Page 18 of Home for the Hockey-Days

Before I can blink, or think, she spins on her heels and heads toward the bathrooms. Justin hands me a napkin and a glass of water, but I don’t think it’ll be enough. After having smashed my face between her boobs and blown a lengthy raspberry, well, the damn cream is everywhere.

I thought I’d have zero regrets from smashing my sticky face between her boobs and blowing a raspberry, but I do. If she’s as smart a woman as she seems, that’ll make her stay the fuck away from me, because I’m not sure I’m strong enough to resist her pull.

That girl is fire, and I am the moth, ready to burn.

CHAPTER 8

Rowan

No amount of scrubbing my titties in the bathroom made them feel less sticky. That asshole August got me good. I’m back in my hotel room. My very expensive and brand new party dress is draped over the seat in the corner, with what looks like jizz all over the bust.

So much for returning it tomorrow to get some quick cash as a payment for Athena. Ugh.

Fucking August. I’m so pissed at him I think I might send him the bill for the fucking dry cleaning.

And I’ll collect, too. Howdarehe think he can put his hands on me without asking first?

Jerk.

What the hell was I thinking? Shoving a pie in his face?

I grunt. It was a waste of perfectly good pie, sure, yes, this is true, but I also wanted to lick his entire face clean.

My face heats as shame sticks to my skin like the meringue topping still stubbornly clinging to my body.

I need to put him out of my mind. There are too many things in the ‘don’t you fucking dare’ column.

He’s a student, I’m his tutor.

He clearly hates me because I crashed into his car.

And from what Athena told me as she raced out of the ballroom behind me, August Kade is my ex boyfriend’s life-long fucking rival.

Could I have chosen someone more complicated to crush on? I don’t think so.

Shit.

Nooooooo.

I can’t crush on him. I can’t. I can’t have a crush on the burly, surly, gorgeous-in-a-tuxedo hockey player with dreamy, bottomless golden-brown eyes who just motorboated my boobies in front of all of our friends.

Shit.

To distract myself from that unpleasant realization I have a quick rinse in a scalding hot shower, hotel shower cap pinned firmly in place. It’s after midnight, and I washed my hair yesterday. There’s no way in hell I’m washing my curls on back to back days. Nope. Ain’t gonna happen. Not even for sticky boobs.

I pat myself dry with the hotel towel. I always think these places will start doing luxury towels, and every single time it feels like I’m drying my nips with sandpaper. Without fail.

Ouch.

I apply some lotion, pausing to give special attention to my knees and elbows—winter in the Midwest isn’t fun when it comes to dry skin—and rub a little extra on my towel-sanded, standing to attention nipples.

By the time I starfish between the sheets in my king size bed, I’m silky smooth all over and smell of limes and coconuts.

I still can’t figure out what the hell August’s problemreallyis. The look of damn near disgust on his face when he saw me at the party hurt more than it made me angry. And for what? A busted, piece of crap car?

I thought we connected at Bitches Brew. I thought we were making progress. I thought we could be friends.

I guess he had other issues. That or he’s a fat-phobic, judgmental asshole who took issue with a chubby girl wearing a revealing dress. Or maybe his relationship with my ex means I’m guilty by association? Either way, we most definitely are not friends.

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