Page 15 of My Puckin' Luck
“Your fighting penalties are off,” I say. I pull up the stats on my phone directly from the Puckers website. “See?”
“Damn, I must have missed that.” Jimmy erases the number with the back of his hand.
Saints lips twitch. “Someone pays attention to my career.”
“I’m a fan of hockey.”
“Really? I never took you for a puck bunny.” He winks.
“I amnota bunny.” I chortle and playfully slap his arm. “Believe it or not, women can be just as big of fans of hockey as men are. I know plenty of women like me who enjoy the sport. I am aseriousfan.”
Jimmy chuckles at us as he fixes the number.
“Remind me to come to you every time I need to know my stats.” Saint brings the Guinness to his lips. He has a full pair and my nipples pebble at the thought of him dragging those across them. Playboy or bad boy aside, there’s no denying my growing attraction to him.
Suddenly, music starts in from three men on the little stage in the corner.
“These guys are good. My new house band. You’ll like them,” Jimmy nods.
“Do you ever bring the team down here?” I ask Saint.
“No. I like to keep some things in my life private.”
“Just like your rooftop sanctuary, only for you? You’re so interesting, Saint. Between the public you and the private you.” We’re talking a little louder now over the strains of the music.
“It was worse growing up. Barbara flaunted me, Esme too, like we were pieces on her chess board that she could move around and show us off at will, especially in front of paparazzi or cameras. Guess I prefer some privacy at this point in my life.”
The band launches into a fast tune similar to a polka, stirring up the crowd.
Saint jabs me with his elbow. “Time to cash in that rain check, angel. Let’s dance.”
I almost choke on my beer. “To this? I don’t think I know how.”
“It’s fun, trust me.”
He ends up simply swinging me around. Linking arms, dashing one way, then switching, linking, and swinging the other. It’s a blast and a fast dance to the finish, leaving me breathless.
Then he starts in with some fancy footwork on his own, and soon Jimmy joins him. The small crowd of us circles around the pair, clapping hands to the music.
“They’re clogging,” a mature woman explains next to me. I don’t care what it’s called, Saint’s all at once sexy but masculine stomping out the beat, and I’ve never smiled so hard in my life.
At the tail end, the cousins clasp hands like in some secret handshake, with everyone in the bar cheering for them. Why didn’t I think to record Saint dancing? Misty will never believe this when I tell her.
Then the band switches things up with a slow tune I recognize from a movie I’ve watched with Nana, one of her particular favorites.
“Oh, Danny Boy…” Jimmy breaks in with a deep voice, then yells, “Come on cuz, sing this with me for your dad, the best man I ever knew. To Daniel St. James, everyone.”
Saint sidles up to him, shocking me with a rich baritone. The bar joins in, too. Linked arm in arm, together, the men deliver a rousing rendition of the timeless song. I never even knew Saint could sing, smooth as whiskey. His voice caressing every inch of me like velvet. And I’m certain his eyes are wet.
This entire night has been like an in-depth study of the man. I’m in awe. He has to be the most misunderstood playboy ever. Why doesn’t he show this side of himself to his friends?
There’s so much more to him than I thought, like he’s layers deep. Each one I peel back, another appears, surprising me with what I’ll find next. Leaving me wanting to know more.
8
MOVE MOUNTAINS
SAINT
