Page 14 of My Puckin' Luck
“He’s so different from you,” I observe and chuckle.
“How so?”
“Funny and loud. Easy going.”
“Is that the type you usually go for?”
“No, actually. I usually go for the brooding bad boys.”
“Then you’re with the right guy tonight.” His voice drops to dangerously syrupy levels. Mixed with the scent of him, I almost lose my common sense with everything that’s happened, like I’m already drunk.
This is Saint, the playboy, which means every word of his could be an act of seduction, like a minefield I need to tiptoe through or risk being caught in his trap.
“Sure, Saint. We can drop this act now. This flirting and dating thing.”
“What act? What do you mean? I told you I don’t fake anything. I’m definitely not the actor my mother is.”
“Your mother is a talented actress. I’ve watched her for years.”
“After tonight, has your opinion of her altered?”
I hesitate. “It was eye-opening, yes.”
“I hope it didn’t traumatize you, her number one fan.” He snorts.
“I’ll live.” I scan the bar. Most tables are full and there’s a constant din of voices in the air. Irish paraphernalia of all kinds adorns almost every inch of the upper walls, the lower parts covered in dark paneling.
“At least I had a good father. I can say with one hundred percent conviction that he was the best, teaching me the ways of the world. I think if he’d have lived I may not have pursued hockey, but gotten a biz degree and followed in his footsteps. But he passed before I could do that.”
I put my hand on his forearm on the bar, the touch warming me through my core, heating quickly. “With such a good example, you’ll probably make a good one yourself. One day.”
His back stiffens, like I brought up something resembling commitment that goes against everything a playboy stands for. I drop my hand.
Jimmy pops out from the back with a tray of food. Our drinks come next. “Here we go. Try our latest on the house. Crispy smashed potatoes with Dublin cheese, Irish Cheddar Pub Cheese dip with crackers, and sausage rolls.”
“It all looks delicious. Thank you, Jimmy.” Replacing Saint’s musk, I inhale the various scents on the platter, starving. Jimmy walks off to wait on the other patrons.
Saint relaxes again. “His food is the best. Ladies first. Dig in.”
I tenderly pick at it with a fork, selecting a tiny morsel of each just to sample on my plate.
“That’s it?” Saint scowls at my plate as he fills his.
“I can barely breathe in this dress as it is,” I whisper.
“Then I’ll have Jimmy box the rest up so you can enjoy it later when you’re more comfortable,” he whispers back. Other men I’ve dated would have made comments about what I’m eating or drinking or regard my body with a snide remark about it here or there. Saint’s approach is refreshing.
“How long have you two been seeing each other?” Jimmy returns.
“Come on. Don’t start twenty questions,” Saint complains.
“What dude? I gotta keep up with you. You don’t call often enough. I have to catch your games on the radio just to hear your name and make sure you’re still alive. Look, I even keep up with your sports stats. Check it out.”
He draws our attention to a large board on the wall, where he has the logo of the Puckers, and below it, Saint’s name and number 68 along with his stats, written in chalk.
“Impressive,” Saint smiles, like he’s suddenly won a popularity contest at the bar.
I scan over his numbers of power play goals, assists, and shots on goal, among others, including the number of fighting major penalties he received per season. There’s a discrepancy I notice, and shouldn’t open my mouth, but…
