Page 3 of Love Lessons
His smile fades. “You’re sure, huh? Because I don’t use hair gel? Because my shoes aren’t shiny?” He takes an exaggerated glance down at the dusty work boots he’s wearing. “You don’t swipe right on guys like me?”
“I’ve never swiped right on anyone,” I admit, and immediately my face feels hot. That’s too much information. If he knew what a prude I was, he’d laugh his muscular butt off.
I’ve seen the crowd of women hockey players gather—women who know how to do shots and play darts and flirt like it’s a professional sport. That will never be me.
“How many more of those do you have to cut?” I ask, getting down to business. “Is it really only one?”
“Yeah, that one.” He points at a board lying between the saw and the building. “You want to do the honors? It’s kinda satisfying. Seems like you need to work out your aggressions.” He snickers.
“No!” I say quickly. “Not really my thing.”
“Suit yourself, countess.” He picks up the safety goggles. “Cover your ears.”
I do one better. I sprint back to the stoop of my building and leap up the steps, ready to salvage my afternoon. And I swear I feel his eyes on my backside as I go. But it’s probably only my imagination.
TWO
A Walk on the Rough Side
IAN
I watchVera walk back up the steps, her ass swaying, her hips in motion, until she disappears into her building. A woman like her—in those designer clothes and shiny high heels—will often enjoy taking a walk on the rough side with me. And Vera feels the urge. Her big brown eyes don’t hide much.
But I do not understand that woman. She looks at me like she’s starving, and I’m the last bagel at the bakery. But when I try to start something, she shoots me down. That’s twice now. I must be losing my touch.
Wouldn’t surprise me. These past few months have been a trial.
Still, I could show Vera a good time. We’ve got nothing in common, but I don’t see why that should matter. We could have all kinds of fun together. Doesn’t have to mean anything. And I’ve got a lot of tension to work through, that’s for damn sure. Lots of things in my life are suddenly going wrong—even the ones that usually go right.
Last night, for example, I’d thrown a party in the empty space I’m fixing up. It had been an excuse to blow off steam with my teammates. Our season had ended on a rough note for me, and I’ve been struggling since spring.
A couple months ago, I’d hurt a guy in a fight. Fighting is part of my job. I’m good at it, and I always follow the unwritten code of honor among enforcers. In April, though, something had gone very wrong. The fight hadn’t ended with a couple of split lips or a loosened tooth. Somehow, I’d dealt that guy a career-ending injury.
I haven’t slept a full night since.
Then came the playoffs. I hadn’t been at my best, even as the rest of my team had shone like stars. We’d made it all the way to the third round and had beenthis closeto winning the conference. Game seven had gone into overtime, and we could have sealed the deal.
Until I’d fouled one of our opponents. Got mad, tripped him in front of the ref, and took a penalty.
Tampa had won it on the power play, and that had been it for us.
The season ended a month ago, and I’m still not over it. Although renovating the building helps. Construction work is good for the soul. The lower floor of this building I’ve bought—the commercial space—is empty now. So last night I’d invited my guys into my new space and had fed them pizza and beer. It got a little loud. There was music. There was dancing and smack talk. We are not a quiet bunch.
But then the cops showed up. My temper had flared and I’d argued when they’d said we were a “neighborhood nuisance.” That’s when a red-faced rookie cop had arrested my ass.
So that was a low point. Never been handcuffed before. I’d felt sick to my stomach when they’d made me stand in front of that mugshot wall and then took my fingerprints.
That’s not me. I pride myself on being a good teammate and a good guy.
Until last night.
To make matters worse, I’ve got a meeting today with the team’s management. They want to talk about all my recent “unbecoming behavior.”
Christ. Where will my unlucky streak end?
I blow the sawdust off my tools and pick up the scraps of wood off the sidewalk. I’m finished cutting beams, and I have to get ready for my meeting. Working with my hands always calms me down. But eventhatgot me into trouble with the neighbors.
Figures.
