Page 1 of Off-Limits as Puck

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I didn’t come to Vegas to fall into bed with a stranger.

I came here to celebrate finally having Dr. in front of my name, to drink overpriced cocktails with my best friends, and to forget that I spent the last six years buried in research papers instead of living my life.

What I absolutely did not come here for was to lock eyes with a man across a crowded casino bar and feel my entire carefully constructed world tilt sideways.

But here I am, doctorate in hand, champagne buzz warming my veins, and I can’t look away from the guy leaning against the far end of the bar. He’s tall with dark hair that looks like he’s been running his hands through it and a smile that’s currently aimed at whatever his friend is saying. When he laughs, it’s this rich, warm sound that somehow carries over the slot machine chimesand general Vegas bar chaos.

“You’re staring,” Mia says, glancing over her shoulder at my line of sight.

I am staring. And I don’t care.

“Can you blame me?” I take another sip of my martini, the gin doing wonderful things to my mental state. “Look at him.”

Sarah follows my gaze and lets out a low whistle. “Oh, that’s not just any him. That’s Reed Hendrix.”

The name sounds familiar. Oh, right. Reed Hendrix. Starting defenseman for the Chicago Outlaws. I guess he’s currently in Vegas for tomorrow night’s game. I’ve seen that name on ESPN enough times to recognize, though I’ve never paid attention to hockey beyond whatever my dad has to say about them.

“The hockey player?” Emma leans forward, her eyes lighting up with the kind of mischief that usually gets us in trouble. “Chelsea, this is so perfect for you. You need to go talk to him.”

“Absolutely not. My father will be even more disappointed me.” I shake my head, but my eyes drift back to him anyway. He’s moved closer to our side of the bar, and now I can see the details that the TV cameras miss. The way his shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, the confident way he carries himself, the fact that he keeps glancing in our direction. “I’m here to celebrate my PhD with my girls, not to chase after some hockey player who probably has a different woman in every city.”

“Who says you’d be chasing?” Mia raises an eyebrow. “Because unless I’m reading the signals wrong, he’s been looking over here for the past ten minutes.”

I resist the urge to look again. “He’s probably looking at one of you. Definitely not at me.”

It’s true. While I’m in my reliable little black dress, my friends are beautiful without a doubt. Mia with her cascade of black curls and curves that make men cat-call her wherever we go, Sarah with her model-tall frame and effortless elegance, and Emma with her brunette locks and undeniable confidence that fills the room. Yeah, there’s no way he’s looking at me.

“Chelsea Clark,” Emma says, using her stern voice that she usually reserves for her kindergarten students, “you just earned a doctorate degree in psychology. You’re brilliant, beautiful, and you’ve spent the last six years with your nose in books. If ever there was a time to do something completely out of character, it’s now. And forget about your dad. He’s a prick anyway.”

“He is, and you’re in Vegas,” Sarah adds, raising her champagne flute. “When are you ever in Vegas?”

I smile at that.

“With a gorgeous hockey player,” Mia continues.

“Who’s clearly interested,” Emma finishes.

“And you may never see him again. Like ever,” Sarah continues.

I down the rest of my martini in one gulp, feeling the alcohol burn away the last of my common sense. “Fine, but if this goes horribly wrong, I’m blaming all of you.”

Emma smiles. “I love when a woman makes the first move. Take notes, ladies. This is how you get what you want.”

“Blame us all you want,” Mia teases.

I suck in a breath, knowing I’m about to do something that Future Chelsea will either thank me for or want to murder me over.

I stand up, smooth down my dress, and take another deepbreath. The walk across the bar feels like miles, even though it’s twenty feet. With each step, my confidence wavers. What am I doing? I don’t approach men in bars. I don’t approach men anywhere. My last relationship was with a fellow grad student who took three months to work up the courage to kiss me, and even that felt rushed.

But this hockey player isn’t looking at me like I’m some timid academic. When his eyes meet mine, there’s appreciation there, genuine interest, and something that makes my stomach flip in the best way possible.

“Hi,” I say when I reach him, and immediately want to kick myself for such a basic opening.

“Hey.” His smile is devastating up close. “I was wondering if you were going to come over here, or if I was going to have to work up the courage to approach your table.”

“You were thinking about approaching my table?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

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