Page 49 of Pucked In Vegas

I spin around to find my father approaching with that commanding presence that parts crowds like the Red Sea. Evenat sixty-three, Daddy-dearest moves through the world like he owns it.

Which, let's be honest… In hockey circles like this, he pretty much does.

"Dad," I manage, shoving my phone into my blazer pocket. "Everything's on schedule. The sound check went perfectly, the—"

"Good, good." He waves off my report with the casual dismissal I've been getting my entire life. "Listen, I need you to show Jackson Holt the VIP lounge. Make sure he's comfortable tonight. Answer any questions he has about tonight's flow."

My stomach drops to my designer heels. "Um… I'm sure Dana can handle the VIP tour. I should really stay here and—"

"Cassie." His voice carries that tone. The one that says this isn't a request. "He's the star tonight. The future of my franchise. I want him to know he's appreciated."

By me? Specifically by me? The daughter who supposedly hates everything about hockey?

Here I was thinking I was the only Hawthorne with bad judgment.

"Of course," I hear myself say, even as my brain screams in protest. "I'll take care of it."

Dad grins, all paternal pride and business satisfaction. "That's my girl."

I plaster on my best professional smile and pivot away before he can say anything else, heels moving swiftly as I head toward the VIP corridor.

The moment I turn the corner, the smile drops.

Because of course he would ask me to do this. Of all people. Like it’s not already hard enough keeping my walls up with Jackson around. Now I have to personally escort him through a space filled with dim lighting and plush furniture?

Perfect. Just perfect.

By the time I reach the lounge, I’ve talked myself into emotional lockdown.

The VIP lounge is a masterpiece of understated luxury. Soft leather seating in deep navy, ambient lighting that makes everyone look like they're starring in their own personal movie, and a view of the main stage that screamsyou're important enough to be here.

I designed every inch of it. The color palette, the furniture arrangement, even the fancy cocktail napkins with the embossed NHL logo perfectly angled in the corner.

But now…

Now I'm standing in it with Jackson Holt, trying to maintain professional distance while my body screams bloody murder inside my head, telling me exactly how he tastes, how he feels, how he could change my entire life forever.

I get to work, showing him around. Ignoring the way he won’t stop staring. Ignoring the fluttering butterflies in my stomach with every step we take.

"The bar is fully stocked with top-shelf everything," I recite in my most polished event-coordinator voice.

This is awkward. So fucking awkward.

"You'll have dedicated wait staff, and this seating area gives you the perfect angle for photos without—"

"Cass." Jackson's voice cuts through my practiced spiel like a hot knife. He looks over his shoulder to check we're alone. "We need to talk."

I don't look at him. Instead, I gesture toward the elevated platform near the windows and pretend I can't hear a word he says.

"The photographers will want shots of you here, with the main stage in the background. The lighting is specifically designed to—"

"Cassie.Enough." He steps closer, and suddenly the space between us crackles with electricity. "Please. Just stop and listen for a minute. This is ridiculous."

Do not inhale. Do not turn around. Do not notice that he smells like expensive cologne and bad decisions.

"Oh, and before I forget… do you prefer the blue uplighting or the soft amber for your backdrop photo wall?" I ask brightly, like my panties aren't damp from the memory of his mouth between my thighs.

I can feel his frustration radiating off him in waves. Good. Let him be frustrated. This isn't easy for me either.

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