Page 8 of Pucked In Vegas

I wonder what she'd be like completely uninhibited. What would it take to make her really smile? Not the polite one she's giving me now, but the kind that's real… authentic. One that reaches her eyes and shows all her teeth.

"You here for a bachelor party or just like to play pretend like everyone else around here?" she asks, gesturing toward my friends with her martini glass.

I grin, leaning back in my chair. "Um… kind of both."

Her eyebrows lift. "That sounds ominous."

"It's my last weekend of freedom."

"What, are you joining a cult?" She rolls her eyes. "Or worse, a sports team?"

I watch her face carefully when she says that. And I see… nothing.

No flash of recognition. No aimed dig at the hockey player sitting beside her. She has no idea who I am, so that coincidental quip wasn't aimed at me… was it?

"You're not a sports fan?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual while digging deeper.

She sighs dramatically and downs the rest of her drink in one impressive gulp. "Let's just say I've spent enough time around sweaty men to last several lifetimes."

My brain immediately fires off six different ways to turn "sweaty men" into a joke that would make her laugh. Or make her slap me.

Either way, I bite my tongue and think better of it.

This is just my fucking luck.

The one woman who's caught my interest in months absolutely loathes everything about my life's passion. My career. My future.

I should get up and walk away. This is clearly going to go nowhere.

But there's something about the fierce way she talks, the flash in her eyes, that keeps me glued to my seat.

"So," I say quickly, desperate to change the subject. "Vegas. You live here or just visiting?"

She seems to relax a little, her shoulders dropping. "Moved here six months ago. Thought it would be good for my career."

"And was it?"

"Well, I'm day-drinking alone on a Tuesday, so..." She gives me a wry smile. "Let's just say I'm reassessing my life choices."

"Hey, sometimes those are the best days." I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "The ones where everything falls apart and you have to figure out what really matters."

She studies me for a long moment, those ice-blue eyes seeing more than I'm comfortable with.

"You're a bit too young to be that philosophical," she says finally.

"Well, I've had my fair share of falling apart too, you know." I shrug. "Makes the putting back together more interesting."

A genuine smile tugs at her lips, and my chest tightens. There it is—that real smile I was hoping for.

I rise to my feet, noticing how her glass sits empty. "Can I get you another drink?"

She looks up at me, one eyebrow arched perfectly. "Sure. So long as you're not trying to roofie me."

I press a hand to my chest, feigning offense. "I'm hurt. Do I look like the kind of guy who needs to drug women to get their attention?"

"No," she admits, her eyes traveling down my body in a way that makes my skin heat. "But that's exactly what a guy who roofies drinks would say."

I laugh, genuinely amused by her sharp tongue.

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