Page 28 of The Huckleberry Bookshop

“Not even one?”

He tipped his head as though considering it, then gave a small shake.

“How many do you have?”

“Three.”

“Three cars for one little man?”

His brows lowered and his shoulders seemed to expand several inches with his next intake of breath. “I can hardly call myself little. And yes. Three.”

“Why?”

“In case one breaks down.”

She waited for him to laugh, to admit that he reveled in the status of owning three luxury cars. Or maybe he enjoyed throwing his money around, or needed the cars to match his top three moods or outfit vibes, or some such thing.

But no. That was his answer, and gazing at him, she understood that it was the actual, real reason.

She was tempted to tease him about what might be a misplaced fear of abandonment—by his vehicle on the side of the road with nobody who loved him enough to come rescue him—but resisted. Partly because she understood that helpless feeling of a vehicle letting you down.

The doors opened on the wrong floor and he hit the Close button again.

“So you’re going to go hang out with sick kids?” she asked, referring to his meeting with Miranda and Dak.

Some of the players had been doing hospital visits, brightening the days of ill children as part of the team’s charity. After seeing Chad help the stranger in the wheelchair, as well as talking with the parents of special-needs children at the conference center, him being involved didn’t seem like such a crazy idea.

“Not today.” He clasped his hands in front of him as he watched the floors light up on the panel above as they began to move again.

“Monetary donations?” she asked, feeling as though her gentle ribbing to pass the time had become more of a burning curiosity.

“Do they need money?” He swiveled to face her, his expression serious.

She sensed that if she named a sum he’d donate that amount to the charity. She shrugged. “Probably.”

He was watching her out the side of his eyes. His gaze traced from her bare toes peeking out of the bottom of her black stovepipe pants to her white silk, sleeveless blouse with the high neck and open back. Then up to the ballerina bun she’d wrangled her hair in, leaving several curly tendrils to frame her jaw.

“You’re wearing your earrings wrong.”

Her fingers flew to the hockey sticks. How could you wear earrings wrong?

And why did he have to catch her wearing them? She knew she should have buried them in the bottom of her sock drawer so she could forget all about them and never give him the satisfaction of knowing she actually liked them.

“Here.” He shifted so he was standing in front of her, her back to the elevator wall. When his large hands reached for her face she tensed, thinking for a moment that he was going to kiss her.

He huffed out a laugh. “Relax, Tina.” He gently plucked the earrings from her ears, palming the jewelry.

For a big burly hockey player, he was surprisingly tender.

He took one of the earrings, and with a gentle and, strangely erotic tug, slid the hook into place before repeating his actions on the opposite side. His gaze slipped to hers, his moves leisurely.

“Much better.”

The elevator doors opened, but neither of them budged.

“The hockey sticks should face inward.”

“Oh.”

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