Page 25 of Jaded

I look up, mouth half open to introduce myself to the new arrival—

My gaze catches scabbed knuckles clutched over jean-clad knees.

A curling line of ink on the back of a hand between thumb and forefinger. Black ink wrapped around two wrists. The softest brush of sharp spice and sweet vanilla.

Crap.

It’s him.

Why is he sitting next to me? He’s not on this team, is he? Nat Taylor . . . and why the hell does that name suddenly sound familiar, like something I should know? Taylor . . . Taylor . . .

My head snaps back down to my bag, because what the hell am I supposed to say?Sorry I kissed you, even though you started it? . . . Yeah, so that was fun, and I’d be down for a repeat anytime, but actually no I wouldn’t. Shoot.

Hi, you’re mega-hot, so can I just, like, look for a couple of minutes?

Obviously, I cannot say any of those things. Or any of the next dozen or so follow-ups my brain invents. Like how I can’t stop remembering it, or looking at him, or thinking about him and wondering why the hell he even did it in the first place . . .

But it strikes me.

If he’s an equipment manager and I’m the team captain . . . we’re gonna have to work together. On like, a professional level. He’s not just some guy I happened to kiss in a bar and now have to look at a day later.

I know what I have to say.

I really don’t want to say it.

I shift up onto my seat, turn to him with my hand outstretched. “Hey, I’m Olli. I . . . probably should’ve started with that.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Nat.”

His hand curls around mine. Hard and callused and soft, all at the same time. Not that I’m noticing. Not that his warm skin against mine is making it hard to breathe or anything, like a burn of electricity, or maybe a nip of static shock that lasts too long, that lingers against my skin long after we let go.

“So.” I do the mature thing and take off my shirt, because we’re changing for practice and definitely no other reason. “Um. About. You know.”

I make the mistake of turning towards him, and hell. He is exceedingly, unfairly beautiful up close and in the bright lights. This close, I can trace the thorns beneath the rose inked into the side of his neck behind his ear.

Damn, did I notice those at the bar?

“About what?” he asks, drawing my gaze from ink to lips—no less distracting a target, let me assure you.

“About . . .” Crap. What was I talking about before this? It was me talking, right? Saying . . . something. About . . . something. And stuff. Right? Or . . . Oh. Right.

I was being the mature adult who let himself get a little too hopeful and horny the other night. Took advantage of a coworker.

I take a deep, steadying breath, and start again. But I suddenly realize why his last name sounds familiar.

Taylor. As inJesseTaylor? Captain of the Dingoes Jesse Taylor, from back when they were actually good? Is there a relation there?

But it’s not really my place to ask. Besides, I’m supposed to be focusing on being the mature adult and all that fun shizz.

“So, about the other night . . .” I opt to keep it simple. “We are technically coworkers.”

“Right.” His mouth curves in a halfhearted smile. “And I was drinking.”

“Right.” I exhale a gust of breath, definitely not feeling disappointed by that admission. I mean, I knew he was drunk. Totally knew that. Was not expecting this to be some kind of big love connection or anything.

Totally not. “So, do-over?”

He chuckles. “Sure. Yeah. Do-over. I’m Nat Taylor. Royal fuck-up, equipment manager, Zamboni driver, and repo guy. That should be a pretty big turn-off, right?”

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