Page 87 of Married to Number 22
My amusement poofs away like so much smoke.
Damn.
AIDEN: I’m sorry, sweetheart. That sucks, and even though we expected it, that doesn’t make things easier.
LUNA: Yeah.
AIDEN: I’ll be home soon, but I can stop by The Dairy, bring you a pint of that cinnamon swirl ice cream you like?
LUNA: I don’t think I’m in the mood for ice cream. But I could use one of your hugs.
AIDEN: Consider it done.
I shove my phone away, start down the hall, but when I turn into the corridor that leads to the players’ parking lot I’m waylaid by a billionaire.
Or in actuality, I nearly plow one down.
“Sorry,” I say to Jean-Michel Dubois as he snags my shoulder and steadies me.
“All good, Aiden.” His expression fills with humor. “Or should I say, A-man?”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I definitely got the short end of the stick on the nickname front. But there’s no helping it. Hockey locker rooms do as hockey locker rooms do.”
He grins, claps me on the arm. “That’s true enough.” He starts to step by me then pauses. “Nice game tonight—though I am glad we shut you down.”
“There’s always next time.”
A quirk of his mouth. “Also, true enough.” He nods, starts to walks off.
I do the same.
Then remember who I’ve been talking to—whoI’ve been talking to. Jean-Michel Dubois—billionaire with a soft spot for women, who does charity work, and who has a really good, areally fuckinggood legal team.
“Hey, uh, Jean-Michel?” I ask as I spin back around.
He’s been pulled into another conversation, but my question has him stopping, looking up. “Yeah, Aiden?”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, I just…do you think I could set up a time to talk with you”—my eyes slant to the man he was speaking to and I try to find the right words because I don’t want Luna’s business casually tossed through the arena’s hallways—“it’s not about hockey, but it’s…uh…complicated.”
Blue eyes lock on mine, studying me like he can see the depths of my soul.
And it doesn’t take long before I’m one second away from spilling my guts about everything from the time I stole a candy bar at the grocery store to the unholy dreams I had about Luna during my teenage years to the fact that one of his own players on the Eagles, Hudson, showed me the filthy move that earned me that killer goal in the last game.
Before any of that slips out, he glances over at the man he’d been speaking to. “I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes, yeah?”
The man just nods then disappears without another look.
“Does this require privacy?” Jean-Michel says quietly.
I consider that, but he spots the answer—affirmative—before I verbalize it, inclining his head and turning away, leaving me no choice but to follow him around the corner and through a series of hallways before stopping outside a closed door.
He turns the handle, pushes it open, and holds it so I can follow him inside.
Then he leans back against the desk inside the office. “All right, kid. My spidey senses are telling me this is both really good and really bad, and…is also likely to create a fuck-ton more work for me.”
I wince.
Because that pretty much sums it up.
