Page 45 of Slap Shot Scandal
“Option 1—Hank the Hammerhead.” She points to the shark on the far left. He’s wearing a T-shirt with the new Coastal Crushers logo and sunglasses.
I press my lips together, withholding judgment.
“Option 2—Smash the Shark.” Smash is less cartoonish, wearing a white hockey jersey and holding a stick.
“Smash is moving in the right direction.” I wipe a drop of condensation from the iced coffee cup and keep my eyesglued to the screen, avoiding dropping my gaze to her sheer blouse.
“And option 3—Riptide.” The last shark is fierce, wearing a helmet and dark blue jersey. “I was thinking we could have a kids’ version and call him Lil Rip. Kind of a father-son combo. Really lean into the family aspect we’re trying to promote with the whole ‘Hockey with Heart’ vibe.”
“Hmmm…” I take a sip of my drink, slightly annoyed that I don’t hate any of them.
Harbor sits back, her hazel eyes flicking from the screen to my face, then back to the screen again. She taps her index finger on her coffee cup—three quick taps, followed by two longer ones—a type of private morse code she uses when she’s thinking.
I take another long drink, dragging the moment out longer than strictly necessary. Before yesterday, I would have done this just to be a dick. Now I’m doing it because I want to sit this close to her, watch as her skin flushes pink and her pulse flutters in her neck.
Dammit.
This isn’t supposed to happen.
Things between me and Harbor need to stay strictly professional, no feelings involved.
Not lust, not longing—even like feels too risky.
“You hate them all.” Harbor swirls her coffee, the ice sloshing against the plastic cup.
“No, I don’t. Hank the Hammerhead’s a little too cutesy. But the other two both work.”
“Really?” A slow smile spreads across her face, and an ache burns in my chest.
The way she lit up just then—it’s like watching the sunrise over the ocean after a storm, the golden rays bursting through the clouds.
I catch a glimpse of the tiny freckle sitting right below her earlobe, normally hidden by her hair but visible now as she tucks a strand behind her ear. That freckle taunts me—I want to kiss her in that exact spot. Lick the pale skin and hear the hitch of her breath at my touch. My throat tightens as I stare at the solitary mark, somehow more intimate than anything else about her.
It’s fucking painful sitting here—so close I catch the hint of mocha from her coffee mixing with her shampoo—and not being able to touch her.
Especially after yesterday, when we were so close in the elevator.
My fingers itch to reach over and touch the soft skin of her cheek, to brush her hair away from her eyes.
Steele. Fucking focus.
“You pick. Either one works.”
I grab for my coffee and Harbor reaches for her laptop at the exact same moment, our fingers colliding mid-air as she slides the computer back toward her. The brief contact sends an electric jolt straight up my arm, her skin impossibly soft against my calloused fingertips. She jerks back, knocking over her coffee with her elbow. The lid pops off, sending a waterfall of ice and the remaining drink spilling over the table. Harbor swoops in to rescue her laptop as coffee drips onto my lap, the cold liquid soaking through to my skin.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.” She flings her laptop aside and grabs for a napkin, dabbing at the wet spot on my joggers, dangerously close to my dick.
“It’s fine.” My voice is gruff as I fervently try to think the least sexy thoughts possible.
I cannot get a hard-on right now.
But she’s making it damn near impossible, leaning in and patting at my crotch with her delicate fingers.
“Use your focus group thingy or whatever. You’re the expert.” I shove away from the table and stand abruptly, needing distance before she notices the effect her touch has on my breathing—and everything fucking else.
Her lips turn down, but I don’t stick around to hear any of her protests or clapbacks.
Instead, I hustle out of the coffee shop before I do something stupid I’ll regret.
