so
my boobs are in line with his face.

Giving me the sexiest look I’ve ever seen in my

whole life, he pulls his bottom lip through the clasp

of his teeth in a way that has me squirming for
more.

He licks at the side of one breast and then

scrapes his teeth over the other before covering it
with his mouth. Suction, warm and wet, assaults me
as he pulls greedily at my sensitive flesh. It’s too
much, too good, but not even close to enough.

I pull at his hair to stop him. “Down,” I pant,

barely recognizing my own voice.

Those sea-green eyes are hazed with sex and

filled with focus as he slowly lowers me, ensuring
the spread of my sex and breasts run against his
body the whole way.

When our faces align, he slips his tongue past

my lips to rub against mine, giving me slow teasing
thrusts until my feet reach the floor.

Then pressing a hand to his chest, I sink down

to my knees.

Heat flares in his eyes, but he’s shaking his

head, trying to pull me back up.

A threatening growl slips free of my throat as I

bat away his hands. “Let me.” I want to taste him.
Lick him. Drive him wild.

He plants his hands on the wall above me,

watching with his head bowed as his suit pants hit
the floor, the belt making a heavy clank.

I can barely pull a breath, he’s so incredibly

sexy standing over me like this. His shirt hanging
from one arm and his tie is still looped around his

bare neck, white compression underwear straining
around his jutting cock and hugging his massive
thighs.

But it’s the look in his eyes as he watches me

that has that pool of need churning within me. I
work his shaft free, sliding my fingers around as far
as they’ll go. He’s thick and wide, silky soft and
steely hard.

His breath catches above my head, but my

focus is lower. I want him in my mouth, my tongue
sliding over that warm, taut skin.

I pump him once, twice, reveling in the way he

quakes above me. I may be caged in by his body,
but if control was something I was after, I don’t
think I’ve ever felt the rush of it more than in this
moment.

My tongue flicks across his skin, and it’s so

good, I hum with pleasure as I draw him in.

“George,” he chokes out in some combination

of pleasure and pain.

He’s bigger than the other men I’ve been with.

Wider and longer too. I’ve never been a huge fan of
giving blowjobs, but with Quinn, it felt like the
world was going to end if I didn’t get his cock in
my mouth. If I didn’t taste him. Feel him rubbing
against my tongue as I take him as deeply as I can.
Admittedly, it’s not very deep. But it’s enough to
have his salty essence on my tongue, to feel the
way this kiss makes him quake and shudder, and

gives me the sense that it’s Quinn’s last grasp at
holding on to some control.

God, it’s so hot.
I hum again, and this time Quinn rocks his hips

back, pulling free of my grasp with a gravelly curse.

“Not gonna last,” he growls, sinking to his

knees in front of me. Pulling me back into his arms,
back into his kiss and the tempest of need between
us.

We’re rocking together, my soaked panties the

only barrier to penetration.

“Need you,” I whisper as he slides against the

point of give between my legs. I know we need
protection. But I can’t help myself from pressing
into that tease the littlest bit more.

It’s too much.
Too close to what we both need.
We pull apart, breaths ragged.
“I’m on the pill. Tell me you’re clean,” I pant,

slipping my panties off so I’m naked.

Wild eyes burn over me. “Clean. Always use

protection. Tested two weeks ago and… I haven’t
been with anyone since the night we met.”

He’s crawling over me, but I put a hand to his

chest. “The night at the hospital?”

That was more than eight months ago.
He gives me a teasing look. “Was there

another?”

This is it. The time to tell him. Because if

there’s even a chance of things working out
between us, he’s going to find out.

My family was there.
And so was his.
But instead of answering, giving him the truth

he deserves, I pull him in to a kiss that speaks to
how badly I want him. That even though I’m not
ready to trust him with our history, I trust him with
my body.

This time when he climbs over me, there’s

nothing between us. No hesitation. His eyes lock
with mine and he pushes slowly inside me.

“Quinn,” I whisper, feathering my fingers over

his jaw and lips as he fills my body with his. And
when he’s buried within me as deep as he can go…
he holds.

That frantic desperation feels like another

lifetime. Like this right now is exactly where we’re
supposed to be.

“I missed you, Georgeous,” he murmurs,

moving slowly now.

“I missed you too.” In ways I’m not ready to

explain but can feel on an almost molecular level. I
missed feeling safe. I missed feeling like I could
give myself to someone completely. That I could let
myself want someone without that shadow of doubt
creeping in. And I missed the way it felt to let go
and fall with this man.

“Feels so fucking good inside you… never had

it so good.”

“Never,” I echo, running my hands over his

chest and shoulders. Sliding my knee up his side.
Needing to touch him everywhere.

Each measured thrust is deliberate, making me

clench and spasm around him. Taking me closer to
that place we both need to go.

“Need to feel you come,” he grunts, rocking his

hips so he’s meeting the very deepest part of me.

“Close,” I gasp as he nudges harder. “Like

that.”

He does it again and again, the pressure

building as my body grips him tighter with every
deepening stroke.

I can’t take— “Oh God, more!”
“Give you anything, Georgie. Everything.”
And he does.
All he has.
His groin kisses my clit with every mind-

blowing thrust. And I’m there, teetering at the
brink.

“Feel like… I’ve been waiting… for you…

forever.”

Oh God, that pressure in my heart, it’s too

much. “I can’t—”

He thrusts into me again, rocking into those

points of contact, his eyes locked with mine. The
deeper meaning clear between us when he rests his
hand over my heart. “You can.”

I’m falling. Falling like I’ve never fallen before.

Not even all those years ago when it never would
have occurred to me that there was something to
lose, that I might get hurt.

This time I know… and I let myself go anyway.
Crying out my release, I clutch at him with my

body and hands, shaking through wave after
relentless wave of pleasure until the corded muscles
along Quinn’s neck and arms stand out and his eyes
lock with mine. He holds. Whispers my name like
it’s the beginning and end, and spills deep inside
me.

It’s an intimacy I’ve never known.
Another first.
It’s amazing and terrifying all at once. Not

because I think Quinn isn’t safe. On some level I
know I would never need to doubt him like that.
But because for the first time in as long as I can
remember, I have something to lose.

Chapter 19

Quinn

’m trying to be cool. Keep my smile
from cracking my jaw and remembering
to look at the TV at least once in a

while.

But damn, it’s hard when I have George tucked

up against me in my bed. She’s swimming in my
boxers and T-shirt while I’ve got a pair of sleep
pants on, one hand toying with the ends of her hair
while she plays with the other. The moment is quiet
and comfortable on a level I couldn’t have
imagined with this girl.

It feels so right, it’s like we slid into some

framework we’d built in another lifetime. Like this
perfect spot has been waiting for us all this time.

God, I’m a sap.
“What’s with the laugh?” George asks, peering

back over her shoulder at me.

I debate for about half a second whether to

come clean, but I’ll own it. After everything it took
to get this girl, no way am I going to risk it by not
being straight with her.

“I’m not usually a woo-woo guy, okay?”
Her brow slides up, and she shifts around so

she’s more or less lying on top of me, the
rockumentary we’ve been watching forgotten in the
background. Jesus, having her eyes on me like this
is like nothing else.

“Okaaay.”
“I don’t normally buy into that crap when

people talk about past lives, you know, but the way
I feel when I’m with you, it’s almost like we’ve
been here before. This connection… it’s crazy. It’s
how I know this thing is right, that it’s real.
Georgie, it’s never been like this for me before.”

That gorgeous smile that was mine five seconds

ago falters and I want to kick my own ass for not
knowing when to shut up. “But maybe that’s just
the back-to-back games talking and you should
ignore me until after I’ve had some sleep,” I joke,
or try to anyway.

But then George is pushing up on her arms and

leaning in to press her lips to mine. It’s not some
racy kiss meant to distract me and appease me all at

once. It’s tender and sweet and lingering.

And then she tucks her head into the crook of

my neck and wraps her arms around me.

“I feel it too. It’s never— I—” She shakes her

head the slightest bit in that spot that feels like it
was made just for her, and her soft breath washes
over my skin. “I’ve only ever felt like this with
you.”

I get the sense there’s more, but I wait, stroking

her hair and back. After a while I feel the brush of
her thumb at my side.

“I haven’t had a lot of boyfriends. I date a little

—not like you, but now and then—” she adds
softly, without judgment. “But I don’t trust easily.”

Any other time I might have teased her, laughed

and said, “What, you?” But tonight, I hold her
closer. “Tell me why?”

Her hold gets infinitesimally tighter, and the

way her next breath breaks has me tightening my
hold too.

George is not a quiet girl, she’s bold and brash

and edgy and confident in so many ways. But what
she says next is barely a whisper. “I want to tell
you.”

Seconds pass and with every soft breath she

can’t quite bring herself to do it, my heart breaks a
little worse.

Someone hurt her.
Maybe even the way I hurt someone she cared

about.

“You don’t have to tell me, George. Not until

you’re ready.”

“I will… It was a long time ago… and kind of

a… misunderstanding. But—”

“But you’re not ready. Hey—” I take her cheek

in my palm and tip her head so I can meet her eyes,
and my gut knots at the shadows of hurt and fear in
them. “We’ve got all the time in the world. This is
just the beginning—you know that, right?”

She’s still for a beat and then she nods, giving

me a hint of the smile I’m wondering how I ever
lived without. “Yeah, I believe you.”

“Y

Chapter 20

George

o, George, you meeting that banker
tonight?”

I look from the bike I’m

finishing up to Gary, who’s throwing

the lock on the front door. “No, I’m supposed to
babysit. Why?” I ask, always on my guard when
one of the boys mentions “that banker.”

I suppose it’s better than if I had sisters—from

what I’ve seen with my friends they’d be
demanding access to his Insta feed and details
about every aspect of his life. No way would I have
made it more than a month with my “banker” ruse.
But these guys? They’ve mentioned him a sum total
of three times. And his name?

He’ll always be “that banker” to them.
Or at least he will until I come clean. Which I

will. Eventually.

“Okay, but like, you’re busy, right? So if Diego

was only able to score three VIP tickets tonight, I
can have the one for you?”

My brother-in-law Diego always gets killer

tickets, and we’re constantly teasing Pete about it
being the reason he married him. But whatever he’s
managed to get his hands on tonight doesn’t matter
since I promised my cousin I’d babysit last week.

Still, it’s tempting to work Gary a little, tell him

he’s going to have to babysit and I’m going out—
but I can’t do it.

I blame Quinn. With the way he’s been keeping

me in swoons and sappy smiles, I’ve been seriously
slacking on giving my brothers the hard time they
deserve.

“Knock yourself out.”
He dabs like the total dweeb he is and barrels

around the back, already barking into his phone.
“I’m in… yeah, I asked her… fuck you,
douchsicle, I did… yeah, swing around back. I’m
ready.”

Laughing, I pull the Cutthroat Force 1 off the

rack. I give it a roll and a bounce, and update the
ticket. A minute later, I hear the back door again.
Because of course, my brothers are physically
incapable of just leaving like normal people. It

usually takes a solid three tries before they go for
real.

“What, won’t they take you without a signed

note relinquishing rights or something?” I ask,
looking up expecting to meet a pair of pissy,
belligerent eyes only to find—

“Oh shit!” I yelp, tripping into the counter as all

the air leaves my lungs and my stomach drops into
the vicinity of the basement.

Quinn lunges forward, apology etched in the

lines of his too-handsome face. “Sorry! It’s just
me.” He’s quick on his feet, crossing the work area
in a blink and catching me around the side with a
big hand. “Babe, you okay?”

Maybe I nod, but I can’t be sure. All I know is I

can barely breathe and I’m pretty sure I’m going to
be sick. “You’re not supposed to be here,” I
wheeze, searching the space behind him.

Did they pass each other in the alley?
He looks around and then smiles down at me.

“Don’t worry, there wasn’t anyone out back. And I
made sure you were closed before I came. Jesus, I
scared you bad, though.”

He has no idea.
“You sure there wasn’t anyone out there?”
He nods and brushes my cheek with his thumb.

“Positive.”

My lungs start working again and I lean into

him, pressing my head against his chest for a

minute while I get it together.

“I know you’ve got that thing with your cousin

tonight, but we wrapped up at the hospital early
and with the away game tomorrow I thought I’d be
able to sneak in a few minutes with you. Feel like
shit for scaring you though.”

We’ve both got busy schedules, and the fact

that he found a way to get some more time with me
anyway… it’s silly, but means a lot.

All I want to do is bury myself in his arms and

let him kiss me senseless… as soon as we get the
heck out of here.

“How about you grab your car and I’ll clean up

and grab my stuff upstairs,” I suggest, checking the
counters as I roll the bike to the rack against the
back wall. “Then we can head over to your place.
I’ve got about ninety minutes before I need to
catch the L.”

“What? I don’t even get to see your apartment?

Meet your brothers?”

I blink. Because of course he doesn’t

understand why he can’t meet them. Yet. But as to
seeing my place?

I’ve been putting him off every time he asks

about coming over. But maybe this is my window.

“No, sorry—it’s such a sty upstairs and usually

a revolving door of crazy with the boys and their
friends and sometimes even the girls they ‘date.’”
Eli is such a perv, it seems like a crime against

romance to use the D-word in the same sentence
with him. “I usually don’t bring people over. But
everyone’s out tonight. So if you think you can look
past the original 1970s decor and appliances,
you’re welcome to come up.”

Who knows when there will be another

opportunity like this.

The corner of his mouth hooks up and he takes

my hand.

Quinn

“WHOA.” Usually when people talk down about
their place, they’re exaggerating. But it turns out
that George is a girl of her word. This place is beat.

“I warned you,” she says, crossing the yellow-

and-brown-patterned linoleum flooring in a kitchen
that’s seriously seen better days.

The chair at the right side of the small table

looks like the back is being held together by duct
tape. There’s a “chip” in the Formica table top
roughly the size of my hand. One cabinet over the
sink is actually missing the door but a bent hinge
still hangs in place.

“Babe,” I start, but then the I see the smoke

detector dangling from the ceiling, wires yanked

out, the casing cracked… and I don’t even have the
words.

Her eyes narrow on the carnage and she lets out

a short sigh. “That’s new.”

“Pack a bag, Georgeous. I’m talking hockey-

bag size.” And she’s a goalie so hers is even bigger.
“You’re moving in with me.”

She laughs and walks over to what turns out to

be a closet, stocked with more toilet paper than
I’ve ever seen. Light bulbs. Fire extinguisher—
thank fuck—and a bunch of other stuff. “Thought
we might have had a replacement in here, but I’ll
have to get one from my dad tomorrow.”

She doesn’t get it. “I’m serious. And not just

because your brothers are… umm…”

“Havoc-wreaking idiots?”
“Sure.” I was trying for something less

insulting, but now that I’ve seen the mark they’re
leaving—quite literally since there’s a still-drying
patch to the plaster on the wall in the living room—
I got nothing.

Taking her hand, I tug her into my chest. And

when she’s looking up at me with the edgy smile
that gets me hard every time I see it, I say it again.
“Move in with me.”

She blinks, her brows knitting together as her

chin pulls back. “Quinn, that’s nuts.” And then
she’s pulling out of my arms and walking deeper
into the apartment until she gets to a door I’m

guessing is hers.

I follow her into a room that is so totally George

I can’t help but smile. She’s got banners from
Wisconsin, posters and ticket stubs from her
favorite bands. A mug that looks like it’s actually
made out of a bike chain filled with a few pens.
And an assortment of broken and retired goalie
sticks mounted to her wall alongside a drying rack
with her goalie gear strung up on it.

I’m getting turned on thinking about all this

filling my space. “Baby, we could have a wall of
his-and-hers hockey sticks.”

She whips off her T-shirt and tosses it in the

mesh hamper beside the closet. “Ask me again in
like two years if we’re still together.”

If we’re still together?
I’d maybe get a little pissed except that I’m

staring at the bounty of her perfect tits covered by
nothing but a purple silky bra while she digs
through a dresser drawer overflowing with T-shirts.
My mind automatically going to the sounds she
made in my ear the last time I saw them. Played
with them.

I come up behind her and slide my hands over

the hips of her jeans, to the bare skin of her waist
and ribs, then pull her back into me as I cup her
over her bra.

There’s a mirror over her dresser and I’m

seriously digging the look on her face as she

watches me knead her through her bra. Bringing my
mouth to the shell of her ear, I bite lightly. “We’re
going to be together in two years. And you better
believe we’re going to be more than living together
by then too.”

“So sure?” she challenges, but I can see the

smile playing at her lips and hear the catch in her
breath.

“Hell yeah, I am.”
She shivers, her hands wrapping loosely around

my wrists. Not pulling me away, just holding me as
I touch her. Squeezing and plumping, playing with
her nipples until her breath is as ragged as mine.
Sliding one hand down her belly to the button on
her jeans. Rubbing over the top of the denim to cup
between her legs, and then sliding back up to dip
inside.

Her hips rock into my touch, giving me what I

want. “So wet for me, Georgeous.”

Biting her lip, she lets out that little mewling

sound that has me groaning against her ear.
Pressing my hips forward as she rocks back.

“I’m gonna make you come. Just like this.” I

slip a finger inside her and my balls go tight when
she clamps around it. “And we’re going to watch
together.”

Oh yeah, she likes this little game.
Note to self: Get a bigger mirror for my place.
I’m pumping my finger inside her, slow and

firm. Rubbing over her sweet spot with my palm.
“You like watching me finger you, Georgie. Want
to watch me get you off so good?”

That groan. Jesus, she’s already close. “Or

maybe you want to watch more…” Capturing her
nipple between my fingers I give it a little tug and
get another stronger clench. “You want to watch
me fuck you?”

“Quinn,” she gasps, her breath breaking and

catching.

“Should I slide your jeans off? Bend you over

this dresser?” And okay, she’s not the only one this
fantasy is working for. I can practically feel her
bare ass against me, my knee spreading her thighs.
“And when I push inside you, bare, nothing but my
hard cock working inside your slick, wet pussy—”

That building tension breaks and she cries out,

once, before I’m capturing the rest with my kiss,
nearly creaming my own jeans at the feel of her
coming all over my hand. I’ll do her like I described
—because clearly she dug it—but back at my place
where she can make all the noise she wants and we
can spend the whole rest of the night tangled up in
each other. Not when she’s got less than an hour
before she needs to go babysit for her cousin.

Keeping my arm banded around her middle, I

slip my other hand free of her panties.

“That was so—”
“Hot?” I say licking her sweetness from one

finger and then the next.

“Crazy hot,” she whispers, eyes already hazing

with need. And then she’s pushing to her toes,
meeting me for a kiss that’s starting to burn out of
control, when she rips back, eyes wide. “Did you
hear that?”

“What?” Because I didn’t hear anything past

the slamming of my heart and her soft moans.

But now I do.
The creak of wood and rattle of keys.
She mouths the words “my dad” and then

completely loses her shit. She’s out of my arms in a
blink, tripping over her feet as she looks at me in a
panic, spins in a circle, and then yanks open the
closet—filled with shelves—whips around to the
window and starts jerking at the handle.

Which has me starting to freak, because—

“Babe, I’m not going out the fucking window.”

She grips my shirt and pulls me toward the hall,

but at the sound of the door opening shoves me
back.

“Relax. Just let me meet him.” I should have

met this man a month ago.

“What?” she hisses so quietly but forcefully I’m

not even sure how she did it. “You going to shake
his hand?”

Okay, she’s got a point. But still—
“Quinn, get under my bed.”
I’m about to protest because I’m twenty-seven

years old. We’re both adults. This isn’t like high
school when—

“He will kill you.”
And there’s something in the way she says it

that has me dragging my 200-pound, six-foot-three
body to the floor at the far side of her bed and
wedging myself beneath it.

“Pop?” she croaks out. “That you?”
“George!” a deep, raspy voice booms out.

There’s a shuffle of heavy steps and maybe a hug.
“Thought you’d be at that concert since Charlotte’s
plans fell through.”

“What? When—”
“She said she stopped by the shop at lunch.”

And then he’s laughing this sort of Kris Kringle
laugh that has me wondering what the hell I’m
doing hiding under this bed. “Gary didn’t pass that
message along, huh?”

“No, but I see he told you about the smoke

detector. Why don’t you leave that for me and I’ll
take care of it.”

There’s a gruff sort of scoffing noise and I can

tell already I’m not going anywhere because neither
is he.

“Pop, I know how to do it.”
“I know you know how.” Something drags over

the floor and lets out a metallic creak—a stepstool?
“You know how to do everything. I’m betting
you’re the one—” his voice sounds different, like

he’s talking with his arms over his head, “—who
patched the plaster too… This is why you will get
the Shop and they will get to work for you. You’re
the only one with any sense in your head.” There’s
some more shuffling but I can’t tell what it is. “The
only one I can trust to make the right decisions.”
There’s a beep and a click and then a heavy step.
“There.”

“Thank you,” George says, and I can hear the

smile in her voice. Just like I could hear how proud
her dad was of her.

“And now you have the whole night free.”
If it wouldn’t be weird, I’d call out my own

thanks because the whole night sounds damn good.

“That I do.” And that sounds like another smile.

I’ve got it so bad for this girl.

I want to meet her dad. And soon. I want to

look him in the eye and shake his hand—when I
won’t go straight to hell for it. And then I want to
help pack up George’s stuff and move her into my
place. Or a place we pick together if she’d rather.

But before I do any of that, I want to make sure

she knows how I feel. I haven’t been hiding it.
But… I also haven’t actually said it.

I haven’t said it to anyone.
But I’ll say it to her.
I’ve lost track of the talk between George and

her old man. He’s asking about receipts and she’s
trying to answer as quickly as she can. I wish I

could tell her to take her time, that I like hearing
her with her family.

But her dad must get the drift because then he’s

letting out a low chuckle. “Okay, I get it. You
suddenly have a free night and without the boys
knocking the walls down around you. Something
tells me that banker of yours is about to have a
change of plans too.”

Banker?
What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Chapter 21

George

his is not happening.

Ready to puke, I turn as subtly as

I can, half expecting to find Quinn climbing out
from under the bed to confront me. But he doesn’t
move. Doesn’t make a sound.

Why didn’t I tell him about the banker thing?
Because I didn’t want to draw any more

attention than necessary to the kind of reaction my
family would have to my dating him.

And now he hears this.
“Umm, Pop—”
“I expect to meet him. Soon. Why don’t you

bring him to Thanksgiving dinner?”

“About the banker.”

“I know. You like him. Even your idiot brothers

can tell.” My dad leans in, pulling me into his big
barrel chest for one of those rare hugs. “Relax, kid.
I’ll go easy on him.”

It’s a nice fantasy, but if my father ever actually

meets Quinn, no way will he go easy on him. But
that’s a problem for another day. Now? I could tell
him I ended it with the banker, but then how will I
explain going out tonight and all the other nights I
won’t be sleeping here? I won’t. No, this is the
lesser evil. For now. So I smile and nod and hope
that when the time comes, all the people I haven’t
been straight with will forgive me.

Thankfully, my dad’s phone lights up with a call

from one of his other businesses and he makes
some complicated series of hand gestures I have no
idea how to read. All that matters is he heads for
the door rattling off a bunch of questions about a
piece of equipment at the car wash.

Frantic, I zip back into my room and, sick with

nerves and guilt, peek under the bed. “It’s not what
you think,” I whisper, not one hundred percent my
dad won’t come back up when he finishes his call.

Only the look in Quinn’s eyes as he climbs out

warns that I have bigger problems on my hands.
Because this is a Quinn I have never seen before.
Tension pulses off him as rage burns in his eyes. His
jaw is set, and when he reaches full height, it feels
like his body has somehow expanded to take up the

entire room.

“Quinn, there’s no—”
“Call him,” he grits out from between clenched

teeth, his voice so deadly low I’m not sure I heard
him right. “Get your phone, George, and call that
fucker right now and end it. Over. No last trip for
fucking coffee or lunch to explain. Done.”

I’m stunned, can’t even blink.
“You’re mine, George. We didn’t talk

exclusivity, but you are mine. I feel like I’ve been
waiting my entire life for you. And maybe it makes
me an asshole. Maybe it makes me a caveman. But
I’m not sharing. Those other fuckers had their
chance. They missed it.”

This isn’t the easygoing guy with an endless

stream of player lines and relentless flirtation who’s
been all over me for the better part of this year.
This is someone wholly different. Someone
aggressively possessive… of me.

And while I’m a little ashamed of the reaction

I’m having to that borderline unreasonable look in
his eyes, I have to stop this.

“Quinn, there isn’t anyone else.”
“That’s right there isn’t,” he growls, backing me

to the wall, pinning my hips there with his hands. “I
wasn’t going to fuck you here… but if I don’t get
inside you, I’m going to lose my mind.”

Heat spills though my center as he opens my fly

and roughly shoves my jeans and panties down. I

free one leg and kick out of the other. Because I
need this too. Seeing what even the thought of
losing me does to him— I can’t stand it.

I reach for his belt, barely getting the tongue

free before he’s brushing my hands aside to do it
faster.

His breath is ragged, but his eyes never leave

mine. Not once. Not when he thinks there’s another
man, not when he takes off my pants, not when he
undoes his. Not when he’s groaning as he pushes
inside.

Not until he’s buried so deep I can barely

breathe from how full of him I am. And then his
eyes close and he presses his forehead to mine.

“For the first time in as long as I can remember,

I don’t feel like something’s missing.”

I slip my fingers into the hair at the back of his

head, holding him to me with one hand as I cup the
chiseled lines of his jaw with my other.

“There is no banker. I made him up because my

brothers caught me getting ready for a date with
you… and… I didn’t want them getting weird
because of who you are.” I need to tell him the
truth, but not tonight. Not after what just happened.

This time when his eyes meet mine, it’s Quinn,

my Quinn looking back at me. “No banker?”

“No anyone,” I say softly.
“You’re mine,” he says, the words filled with so

much emotion, they touch me in places no one else

can reach.

“I’m yours.”
The intensity in his eyes grows and his cock

pulses inside me. “Say it again,” he murmurs
against my lips as he begins to move, his heavy
cock dragging slowly back, and then pushing deep
again, even slower.

“I’m yours.” Another measured piston and he’s

back at that place that strains my body and steals
my breath, threatening to send me over the edge
with a single nudge. “Only yours.” Another.
Harder. “I don’t want anyone like I want you.”
Harder still. The pressure, it’s too much and yet I’m
sliding my knee higher at his side, tipping my hips
into his thrust. My body begging for more. “I’ve
never… wanted anyone… the way I want you.”

His breath breaks and the desperation in how he

holds me makes my heart ache, makes me seek out
his mouth and kiss him with everything I have.

“Sure your brothers are gone?” he asks, doing

something with his hips that leaves me barely able
to nod. “Good. Because I’m about to make you
come so hard, they’ll hear you all the way down at
the lake.”

Chapter 22

Quinn

o way we should have lost to
Nashville. We’re lined up on the
tarmac waiting to board the plane, the

usual smack talk at a minimum as everyone replays
the shit that went wrong in their heads.

Too many fuck-ups. The lines were out of sync.

Add to that the hit Baxter took in the third, and
everyone’s head is in a bad place.

I want to talk to George.
Not to whine about the shitty night, but to hear

her voice and know something’s going right. We’ve
been together for nearly two months already, but I
swear it feels like years. We talk forever. Laugh
together like I’ve never laughed with anyone else.

And having this girl in my bed… Damn, I don’t
ever want her to leave.

Tall order as we’re both busy as hell, so for now

I’ll take what I can get. And with this being day one
of another back-to-back, I can’t get tonight. Hell, I
probably won’t even be able to talk to her until
after we land in Philly. My girl’s playing her own
game right now and going out with the guys—yeah,
she’s the only chick on the team—after. So the
chances of hearing her husky voice telling me about
her day and whatever stupid shit her brothers got
up to fall somewhere between slim and nil.

I climb aboard, passing Baxter at the front of

the plane talking with one of the guys from
medical. Vassar’s got an open seat beside him but
before I get there my phone lights up with a call.

I’ve got about a second of thinking it’s my girl

before my brother’s mug pops on the screen and I
duck into an open row instead of heading back.

Patrick doesn’t call to shoot the shit. He calls

when he wants something. I’m not in the mood, but
then I never really am. Hell, we live in the same
city and barely see each other once a year, if that.

Steeling my gut, I connect the call. “Hey, man,

what’s up?”

“Rough game tonight, brotha. You were robbed.

How’s Baxter’s arm after that hit?”

Not awesome actually, but no way I’m trusting

him with that kind of information unless I’m cool

with finding my team’s business leaked to whatever
gossip outlet is willing to leave my brother a few
bills flusher. “Fine. He’s great.”

“Glad to hear it.”
Silence seeps in, and I tip my head into the rest

and pinch my nose. I hate this bullshit. He calls.
Probably after money or a favor or something I
shouldn’t give him but four out of five times will…
and then he makes me pull it out of him.

But if I come right out and ask what he’s after,

he’ll play all injured party and it’ll take twice as
long to figure it out.

“Pat, I’m on the plane. You need something

else?”

“Damn, man. Get over yourself. Was just

watching your fucking game thinking it had been a
while and I wanted to see how things were.”

Shit.
I don’t need the guilt trip. I know this guy. But

he’s my brother and even though he’s kind of a
selfish prick with a sense of entitlement like I’ve
never seen before… I need to treat him like one.

“Sorry, man. Still sore over the game is all. How

you been?”

And here’s the thing about Pat. I might not love

the feeling of getting worked by him, but when he’s
just being him… the guy’s got charisma coming out
of his ass. Next thing, he’s telling me about a
couple of the guys he hangs with and how he was

dating some model who used to date some other
celebrity I don’t care about. But he’s got me
laughing at his stories and shaking my head at his
jacked-up antics, and it’s exactly what I need.
“Man, I hate to say it, but I’m gonna have to go
here pretty soon.”

“No problem. But real quick, I know you

weren’t sold on the original proposal I sent you
before. But a lot’s happened since we talked, and
—”

“Pat,” I cut him off, frustrated that we’re

circling back to this, “I’m sorry. It’s not a sound
investment. My guy does this for a living and he
said no way.”

There’s a beat of silence when I think this is

where we’re going to leave it, and I feel like shit,
because for a few minutes it was actually good to
talk to him.

“Hey, man, forget I brought it up, okay? Tell me

something about you. What’re you up to these days
aside from staying off social?”

Of course he’d notice. And I’m relieved not to

leave things on a sour note. God only knows how
long it would be before I got a chance to talk to him
again if he took it personally.

“Met a girl, actually. She’s pretty private and

it’s still sort of new, so we’re laying low for now.”

“You? No way.”
I laugh. “It’s true, man. One look and I knew.”

“Knew what, you wanted a piece of that ass?”
My fists clench, but I keep it level. “Knew she

was the one.”

He groans, muttering my name. “Please don’t

tell me you already put a ring on that.”

“Not yet.” But only because I don’t want to

freak her out. She hasn’t even let me meet her
family yet. “Let’s put it this way. I might have
known from the start, but it took George a little
longer to come around.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, “What’s her

name?”

“George. Actually it’s Georgia Bowen, but no

one calls her Georgia. Dude, she was a goalie at
Wisconsin. Fiery red hair, hot little temper. This
girl’s got an edge that gets me in all the best ways,
but underneath… she’s soft.”

“They’re all fucking soft, Quinn. It’s called

pussy.”

I straighten, picking up his change in tone.

“What’s your problem?”

“This red-headed hockey player named George

is playing you, man.”

Okay, and now I’m pissed. “The hell? You don’t

even know her. Why the hell would you say that?”

“Because… I know what your bank account

looks like, dipshit. You know I love you. But you
aren’t exactly quality boyfriend material. Which
means this chick is either seriously out of your

league and just hasn’t realized it yet—I mean, does
she have any idea how many bunnies you’ve stuck
your dick in? Because eventually, chicks ask.”

“Or?”
“Or she’s not so very far out of your league, but

she’s using you. And brother, that’s what my
money’s on.”

“Then you’d lose. Because this girl isn’t playing

me. She couldn’t stand me when we first met.
Wouldn’t even speak to me, because—”

I don’t want to tell him anything about George,

but screw it. At least this way he’ll back off. “You
remember Mexico, that trip we took on break and
the night I blacked out? The girl?”

“It’s her?”
“No, thank fuck. But that girl is one of her

friends. George hated me on sight, man. And yeah,
this chick is definitely out of my league. We both
know it. But we’ve got this connection, this thing
between us that—I don’t know how to describe it,
except that it’s real and it’s incredible.”

He doesn’t answer right away, but then, “If

that’s how it is, I’m happy for you, man.”

I’m still bristling, not liking the idea of

defending George to anyone. Especially him.

I take a breath.
He doesn’t know her. That’s all. He doesn’t

know her, and he thinks everyone is out for
themselves because that’s who he is.

“Look, I gotta turn off the phone. Take it easy.”
“You too, bro. And sorry for doubting your shit

with this girl. You’re my little brother. Guess I’m
still looking out for you.”

Yeah, well I don’t need it.
Pocketing my phone, I head back to the open

seat by Vassar.

Chapter 23

George

’m bent over the computer in the shop,
trying to figure out what my brother did
wrong on this last order because the

numbers are completely jacked. It’s been snowing
since this morning, and even though that all but
guarantees a slow day for the shop, I’m kind of
digging the quiet and swirl of quarter-sized flakes
drifting gently past the front windows. For now,
anyway—it’s supposed to get pretty nasty later.

I glance at my phone, something I’ve been

doing more and more lately, waiting to see what
Quinn’s going to send next.

Two hours ago, he texted after their morning

meeting with a video Vsev was sharing of this pug

puppy pancaked over a Roomba, little legs dangling
behind on the freshly cleaned floor.

This guy is ridiculous and I’m falling harder

every single day.

Quinn’s brought up meeting my family a couple

of times since that near miss upstairs, but I keep
putting him off with one flimsy excuse after
another. It’s not fair that I haven’t told him the
truth yet, but every time I try, I start to panic. I’m
afraid of how he’s going to react. How my family
will react.

But it’s time. Past.
The bell on the door at the front of the shop

rings and I look up, expecting to greet some hard-
core customer in search of carbide-studded tires for
the snow, but one look into the sea-green eyes in
front of me has me stumbling off my stool.

“Patrick?” They still look alike, but in the

nearly seven years since I last saw this man, the
differences have become more pronounced. Where
Quinn’s features are this gorgeous blend of strength
and balance, his brother’s are just a little off. The
cheekbones more angular, a leaner build on a
shorter frame. His eyes washed-out versions of the
real thing.

Taking his ball cap off, he rakes a hand through

his thinning hair. “Jesus, it’s actually you.”

“You remember me?” I wheeze, clutching the

counter in front of me. What’s he doing here? I

know he lives in the city, but Quinn said they
hardly talk, see each other even less.

Quinn.
My stomach twists. Oh God, if Patrick is here

then Quinn knows.

He knows about Mexico. And he knows I kept

the truth from him.

I shoot a panicked look at my phone and grab it

up, holding it close to my chest.

“Is he mad?” I manage to choke out. Hands

trembling from guilt and fear, I try to unlock my
phone. Try again, only it clatters to the floor.

“Mad, why would he be mad?” Patrick ducks

down and sweeps up the phone for me. Pressing it
into my hand, he holds there as our eyes meet and a
chill slithers through me. He lets out a short laugh.
“And sure, I remember you. Kind of hard to forget,
with that hair and a name like George.”

“But—” He told Quinn he didn’t. And as

unlikely as it seemed that both of them would lose
memories from that night, I guess a part of me was
hoping it was true. That there was some better
explanation than Quinn’s brother intentionally lied
to him.

Because that’s what this means, right?
Patrick crosses to the rack stocked with

accessories and fingers a camera mount. “Couldn’t
believe it when he told me he’d found you again.
Fate’s one crazy bitch, huh?”

My head snaps up. What?
He moves on to the helmets. “Look, Quinn told

me not to bring it up and would probably lose his
shit if he knew I came to see you.”

My heart is racing and my hands feel numb. I’m

trying to follow what he’s saying, but it doesn’t
make sense. Quinn doesn’t know Patrick’s here?

“But if you’ve found a way to get past what

happened in Mexico and we’re maybe going to be
in each other’s lives for a while, I wanted to clear
the air between us. Let you know I’m sorry about
how that shit went down.”

“You’re sorry.” For not telling Quinn he

remembered me all those years ago? That has to be
what he means. Or maybe—

He heaves a breath and meets my eyes. “The

games my brother was playing back then were
fucked up. But if it makes you feel any better, I
think he actually felt bad about you. After.”

“What?” I croak. It’s not what it sounds like.

It’s— “After the blackout?”

“Blackout? Shit, I don’t remember that. Quinn

doesn’t really drink much. If he blacked out, it
wasn’t with me. I just know on the plane home the
guy wasn’t himself. Said he might have taken things
too far that time.”

I shake my head, the words coming at me

making no sense.

That time.

The games he was playing.
The shop feels like it’s closing in, the walls

pulsing around me.

If he didn’t black out…
If Patrick knows who I am…
If Quinn was talking about me on the plane…
Pain slices through me.
…Then all this time Quinn’s been playing me.

He’s a liar who’s known from the start who I was
and has been pretending this whole time.

My eyes cut to Patrick’s. “Why?”
The look he gives me is sympathetic. “Who the

hell knows why. Maybe it’s a lifetime of having
everything come too easy for him. He needed the
challenge or something. Wanted to see how much
he could get away with. How many girls. How far
he could take it.”

He clears his throat. “But hey, maybe this

means he’s finally growing out of all that shit. Hell,
what else could it mean? There aren’t any games
left to play between you, right? So maybe you’re
the one to finally straighten him out. Whatever it is,
I’m just glad you guys found each other again. And
the rest is water under the bridge?” Patrick steps in
and gives me a hug as my hands hang limp at my
sides. “And George, I don’t want the guy to be
pissed at me. You mind not mentioning I came by?”

I absently nod my agreement as he leaves, my

mind still reeling from having my every fear,

anxiety and deepest dread from the last seven years
dredged up with a few careless words. An apology.

I feel sick. Abused.
Angry and hurt.
Humiliated. Again. Because if what Patrick

says is true, then I’ve been letting Quinn play me
all over again. I’ve invited it by serving myself up
as the girl who stupidly thinks she has the upper
hand… making myself the challenge he couldn’t
resist.

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
How could I do it? How could I let it happen

again?

I think about Quinn. About how relentlessly he

pursued me, how single-minded he was.

It can’t be true.
About those months before I let him in, and the

moments when his player facade would slip and I’d
see glimpses of the man making himself vulnerable
to me again and again.

It couldn’t have been an act.
I think about lipstick kiss marks from stranded

grandmas and kids squealing with delight as Quinn
skated with them. About heart-shaped picture
frames and team testimonials. About all the ways
that Quinn O’Brian shows people how much he
cares with actions above words. I think about
talking with him into the night and those times
when we said nothing at all. I think about how hard

I fought him and what it took for me to put my trust
in him again.

And how once I did… I knew it was right. Real.
I think about the man I let myself love, and I

realize with soul-deep certainty that he would never
do the things Patrick claimed.

Never.
Oh, God. Pain grips my belly, doubling me over.
How could I have believed Patrick, even for a

minute? How could I have listened?

Quinn deserves more. He deserves more than a

brother who’s a liar of the very worst kind, and a
girlfriend who’s barely better. Because now I see it
with sickening clarity. All this time I’ve been so
scared to trust again, so selfishly worried about
protecting myself… when I should have considered
what my lies would do to Quinn. How betrayed
he’s going to feel.

An hour later, I’m still standing in the same spot

when Ross and Eli come in, stomping their feet and
getting snow all over the floor, one shoving the
other until they notice me.

“Shit, George. You don’t look so hot,” Ross

comments, ducking out of Eli’s headlock.

I nod. Shake my head. Give up and shrug. I

haven’t stopped thinking about what to say to
Quinn since his brother left. How I can explain,
because suddenly all those justifications and
rationalizations I’ve been hanging on to for the last

few months seem like a coward’s weak excuses.

He could hate me after this.
Another concerned look passes between my

brothers before Eli walks over and feels my head.
“You sick or something?”

That I can answer clearly. “Yes.”
“Go on upstairs then. Take a nap or a shower or

something. I’ll handle the shop.”

Ross adds, “Put a bucket by your bed.”
I walk through my shop, through the work area

and around into the back hall and up the stairs to
our apartment and back to my room where I open
my phone with shaking hands and bring up the pug
on the Roomba.

Quinn has so much heart. He has to understand.

Quinn

“WHO PISSED IN YOUR CORNFLAKES?” Rux
asks, hiking up his breezers.

He’s evened out since this morning when we

found out Greg couldn’t play tonight—pretty sure
we have Cammy Wesley to thank for that since she
took his call while out on a lunch date. But the fact
that he isn’t twerking or some such shit says the
guy’s worried about his center. Vassar, Rux and I

gel pretty good on the ice and we’ve played like
this before, but fucking up two solid lines is never
ideal.

That said, it’s not the lines on my mind.
“Didn’t get a chance to talk to George is all.

She cancelled on the girls too.”

“She sick? Shit, I want to spray you down with

Lysol just for mentioning her name.” At this, he
does shake up the imaginary bottle and wave it all
around me before turning it on himself. “None of us
can afford to be off our game tonight.”

“She’s not sick.” I don’t think. “It’s just weird

not to talk to her before warmup. You get used to
that stuff pretty quick.”

He rakes a hand back through his overlong hair

and squints down at me. “Shit. This like a lucky
jock situation?” Then he’s throwing his head back
and yelling to the ceiling. “Vaaaughn!”

“Christ, Rux, I’m right here,” Vassar growls

from my other side where he’s lacing up his skates.
“What?”

“Dude, activate the phone tree. Nat needs to

clue George in on the concept of taking one for the
team. Quinn, needs a—” His eyes cut to mine, so
damn intense I’m like 90% sure he’s just messing
around. “What? A ‘Good luck, hot stuff’ text or
some dirty talk over the phone?”

“Fuck off, man.” I laugh.
He nods, holds his hand out for a side five,

followed by a fist bump. “Gimme ’til after the
game. Then, done.” Fluttering his fingers at me, he
flashes a maniacal wink and leaves me with the
disconcerting image of where that hand is headed.

Jesus.
George would get a kick out of this. But as I

look down at my phone, with no response to my
text from four hours ago. I can’t shake the feeling
something is wrong.

Chapter 24

George

uinn called before the game like I knew
he would. It’s become part of our routine
and it nearly killed me letting him ring
through to voicemail. But there was no

way I could talk to him without letting on that
something was wrong.

So I waited until the game started and texted

when I knew he wouldn’t be able to call back. I
wished him luck and apologized for missing him,
hiding behind the excuse of a rough day, which at
least wasn’t a lie. And I asked him to text me when
he landed.

I don’t care how late it is. Quinn needs to know

the truth.

For now I’m curled up on the living room couch

watching the Slayers fight it out against the
Penguins. Quinn, Rux and Vaughn are playing with
the kind of finesse you’d expect from players
who’ve been paired up for years, while Popov,
Vsev and Hudson look to be barely holding on. It’s
the kind of game that ought to have my undivided
attention, but all I can think about is how I should
have told him the truth from the start. How terrified
I’ve been of letting go of this secret and exposing
this last vulnerability. And how protecting myself
could never be worth the hurt my lies are going to
cause Quinn.

What if he can’t forgive me?
My stomach lurches at the thought of losing

him.

My phone is blowing up with messages from

Nat. Margo. Cammy, Julia, and Laurel. They’re
over at Nat’s tonight, watching the game I’ve got
on my laptop, and apparently there’s something
going on with Cammy’s ex. I’ll have to wait to get
filled in another time, because I’m no good to
anyone like this. I can’t stop thinking about Quinn.
And as desperately as I need a shoulder to cry on…
Quinn deserves to know the truth before I share it
with them.

A knock sounds at the front door, and for an

irrational second I think it might be him. But
considering he just scored an assist from several

states away, pretty safe bet it’s not.

My legs feel as heavy as my heart as I walk to

the front and check the peephole.

“Pop, what are you doing here?” I ask,

swinging the door wide to let him in and then
brushing the accumulation of snow from his
shoulders and hair. “And what’s with the knocking
first?”

Shrugging out of his coat, he hands me a

nondescript takeout bag that, based on the heady
aroma of Greek spices and roasted meat, has to be
from the gyro place down the street. He glances at
the kitchen table and shakes his head before
continuing on to where I’m set up on the couch.
“Ehh, it’s time I start remembering this is your
place and not mine.”

“You feeling okay?” I ask, because, where’s

this coming from?

He rolls his eyes at me, bushy brows pushing

into the creases of his forehead. “Yes, George,” he
says patiently, setting the bag on the floor and
pulling out a foil-wrapped bundle for me. “Can’t a
man bring his favorite daughter dinner?”

My mouth is immediately watering, and I

realize I haven’t had anything but a cup of coffee
since I woke up this morning.

He looks at the open laptop where Quinn’s stats

are flashing across the screen and shakes his head
in disgust. I wait for him to ask me to change it and

find a Big Bang Theory or one of the other sitcoms
that always has him laughing himself into some red-
faced coughing fit. But he just tucks into his gyro
and quietly watches the Slayers take control of the
game.

We watch in comfortable silence for a while

and when I’m licking the last of the tzatziki from
my finger, he nods in approval. “Better?”

I nod. Meaning it more than I can explain.
“You want to talk about it?”
“What?” I ask, looking around for another

napkin.

“Your brothers said you told them you were

sick, but they know you aren’t.” He sits back into
the cushions. “Asked me to take care of it.”

I don’t really know what to say. It’s astounding

the boys noticed anything like that, but the truth is,
they’re smart guys. Just… not the most mature. But
that explains why I haven’t seen any of them since
I came up here.

“So.” He smooths a hand over his barrel chest

and then waves to the game. “Why you watching
this guy? Something happen with that banker, and
now you’re back to beating yourself up over a
mistake in trusting a piece of garbage like him
again?”

My eyes start to well, and my breath comes in

little hiccups that have me hiding my face in my
hands as my dad wraps an arm around me and pulls

me in tight.

“Pop, there was no banker.”

Quinn

NEED TO SEE YOU.

That’s what George texted on the one night I

couldn’t do a damn thing to get back to her. Heavy
snow and wind had the planes grounded in Chicago
and no flights coming in, so after waiting half the
night to take off, we were finally ushered to the
closest hotel for a few hours of shuteye before
getting out early this morning. She understands
about the travel and team commitments, so I know
that’s not it. But I still haven’t talked to her and
something about it feels off.

Enough that instead of collapsing when I finally

make it home at seven a.m., I head into the kitchen
and start pulling ingredients together with a plan to
make up for not being around after her rough day.

By ten, I’ve slept for an hour, showered, and

run a quick errand I’m counting on putting a smile
on my girl’s face. The plows have been through
already, making the roads passable but parking
nuts, so I grab a Lyft and head over to the shop.

Hours are reduced in the winter, but they’re

open now. Stopping out front, I balance the plate of
lemon bars in my hand before tucking the flowers I
picked up under my arm. My pulse starts to jack
like I’m waiting to jump the boards with two
minutes left on the clock and a single point needed
to win.

I’m doing the right thing. George might not be

nuts about whatever attention I attract in her shop,
but this early after a storm most of the city hasn’t
dug their way out of, I’m banking on business being
slow enough that a surprise visit isn’t going to be an
issue.

It isn’t. There’s one guy on the phone behind

the counter as I walk in and the station where she
was working last time is empty. I kind of hope she’s
sleeping in, since I know she was up late waiting for
me before I finally got word we weren’t making it
out.

The guy behind the counter seems familiar.

Gotta be one of her brothers. I don’t think anyone
works here but Bowens.

He hangs up, looks my way, and—
“Jesus, fuck!” he barks, double-stepping back.
Okay, that’s not really the reaction I get from

most people. The bunnies tend to step into my
space, practically purring as they try to rub up on
me. The dudes, hell, there might be a bark of
surprise, but it’s usually accompanied by an eager
handshake or a starstruck smile. This guy looks like

he’s about to piss himself.

“Sorry to startle you, man. I’m looking for

George. She here?”

His chin snaps back, his face twisting from

disbelief to… hostility?

“What the fuck do you want with my sister?”
So he is a brother. And whoa. “We’re friends. I

just wanted to give her these.” I turn to show him
the flowers and then stick out my free hand to
shake. “Quinn O’Brian.”

I stand there like an asshole for a few seconds

until her brother of unknown name and douchey
manners snorts and crosses his arms.

My jaw clenches. What the hell? I mean, fine, I

know she’s too good for me. But this bag of dicks
sure as shit doesn’t. “Look, man, is she around?”

“George would never be friends with you,” he

sneers. “She fucking hates you.”

I blink. And then it clicks. The reason I haven’t

met her dad. Why she doesn’t want me coming
around the shop. Why this guy won’t touch my
hand.

They know about her friend from Mexico. The

one who’s like family. Or maybe even is family.

Why wouldn’t she tell me that?
I’m about to launch into some serious groveling

when a younger guy on a trick bike bounces in
through the back and I lose my train of thought.

This guy—Christ, he looks so much like George

it’s uncanny, but that’s not what’s got my jaw
dropping and my heart grinding to a halt. I know
this guy… even seven years later, I recognize that
lanky frame and missing tooth.

All grins, he glances over and—”Fuck me!”—

falls off the back of the bike, scrambles to the work
bench and comes up clutching a wrench like his
woobie.

George’s brother—I snap back to the guy I’ve

been talking to, the one who, even at half my size,
looks like he’s about to take me apart, and now I
see it—her brothers are the little punks who
jumped me in Mexico.

The next breath feels like glass moving through

my lungs.

Because if George’s brothers were the guys in

Mexico, then that means, George… my George…
was the girl.

There was no friend.
There was only the girl I’m in love with, who

hated me on sight because I hurt her so badly that
after seven years her heart still hadn’t healed. And
after all these months… she still wouldn’t tell me.

“What the shit are you doing here?” the

younger guy croaks—Gary, I think—coming up
beside his brother who’s now pinching the bridge of
his nose.

“He’s looking for George,” Ross, maybe, says.

But maybe Eli? Not Pete, he doesn’t work at the

shop. The guy meets me with a level stare. “Or
maybe you’re looking for something else now?”

Slowly shaking my head, I shove the flowers

and plate into the guy’s hands. He says something
else, but I’m already walking out the door.

Why wouldn’t she tell me?

Chapter 25

George

n a million years, I wouldn’t have
expected my dad to be the one I turned
to for romantic advice. Especially not

as it related to Quinn O’Brian. But I was at my
breaking point last night and when he pulled me in
for the hug I needed more than anything… the
damn burst and everything came spilling out.

I’d expected him to fly off the handle.
Start talking about knowing somebody who

knew somebody.

Calling up a couple of my uncles to handle

things themselves.

But the reaction I saw seven years ago didn’t

come.

Instead, he asked me if Quinn was the kind of

man who deserved my trust. Why I was afraid to
talk to him. What my heart was telling me.

We talked about trust and love, and the

differences between being smart and being scared.
We talked about my mom. What it was like when
he first met her, and what it was like after she was
gone. We talked about Quinn, and what it was that
kept me from playing it safe with him the way I
have with every other man I’ve met. He asked me
if I was in love and he hugged me again when I told
him my answer.

And when he left, he told me it was time to be

brave and trust my heart.

There weren’t any new messages from Quinn

this morning, but it didn’t matter because I’d
already decided to go over to his place and wait for
him to get home. I should have called, but I didn’t
want to talk to him on the phone. I wanted to be
able to see his face. Touch him.

Only Bobby stopped me the minute I stepped

into the lobby. Quinn had already left.

What if Patrick talked to him?
What if he tried the same thing with Quinn he’d

tried with me?

My stomach lurches thinking about how much

worse it would be for Quinn to hear that I was the
girl in Mexico from someone else.

Now I’m staring at my phone like I have for

half the ride back to the shop. My thumb poised
over Quinn’s name, but my mind too much of a
jumbled mess to know what to say when he
answers.

Before I can figure it out, I reach the shop and

gape at the “closed” sign hanging in the window.

“What the heck are we closed for?” I ask,

walking in half expecting to find the remains of a
fire or burglary. Instead it’s just Gary and Ross
bellied up to the counter, one on the stool hunched
over a pile of crumbs, while the other leans against
the register, licking what looks like powdered sugar
off his fingers.

I don’t have time for this. I need to figure out

what I’m going to say to Quinn. I need to find him.

Gary brushes his hands off on his jeans.
“We’ll open back up in a minute. But first,

who’s this guy you’re dating again?”

A prickle of unease runs up the back of my

neck, and my arms cross defensively.

I’m going to tell them, but not until I’ve talked

to Quinn.

“Just some guy. Why, what do you care?”
“A banker, right?” Ross chimes in, his mouth

pulled down into an exaggerated frown.

Definitely something going on here. “What are

you getting at?”

relationship

with

brothers

complicated. They’re protective and sometimes

knob-heads, but for the most part I’ve been the
boss of them since I was about ten. But right now,
the way they’re looking at me, you’d think the
police had just dragged me home at three a.m.

“Nothing much. Just that I’m pretty sure he

stopped by today.”

Oh God. He was here?
“What do you mean?” I ask, my hands starting

to shake. Did they say something to him? Does he
already know?

“I mean that fucking tool from winter break

was here looking for you. Talking about how you
guys were friends. Didn’t even recognize us until
numbnuts here came out of the backroom and he
saw us together.”

“For the last time, how was I supposed to know

he was here?” Gary grumbles.

Wait— “What do you mean he recognized you?

You?”

Quinn has been staring into my eyes for the

better part of two months, watching me from across
the room from before that. And aside from a sense
of familiarity he can’t explain, there is zero
recognition. But these guys he knows?

Gary looks a little too smug for my taste.

“Guess we made a lasting impression back across
the border,” he says, tapping the bridge of his nose.

But it’s not until Ross groans, telling him to shut

up, that it clicks. “Oh… my… God. You’re the

guys who beat him up?”

Gary grins, flashing that toothless gap. “You’re

welcome.”

No.
Quinn was here. Probably while I was at his

place. And now… he knows. He has to.

He’s got to be going out of his mind. “Did he

say anything to you?”

The guys shake their heads. Gary waves a hand

over the remains of some pastry scattered over my
service counter. “Just shoved a plate at Ross here
and left.”

Ross slaps a bouquet of stems against my chest,

and at my questioning look, nods to the trash
overflowing with blooms. “And these too.”

Shaking my head, I start toward the back. I

need to find Quinn. Explain. If he’ll even let me.

Please, don’t let me have waited too long.
Taking the stairs up two at a time, I stare at the

plate in my hand. It’s from his kitchen. Whatever
he brought me… he made for me.

“Guess you liked the lemon bars, but the

flowers not so much, huh?”

My head jerks up to where Quinn is sitting with

his back against my apartment door. He’s dressed in
dark jeans and a thermal with an open black vest.
That ever-present hint of a smile is nowhere to be
seen and his eyes have lost their light. Arms moving
from where they were resting on his spread knees,

he slowly stands.

“I was looking for you,” I whisper.
He rubs a hand over his face and holds up his

phone, the messaging screen open to my name.
Nothing from me. “Yeah?”

I shake my head, hating the pain I see in his

face, feel coming off him. “I went to your
apartment.”

He looks away. “Something you needed to take

care of in person, huh?”

“Quinn,” I plead, stepping closer. “I’m sorry. I

should have told you. Talked to you sooner. But I
—”

“You’re the girl from that night,” he says, voice

filled with certainty and regret. “Mexico. I guess
this explains why you didn’t want me to meet your
family.” He swallows. “Why you thought your dad
might actually kill me.”

“Can we go inside?”
He nods and stands behind me, not touching

me, not speaking as I let us in. I set the plate and
the stems on the kitchen table and turn to him. “I’m
sorry my brothers ruined these.”

He walks to the sink filled with cereal bowls

and looks out the window. “They had a pretty good
reason.”

They wouldn’t have if I’d told them the truth

earlier. “They were the guys who attacked you in
Mexico?”

“Like I said, they had a reason.” He turns

around, gripping the counter behind him hard
enough his knuckles go white. “They should have
done worse.”

I take a step closer, my hands coming together

in an anxious lock. I’m going to ask. Once. And
then I’m never going to need to ask again. “Do you
remember that night? Do you remember me at all?”

He gives up this strangled sound, his eyes going

red rimmed. “I remember you were a virgin.”

I can’t breathe. Can’t make a sound. But then

that panic fades, because even though this sounds
like one thing… I know it’s not.

He takes a ragged breath. “You were, right? The

next morning… I saw the sheets.”

And there it is. I know this man. “Yes.”
Choking out a strangled fuck, he pushes off the

sink and takes my shoulders in his big hands. “Why
would you ever let me near you again? Baby, how
could you let me touch you after what I did? You
never should have let me touch you.”

I take a breath and shake my head helplessly. “I

couldn’t stay away from you. I wanted to.” My
voice is barely a whisper now. “I hated you for
what I thought you did. For how I felt. And… I
hated myself for never getting over it. I just wanted
to be able to put you behind me, stop comparing
every guy I met to you. And I thought maybe, if I
gave in to that pull… but on my terms—”

He closes his eyes, issuing a humorless laugh.

“If you used me, instead of me using you?”

“I thought I’d finally be able to move on.”
The air leaves his lungs in a slow leak and he

bows his head. “That’s what this has been about.
You putting me behind you.”

“At first. But Quinn, that’s not what

happened.” I step closer, smoothing my palm over
the side of his face. “How could it, when no matter
how long I waited for you to show me the villain
who broke my heart when I was twenty… all I saw
was the man I fell in love with? The one I don’t
think I’ll ever get over.”

His eyes meet mine, searching. “What are you

saying?”

“I’m saying I love you. And I’m so sorry I

didn’t tell you the truth sooner. I was too scared to
let myself trust you completely, and later I was too
scared of losing—”

But then he’s kissing me hard on the mouth and

then gently, fervently across my forehead and over
my cheeks. He’s pulling me into his body and
holding me like he might truly not be able to let me
go. And when he does…

“George, I love you so much. I swear I can be

that guy you fell for.”

I shake my head, smoothing my fingertips over

his mouth, his jaw. “I love you. I see that guy in
you, but who you are to me now is so much more. I

don’t want anyone else.”

“I swear to God, I tried to find you. Figure out

who you were. If I’d known, Georgie—” He shakes
his head, the pain in his eyes fresh and raw. “Can
you imagine what it would have been like if I’d
found you?”

The first tear slips down my cheek. “I can,” I

admit quietly. I’ve imagined it too many times to
count. But this is the first time I’ve felt the loss of
that might have been quite this way… because I
could have given us what we lost.

“I saw you,” I whisper, my heart breaking all

over again. “The next day.” His brows crush
together and his head pulls back. “You were
supposed to have dinner with my family. I’d told
them about you. But you didn’t come. And after,
when we were walking back to the room, we
passed one of the bars and there you were. I was so
relieved, I pointed you out to my family.” Taking a
breath, I go on. “I was about to run in and—and
then this blonde slipped into your arms. And
instead of confronting you about it, I was so hurt,
so embarrassed… I ran away.”

“Georgie, I’m so fucking sorry. I thought—that

girl—Patrick said we’d been hanging out earlier the
day before and I’d thought maybe it was her. It
took less than ten minutes to figure out she wasn’t
the one. Ten minutes and I might—”

“You weren’t hanging out with her.” No matter

what happens here, this is something I can give
Quinn. Something he needs to have. “We met when
you bumped into me at the ice-cream stand right
after lunch.”

He shakes his head, his brows furrowing. “I

don’t— But he said—”

“I know. I believe you, but I don’t think your

brother is being straight with you about that trip.
Patrick was there. Before you walked me home
that night we hung out for a few minutes, and he
made me promise not to keep you too long because
he wanted to have a beer when you got back.
Whatever made you lose your memory happened
after that, because we didn’t have a drop of alcohol
the entire time we were together.” I take his hand in
mine, hating what I’m about to say. “And Patrick
definitely remembers me.”

“What? How do you know?”
Taking a deep breath, I meet his eyes. “Because

he came to the shop yesterday. And Quinn, he said
you remembered me too.”

Chapter 26

Quinn

eorge and I talked for hours.

It was heartbreaking and unfair, and

the only thing that got me through was
having my arms around her as our past

was finally brought to light. I don’t know how she
found the faith in me to stick it out after the shit
Patrick pulled, but thank God she did.

Sliding my fingers through her hair, I lean in for

a kiss I wish could last. “I can do this tomorrow.
We can stay here in your room in this tiny little bed
that’s so perfectly small you’ll have to actually
sleep on top of me. Order takeout. Watch—”

“No. You’ve waited long enough to understand

what happened that night. And I want us to be able

to put this behind us. Go. Talk to him. I’ll be here
when you get back.”

I give her another kiss and then force myself to

leave. She’s right. I need to understand what
happened, and while George filled in the most
important blanks, it turns out that my fucking
brother might have the answers for the rest.

It takes me all of three calls to find out where

Patrick is and ten minutes before a car drops me at
the health club where he’s playing basketball. It’s a
high-end facility, bright and stylish, with the kind of
open space indicative of dues he can’t afford.
Which means he either hustled someone to get in or
he’s living outside his means. Wouldn’t be the first
time.

He’s in the middle of a game, and I offer an

abbreviated wave to the guys who stop mid-play
when I walk in. All except my brother, who swipes
the ball out of his buddy’s hand, taking it up the
court for a layup and a cheap point that doesn’t
surprise me at all.

“Yo, Pat, got a minute?”
Brows raised, he pulls a face. “Interrupting a

game with my boys? Must be serious.”

I give him a tight nod, not wanting to get into it

in front of the guys, but barely holding on to the
rage rising inside me.

By the time he meets me outside the court, my

hands are shaking.

“You knew,” I accuse, pacing the length of the

short corridor.

“Knew what? Dude, you’re freaking me out.”
Playing dumb. He has no idea how close I am to

losing it.

“You knew it was her. George. You fucking lied

about it and then you went to find her and you
fucking lied about me.” I drag in a lungful of air
that does nothing to calm me down.

Pat’s eyes bug. And I can already hear what

he’s going to say. That he doesn’t know what I’m
talking about or I’m way off base, but I’m not. And
before he even opens his mouth, I’m back in his
face. “Why the fuck would you do that!”

His expression goes slack, and he staggers back

a step, glancing toward the door where his friends
are back to playing ball. “Look, bro, we need to
talk about this. But not now. Why don’t you meet
me at my place tonight, and I’ll explain
everything.”

Right. So he has time to get his story straight.
“Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking

interrupting your basketball game to find out why
you lied to me about the woman I love.”

“I thought I was helping you out,” he says,

wiping the sweat from his face on the back of his
arm. “You were so messed up that night, and she
looked like the kind of girl who might read into
things. The next morning, when you didn’t

remember, I figured it was for the best.”

This is rich. “So this was for me?”
“Always, man. Always.” Sincerity is oozing off

him, but I know better. “You were going pro, and
you needed to keep your head in the game. You
were so close and we’d all been pulling for you for
so long.”

“So were you thinking about my career when

you drugged me mid-season?” It’s only a hunch,
but if I wasn’t drinking with George I sure as hell
wouldn’t have started throwing back shots with this
asshole.

His shoulders drop and he turns away. “I swear

I didn’t know it would fuck you up like that. It was
just a Molly—or shit, I thought it was. I wanted you
to loosen up a little. Party. Have some fun.”

Maybe. Patrick’s dumb and self-centered

enough to make that kind of justification, but after
dealing with his petty resentment toward me since
the first time I outplayed him on the ice, I’m not so
sure. “Then why lie?”

Throwing up his hands, he looks around.

“What’s the big fucking deal?”

“She was! And then she was gone like she’d

never been there at all… except I’ve spent the last
seven years feeling like something was missing,
trying like hell to fill a void I couldn’t begin to
understand. When you were there. You knew
exactly who she was and what I lost.”

“Yeah, a chick you banged. How the hell was I

supposed to know she was anything more than
that? You forgot the whole night and I figured,
better for everyone.”

“Better for her?” I demand, ready to put my fist

through his face because right now all I can see is
the hurt that must have been in hers.

“Maybe. You were going into the draft, man.

You think you were going to have time for a long-
distance piece of ass?”

I think I would have had time for George. But

we’ll never know.

I lean into his space, for once unconcerned

about my size intimidating someone. “What. About.
Now?”

“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you going over to her place

and lying to her about what happened. About me.
I’m talking about you being such a selfish prick,
that you’d rather see us both gutted and alone than
own up to the fact that you knew who she was in
Mexico, that you knew everything. Why?”

“All I knew was she had every fucking right to

hate you. I figured she was out for revenge and
tried to stop it before you ended up married.”

I look my brother in the eyes. “Bullshit. This is

because you’re a jealous little prick, too lazy to put
in the work for the life you want, too entitled to
understand why you can’t have it anyway, too

selfish to tolerate anyone else getting what you
can’t.”

“Screw you, man.”
“No, screw you.” I start walking away, because

this isn’t going anywhere good. I know what
happened. And now I just want to get back to
George.

I don’t make it three steps before two hands

land at my back, shoving me. “You get everything
handed to you.”

I stop, closing my eyes. If he backs off now…

But no.

“You don’t even have to try. You play a fucking

game for a living. Bitches falling to their knees
begging to polish your knob. More money than you
could ever need—” another shove, “—and you still
won’t help your brother get a leg up. So fine, you
know what? Yeah, maybe back then I thought it
was time you didn’t get what you wanted instead of
me. And hell, now, I just wanted her to go away
before the dumb cunt told—”

My fist connects with his face before he can

finish. And before his knees hit the ground, I’m
leaving. I’m done.

THIS IS PROBABLY a mistake after everything
that’s happened today. My nerves are shot, my
emotions raw. And more than anything I want to

get back upstairs to George. But this needs to
happen.

For the second time today, the old-fashioned

bell rings as I step into The Bike Shop and once
again come face-to-face with the guys responsible
for my first broken nose.

“Did you fuckers seriously eat that entire plate

of lemon bars? I made them. From scratch. For
your sister.”

Ross gives me the crossed-arms attitude again.

“Figured she wouldn’t want them.”

Gary starts a slow, totally conspicuous grab for

the wrench beside him. “But they were fucking
good, bruh.”

“Jesus. Knock it off,” I say, taking the wrench

away and setting it out of reach. “Look, there’s
something I need to say to you, so I listen up.”
They give me matching attitude and I laugh before
going on. “I’m in love with your sister, okay? What
happened in Mexico between her and me is
something I’ll regret for the rest of my life. But
she’s somehow found it in her heart to give me a
second chance, which means I’m going to spend
that same time making it up to her.” I take a deep
breath and meet their eyes, one and then the other.
“Here’s the thing, guys. I need you to know that
I’m not pissed or holding a grudge about what you
did. You saw some cocky asshole disrespect your
sister in a messed-up way. And you did something

about it. And as much as getting jumped from
behind and having my nose broken sucked, I’m
glad she had someone who cared enough about her
to do it.”

Her brothers straighten, exchanging a demonic

look that has the hairs on the back of my neck
standing up.

But before they can act on whatever ideas

they’ve got cooking, George comes up behind them
and takes them each by the ear.

“But if you ever try that crap again—”
Their hands are up, their voices going high.

“He’ll kick the crap out of us. We got it.”

Leaning in between them, she purrs, “He won’t.

But I will.”

They go white as a sheet, mumbling their

understanding as they back off their stools, leaving
George and me alone in the shop. She rounds the
counter and steps into my arms, clinging to me in a
way that feels so complete and right, I have to
swallow down the emotion it stirs.

“How did it go?” she asks, peering up at me

with concern in her eyes.

I run a hand over her hair and take a long

breath. “Rough. I mean, I had a pretty good idea
what I was going to hear, but he kind of lost it at
the end.” I’m glad she wasn’t there.

“I’m sorry, Quinn. I know that has to hurt.”
Cradling her cheek in my palm, I tip her head

back so she can see my eyes. “What hurts is
knowing how much I hurt you. And knowing that
I’ll never be able to get back that day we had
together.”

She blinks and pinches her lips between her

teeth.

“What?”
Her eyes shift to the counter still covered in

powdered sugar and crumbs. “Are there any more
of those bars back at your place?”

I let out a short laugh that feels damn good after

everything else today. “There’s one, and it’s yours
if you come back with me.”

“Deal. Let me close things up down here and

we can go.”

Ten minutes later, George and I head upstairs to

grab a few things from her room—a few more than
required for one night, and I’m smiling bigger than I
was when I got called up for the draft. She
threatens her brothers within an inch of their lives
about cleaning up the mess in the shop and then
we’re heading back to my place.

When we get into my apartment, I take her

hand. “Georgeous, I’ve been thinking. Maybe we
shouldn’t move in together yet. I feel like I’ve
disrespected your dad and family so much already.
Maybe we ought to wait for the wedding.”

She coughs, those honey-browns meeting mine.

“The wedding?”

“Yeah. The wedding.” I tug her into me, loving

the feel of her body against mine. “You got a
problem with that?”

I know from the spread of her smile what her

answer is before she says it. “No, no problem at
all.”

Good. I’d wait for her forever if that’s what it

took. But I’d rather get my ring on her finger and
make her mine in every way as soon as humanly
possible. “I’m betting we could pull one off within
a month. But again, I don’t want to piss your dad
off any more than I already have. You think two is
enough?”

“I think you’re crazy. And I love you. And we

can figure out the wedding plans later. But also I
don’t think you’re going to have the trouble with
my dad you’re worried about.”

I flash back to the look of sheer terror in her

eyes as she told me, he will kill you. “Okay.”

“And you’re invited to his house for dinner on

Friday. He… um… already checked your game
schedule.”

“Great.” Damn, I thought I’d have more than

two days with this woman before going into the
light. But if that’s what I get, it’s what I get.

“How about that lemon bar?” I start for the

kitchen, but she takes my hand and pulls me back
toward the living room instead.

“Later. We’ll share it. But let’s sit a minute

first.”

I ease into the corner of the couch and George

pulls her phone out before tucking in beneath my
arm. “You know, the reason we didn’t exchange
numbers was because you’d dropped your phone in
the pool or something.”

“Of all the shit to remember, I do remember

that.”

She cuddles closer. “So there was only one

phone between us. But you kept taking it.”

I look at her, my heart starting to thud.

“Georgie, do you have pictures?”

“A couple.” She bites her lip and looks up at

me. “I used to hate myself for not being able to
throw this away. For holding on to something I
didn’t think was real. But now I’m glad I did.”

Swiping her phone to life, she clicks on a video

clip with palm trees in the background. And my
heart nearly stops, because there she is. Georgie,
my Georgie, but years younger, her wavy red hair
streaming halfway down her back. Her younger self
looks back at me, laughing.

“What are you doing?”
“Documenting

this

moment

for

our

grandkids,” I say from offscreen.

Her eyes roll, but she’s delighted and adorable

and sexy as fuck in that little crocheted halter she’s
got on. “Georgeous, you going to let me kiss you
again?”

And she grins, pulling me down to sit beside her

on the sand. “Not on camera.”

“Just one. You can send it to me so I’ve got

something for between visits.”

Her hand covers the lens but not completely.

And then after a few seconds drops away, or maybe
it’s the camera that drops because then the angle is
different and we’re in the corner of the screen, but
you can see both our faces. Hers sort of stunned in
breathless surprise. I’m pulling back, all my
swagger lost in the look I’m giving this girl. I
swallow and nod just a little. She nods too, a look in
her eyes I’ve only begun to see in this last week.
But it was there seven years ago. It’s unmistakable.

Love.
A younger me fumbles for the camera and the

scene cuts. I swipe through to the next photos.
Georgie, looking back at me and my fingers playing
with a bit of her hair. A selfie of our younger selves
completely oblivious to what the next day and
years would bring.

And then me. Another video clip, and I’m

filling the screen, leaning in like I’ve got some kind
of secret to tell. I’m looking at the lens and rubbing
my hand over my heart. And my smile. Christ, I
can’t remember the last time I smiled like that. Like
it was coming from the very deepest part of me.
Like my happiness was so complete nothing could
touch it.

“Georgie, your phone’s almost out of juice, so

I’m gonna say this quick, so you don’t forget it.
One look at you and I knew… I found the girl I’m
going to marry.”

I laugh, turning back to George, who’s smiling

beside me. Her eyes filled with joy instead of hurt.

“So this guy beat me to it, huh?”
She strokes a finger over the screen, tenderly

closing it out. “I wasn’t going to hold him to it.”

“No?” I pull her over my lap, so she’s straddling

me, her knees at my hips, my hands on hers. More
focused on our future than our past, I ask, “How
about me, Georgeous?”

She arches a brow, giving me that bit of the

edge I love so much as she smiles down at me.
“You? Oh, you’re mine now. I’m holding on to you
forever.”

That works out just fine. Because I’m never

letting this girl go. “I love you, baby.”

“I love you too, Quinn. With everything I have,

nothing held back. I’m yours.”

“G

Epilogue

George

Off-Season

eorgeous, I know you’re tired. But
baby, we gotta get up.”

I roll to my stomach, burying

myself deep beneath our fluffy duvet.

“I wouldn’t be so tired if someone hadn’t kept me
up half the night.”

There’s a huff of laughter from the end of the

bed, and I grip the covers, trying to hold on.

Not my first rodeo.
One gruff “Sorry” that totally doesn’t sound

sorry and a firm tug later, I’m giggling facedown in
our bed, nothing but a pair of panties and a tank top
covering me. Well, that and Quinn, who’s crawling

up the bed, his mouth moving over my calves and
the backs of my knees with hungry kisses. His
tongue sliding up my thigh.

“Baby, you know I want to stay in bed with you

all day. But no way am I going to be late for your
dad’s barbecue.”

He should have thought of that before all the

leg kissing, because now I want to stay in bed, but
for a different reason altogether. Tipping my hips
toward his kiss, I bite my bottom lip when he gives
me that man-on-the-edge growl and grips my hips.

“You think today’s the day?” I ask a little

breathlessly, loving the feel of his hands moving
over me, his mouth.

“Oh yeah. I’ve got this.”
It’s been six months since Quinn started asking

my dad for my hand; six months and thirteen
denials. And while Quinn keeps walking out of his
office with a smile on his face and no hard feelings,
promising me he’ll win him over next time… I’m
getting impatient.

My dad likes Quinn. He understands what

happened more than seven years ago and has been
instrumental in ensuring the rest of the family
welcomed Quinn with open arms.

He says I’m his little girl and he wants to know

the man asking for my hand better before giving his
blessing, which is sweet… but as a rule, Bowens
are not. Our kind tends to hold on to grudges longer

than strictly necessary. And I’m getting the sense
he’s maybe having a bit too much fun at my
boyfriend’s expense.

So yeah, we should probably get over there…

So I can talk to my dad, before anyone else does.

But then Quinn does that thing where he sucks

at the skin just below my butt and I let out a moan
we both know means the window for getting to my
dad’s on time already closed.

Those possessive hands tighten, flipping me to

my back. And then the man I love like I didn’t
know I was capable of is staring down at me with
his gorgeous Disney-hero eyes and a smile that
promises being late will be worth it.

“You’ve got to make it fast,” I say breathlessly

as he strips off my panties.

“Two for you, one for me.”
I roll my eyes, laughing and then moaning as he

pushes inside, filling me with his body and his love
and all the things I never thought would be mine.
And all I can think is yes and more and please and
never stop because this life we found together is
everything, and I’m never letting go.

Quinn

TODAY’S THE DAY. I know it.

Mr. Bowen gets closer to breaking down every

time I ask. I can see it in his eyes—he knows I love
her. He knows I’m in this for the long haul. And he
knows that I’ll never ever let her hurt the way she
did because of me before.

But this is her father. And for as bad as I want

to marry George, there’s a part of me that respects
him all the more for making me squirm.

It won’t go on forever. And whatever it takes so

he feels right about putting her hand in mine when
that day comes… I’ll do it.

But for real, it’s gonna be today.
We park on the street in front of her dad’s

bungalow off Peterson. I help George out of the car
and take the plate of lemon bars from the backseat.

Do I look thirsty?
No doubt about it. Do I care? Nope.
The door is opened by one of George’s uncles

who finally stopped giving me the death glare about
a month ago. Today he’s all smiles and back claps
as half a dozen kids under five careen between our
legs and around the corner, the last one grabbing
George’s hand and pulling her along with him.

This family is colorful chaos, beautiful and wild

like the woman I’ve fallen into love at first sight
with twice already and fall a little harder for every
single day we’re together. I love this family. Even
Ross, who’s sitting on the stairs ahead of me, and

flips me off in greeting.

I give him a nod as one of the aunts breezes by,

dropping a kiss on my cheek and whisking the
lemon bars into the back.

Gary hands me a baby that coos and slaps my

cheeks when I blow raspberries on her belly—whoa
—and who sorely needs a diaper change.

Thanks, man.
By the time I find her dad in the chaos, I’ve

already changed one diaper, helped move a dresser
from one cousin’s truck to another’s and promised
a game of soccer in the backyard.

George is smiling beside her dad—whose smile

fades when he sees me.

Shit.
“O’Brian.” It’s like trying to win George all

over again, but one day I’ll get him to call me
Quinn. “Got something you want to ask me today?”

Squeezing my girl’s hand, I nod. “Yes sir, I do.”
Inside his office, I close the door, and he drops

heavily into the worn rolling chair behind a desk
overflowing with files.

I know how this goes.
It starts with some hardcore staring and an

uncomfortable, extended silence where I stand
across from his desk basically inferring all the not-
worthy-of-my-girl thoughts he’s thinking. He asks if
I’m still as serious about his daughter as I was. I
give him all the reasons I am and always will be.

And then he tells me he’s not ready, but to ask him
again in a couple of weeks.

And I do.
Rinse. Repeat.
And that hard stare coming at me from across a

spill of manila folders says today will be more of
the same. It’s okay. I’m already living the dream.
I’ve got my girl. We’re a walking, talking, happily
ever after in action.

Mr. Bowen clears his throat, and I get my game

face on.

“Okay, son. Sit down and show me the ring.”
Happily ever after in action, baby!

Thank you for reading DIRTY HOOKUP—I
hope you had as much fun with Quinn &
George as I did!

Want to stay in the know about all my

new releases? Sign up for my newsletter at

www.miralynkelly.com/newsletter

Hungry for more Slayers Hockey? Rux

& Cammy are up next in

DIRTY

REBOUND

And lastly, I'd love your help in spreading
the word about DIRTY HOOKUP. If you

enjoyed this story, please consider sharing a
review on your

favorite retailer site

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, or through telling a friend.

Every review makes a huge difference!
((HUGS))
Mira

Also by Mira Lyn Kelly

SLAYERS HOCKEY

(Vaughn & Natalie)

(Quinn & George)

(Coming 2020)

(Coming 2020)

BACK TO YOU

HARD CRUSH

(Hank & Abby)

DIRTY PLAYER

(Greg & Julia)

DIRTY BAD BOY

(Jack & Laurel)

DARE TO LOVE

TRUTH OR DARE

(Molly & Ty)

TOUCH & GO

(Ava & Sam)

NOW & THEN

(Brynn & Ford)

COMING AROUND AGAIN (McTark Re-releases)

Just Friends

(Matt & Nikki)

All In (Lanie & Jason) - coming soon

THE WEDDING DATES

MAY THE BEST MAN WIN

(Jase & Emily)

THE WEDDING DATE BARGAIN

(Max & Sarah)

JUST THIS ONCE

(Sean & Molly)

DECOY DATE

(Brody & Gwen)

WAKING UP

WAKING UP MARRIED

(Megan & Connor)

WAKING UP PREGNANT

(Darcy & Jeff)

UNCONNECTED NOVELS

ONCE IS NEVER ENOUGH

(Nichole & Garrett)

NEVER STAY PAST MIDNIGHT

(Levi & Elise)

THE S BEFORE EX

(Ryan & Claire)

FRONT PAGE AFFAIR

(Payton & Nate)

WILD FLING OR A WEDDING RING

(Cali & Jake)

Acknowledgments

Fun fact: There's more to creating a book than just
writing the words. A lot more!

The magic that goes into each book that finds

it's way onto your eReader or shelf extends from
that first willing ear to beyond the last set of eyes
checking for typos. And I am beyond grateful for
every single one of the people continually proving
that writing is a team sport.

So huge thanks to Lexi Ryan, Lisa Kuhne, Kara

Hildebrand, Lori Rattay, Jennifer Haymore, Crystal
Perkins, Sandra Shipman, Jessica Alcazar, Annika
Martin, Zoe York, Karin Enders, Skye Warren, the
girls over at Give Me Books Promotions, Najla
Qamber Designs, Wander Book Club, Tara
Carberry and Nicole Resciniti. To all the girls from
Write All The Words, the PJ Party, my Promo team,

and the reviewers and bloggers who help me spread
the word about my books. To my family who puts
up with my crazy hours and pig pen office and my
friends who are the best break from deadline crazy.

And especially to you! Thank you for reading.
((HUGS))
Mira

About the Author

Hard core romantic, stress baker, and housekeeper non-
extraordinaire, Mira Lyn Kelly is the USA TODAY bestselling
author of more than a dozen sizzly love stories with over a
million readers worldwide. Growing up in the Chicago area,
she earned her degree in Fine Arts from Loyola University and
met the love of her life while studying abroad in Rome, Italy…
only to discover he’d been living right around the corner from
her back home. Having spent her twenties working and playing
in the Windy City, she’s now settled with her husband in
Minnesota, where their four amazing children and two
ridiculous dogs provide an excess of action and entertainment.

www.miralynkelly.com

Looking to stay in touch and keep up with my new releases,
sales and giveaways?? Join my

newsletter

miralynkelly.

com/newsletter

and my Facebook reader group at

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. We’d love to have you!!

Document Outline

Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Also by Mira Lyn Kelly
Acknowledgments
About the Author

Dirty Hookup A Slayers Hockey Mira Lyn Kelly

Document Outline