Page 50 of Pucked In Vegas

Would it be easy to just go right ahead and fall in love with him right now? Of course it would. Ridiculously, pathetically, embarrassingly easy.

Like falling down a flight of stairs… quick, inevitable, and bound to leave bruises in places no one else can see. I could easily let myself believe that hockey's golden boy might actually want more than just another conquest in another city.

But, for so many reasons that I've sworn by for years, I just… can't.

A reporter appears at the lounge entrance, camera crew in tow. "Mr. Holt? We're ready for that interview about your draft predictions."

Yes! Thank you, universe.

"Of course," Jackson says smoothly, his eyes briefly leaving my face to answer them. "Just give me one more minute."

I use the distraction to slip toward the hallway, finding a moment of chance to escape.

I need to get away. Far, far away before I give in.

But what I don't account for is Jackson apparently possessing ninja-level stealth skills, because he's right behind me as I round the corner.

"You can't keep avoiding me," he says.

"I'm not avoiding you," I lie, walking faster, wishing these heels weren't so damn tall. "I'm working."

"Bullshit."

I duck into what I think is an empty corridor, but Jackson's longer stride catches up easily. It's a maze behind the walls of the event room, and when we round another corner at the exact same moment, we come from opposite directions and crash directly into each other.

The impact sends me stumbling backward, straight into the open door of what appears to be a conveniently located supply closet.

Jackson's momentum carries him forward too, and suddenly we're both inside the small space, the door swinging shut behind us.

Oh, for fuck's sake. Seriously?

The closet is barely big enough for two people, lined with shelves of spare linens and cleaning supplies. It smells like… nothing. It literally smells of nothing.

There's a single bare bulb overhead, casting harsh shadows that somehow make Jackson's cheekbones look even more sculpted.

We're close.

So close I can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the pulse jumping in his throat. My back is pressed against a stack of tablecloths, and he's standing between me and the door like a very attractive, very complicated roadblock.

"Why are you avoiding me?" Jackson asks, his voice drifting across my lips.

I lift my chin, summoning every ounce of professional cool I possess.

"Because this… us… was a mistake."

His jaw tightens. "You didn't look like it was a mistake when you were moaning my name last night."

Heat floods my cheeks, my core, every traitorous part of my body that remembers exactly how good he made me feel.

"That was... temporary insanity," I say, trying to ignore how his proximity is making my skin tingle. "A momentary lapse in judgment brought on by too much champagne and that thing you do with your dimples when you smile."

His eyes darken, and those very dimples make an appearance. Dammit. I have to bite my lip so I don't do something stupid.

"Funny, because I was stone-cold sober when I decided I wanted you. And these dimples?" He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. "They've got nothing on the way you bite your lip. Even when you're trying not to smile at me."

I shove at his chest and release my bottom lip from my teeth, but he doesn't budge. "Let me out, Jackson."

"Not until you tell me why you left without saying goodbye." His eyes search my face with an intensity that makes me want to confess everything. "Come on, Cass… No note? No explanation? Just your signature on those papers like last night meant nothing."

---