Page 31 of The Wingman

DARCY

The next evening,I put the finishing touches on my makeup while waiting for Hayden.

I lookgood. My hair is smooth, shiny, and cooperative, and I’m wearing my favorite perfume—an orange vanilla scent—and the dress I bought yesterday.

Excitement shivers through me. My first Valentine’s Day.

Hayden appears in my bedroom doorway and lets out a long, low whistle.

“Look at you.” His eyes rake over me.

The sight of Hayden Owens in a bespoke navy suit makes me forget my own name. I could kiss his tailor for the way the slacks and jacket somehow make him look even taller and broader, and for how the deep, rich navy blue makes his eyes even brighter. It’s the perfect shade of navy, setting off his short, golden-blond hair.

“Wow,” I say, at a loss for words.

Hockey players are supposed to be greasy, sweaty, and toothless, but Hayden Owens is that old Hollywood, sparkling, breathtaking kind of handsome. In any era, his broad smile, strong jaw, and deadly blue eyes would have people starstruck.

It should be easy to forget how good-looking he is becausewe’ve been friends for so long, but it isn’t. I’ll never get used to how beautiful he is.

My gaze snags on his thick hair, freshly trimmed and styled with product, and I think about how soft it was when I dragged my fingers through it the other night. How his eyes fell halfway closed. The way his voice took on that gritty, raspy edge that made me clench my thighs.

My skin goes warm, and I clear my throat. “You got a haircut?”

His eyes trail up and down my form—my bare legs, my dress, my neckline, my hair. “Gotta look good for my date tonight,” he says absently.

I feel his gaze like he’s touching me. A shiver rolls down my spine.

He arches a brow, looking smug. “You know how to make a guy feel special, Andersen.”

Warmth blooms in my chest, and we look at each other for a long moment. There’s a fizzy feeling behind my ribcage, moving up into my sternum, and my breath catches.

Oh. Oh, no.

I’m developing a crush on Hayden.

I remember the urgent way he jumped up when I touched his thigh, like he couldn’t get away fast enough. How he moved away from me in the kitchen last night. How he won’t loop his arm around my shoulders or mess up my hair anymore. He’s told me a million times how he cuts things off with women the second he senses they’re getting attached, because it’s the right thing to do when he knows he won’t want a relationship.

He was very,veryclear that tonight is about practice and him wing-manning me, and nothing else. He repeated the wordfriendsabout twelve times to be extra clear.

If a guy’s interested, he’ll let you know, he said the other night.

I can’t have a crush on Hayden. He’s a total player, he’s my friend, and, most importantly, he’s mywingman. He barely endured me touching his leg. He doesn’t want this, so I’m not going to get ideas. He’s just being kind, because that’s who he is.

“We should get going.” I look away and slip a pair of earrings on. Silly Darcy, swooning over a friend who’s miles out of my league.

We head to the living room, but at the end of the hall, I stop dead in my tracks, jaw dropping.

The kitchen island is covered in bouquets of red roses. Multiple bouquets. I’ve never seen so many roses in one place.

“For me?” I sputter, heart lifting.

Hayden stands behind me, so close I can feel his body heat. “They’re not forme.” The strong line of his throat works as he swallows, rubbing the back of his neck. “Of course they’re for you. You’re my date.”

I touch one of the blooms, brushing my fingertip over the smooth petal while delight courses through me. I count the vases on the counter.

“Eight.” He looks away, folding his arms over his chest. “One for each year we’ve been friends.”

My heart squeezes. “Hayden.” The word comes out so soft, and I’m about to melt into a puddle. “You didn’t have to do this.”

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