Page 4 of Desperate Pucker
An ugly memory slingshots to the front of my brain. I think of my ex, how she was rich and spoiled too…and how she shattered my heart into a million pieces without giving a shit.
I shove aside the memory. That has nothing to do with this.
I stand up from the table, irritation and frustration simmering inside of me as I look at her. “I’m not working with you.”
Chapter 2
Maddy
Iwatch as Ryker turns to walk out of the conference room.
A strange cocktail of emotions surges through me. Frustration, embarrassment, and a surprising dose of determination.
I know exactly what he’s thinking about me in this moment. It’s what everyone thinks about me when they first meet me.
Spoiled rotten rich girl. Billionaire’s daughter who had everything I could ever want handed to me on a silver platter.
They couldn’t be more wrong.
A familiar, shameful feeling courses through me, roasting me from the inside out.
I don’t owe anyone an explanation or my life’s story, least of all this guy. I’m here to do my job.
Yeah, he’s right. The only reason I have this job is because my dad owns this team. There are a dozen other more qualified people who deserve this position, but I’m the one who got it.
Because life’s not fair, and sometimes, people get things they don’t deserve, both good and bad.
A sad, sinking feeling gnaws at my gut. I know exactly what that’s like.
I take a slow, silent breath. I was so nervous for this meeting. I was afraid that this veteran hockey player would see past my hard exterior to the insecure, anxious, unqualified mess I actually am.
And that’s exactly what’s happening. And it feels just as terrible as I thought it would.
I force myself to push past the anxiety kicking through me with another quiet breath. I did this whenever I was nervous for a figure skating competition, and my nerves would go haywire. Slow, quiet breaths.
“You have to work with me,” I say. “You don’t have a choice.”
Ryker stops walking. After a second, he turns around and glares at me.
My skin pricks as I absorb the angry expression on his face. I stare back and try not to think about just how good-looking he is.
I don’t normally find guys like him attractive—guys who walk around with a perma-scowl on their face, who look perpetually pissed off.
And I don’t normally like hockey guys either. I’ve been a figure skater my whole life, so the guys I’ve been around and dated were more stylish, clean-cut, prettier.
Pretty is not how I would describe Ryker St. George. He’s rugged and rough. I can tell he doesn’t give a shit about how he looks and probably puts zero effort into his appearance. Which is even more irritating given how handsome he is.
I take in his shaggy, dark brown hair, how it’s messy and on the curly side of wavy. A thick sheet of dark stubble covers his impossibly square jaw. There’s a slight slant on the bridge of his nose, like he broke it at some point.
And his eyes.
I blink at the sharpness in his stare. It’s like he’s staring right through me, peering into my soul.
They’re the color of bourbon. Warm, dark, and golden all at once.
I blink and refocus. I can’t let him walk out of this room refusing to work with me. I need to convince him that he needs to let me train him—that he needs me to help him in his recovery.
“This is Denver. There are dozens of figure skating coaches who are probably a million times better than you that I’d rather work with.”
