Page 85 of Thrown for a Loop
“Why?”
He turns those blue eyes to hers. “Because it’s fun to make you happy, Ice Princess.” He puts a hand on her bare knee under the table. “This is the best idea you ever had.”
Her stomach flips over as she gives him a nervous smile and agrees.
Chapter 30
Present Day
I feel emotionally unprepared to walk into the lobby of Chase’s gleaming luxury building on West Twentieth Street.
“Good evening. May I help you?” The concierge behind the desk—a beautiful Black woman in a sleek dress and stylish gold hoop earrings—is better dressed than I’ll ever be.
“I’m here to see Chase Merritt?” It comes out sounding like a question, because it’s hard to reconcile the Chase I used to know—the broke college guy in the beat-up truck—with this palace of modern design. The understated furniture is angular in an interesting way, and there are more windows than in a greenhouse.
“And your name, please?” Then she studies me, and her eyes narrow. “You’re the girl from that video.”
“It’s Zoe,” I say weakly.
“Interesting.” She lifts a phone and punches in a code before having a brief murmured conversation. “All right, Zoe from the video—go on up to The Lair.”
“Sorry?”
She frowns, as if I should already know what she’s talking about. “The penthouse level. Three players share it. You’ll see. Chase is in the second unit.”
“Okay, thank you.” I proceed to the elevator, with its plush carpet underfoot and its brass buttons, which go from2to10, plus thetopmost level, marked withPH. Someone has glued a label beside it that readsParty Headquarters.
Lord. I guessprofessional hockey playeris an oxymoron.
The car rises swiftly on smooth hydraulics, and before I’m ready, the doors slide open to reveal a landing with three doors, marked not with the numbers I, II, and III but instead with 16, 41, and 7.
It takes me a second, but I realize those are jersey numbers. Tremaine is 16, Chase is 41. And I’m pretty sure DeLuca is 7.
I roll my eyes and then knock on 41.
“Just a sec!” calls a voice inside.
Be cool, Zoe.This is no big deal, right? Just a glimpse into Chase’s bachelor pad, where he brings all the models and Grammy nominees home for dinner and sex.
The door pops open, and Chase is suddenly in front of me, beckoning. “Come on in,” he says. I miss his next sentence. It’s something about food and his refrigerator. But I’m struck by the sight of Chase in low-hanging gray sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt bearing the name of an AHL team in Connecticut.
It’s just unfair how good he looks in sweatpants. And, phew, is it hot in here?
Trying not to gape, I follow him inside, where I’m blasted by another beautiful view. It’s hard to know where to look first—at the sunset over New Jersey, visible through windows that stretch two stories high, or at the outrageously elegant loft apartment, with its miles of golden wood flooring and the most sprawling low-to-the-ground sectional sofa that I’ve ever seen. It probably has its own zip code.
Holy. Cow. I knew Chase had money, I just never imagined he’d be so good at spending it. There’s an open-plan kitchen, long and sleek, at the far end of the space. A lengthy stone-topped barseparates it from the dining area opposite. And over the kitchen area rises a loft level, which houses a well-stocked home gym.
Wow, I think as I shed my coat, hanging it on a hook beside the door, where I get an oblique glimpse through a doorway to the bedroom, also lined with gracious windows as well as a king-sized platform bed made up with a puffy comforter in slate green.
The place is so stunning that it takes me a moment to advance toward the kitchen, where the refrigerator is open.
And to spot the willowy woman standing in front of it.
“Hi, I’m Marnie,” she says. “You must be Zoe. I wondered who that extra portion of guacamole was for.”
A woman.Oh my God. His girlfriend is here.My heart climbs into my throat, and stays there, which makes it hard for me to squawk out a greeting. I manage. Just barely.
But I can’t stop staring at her. She’s tall.Reallytall. Statuesque. Her thick hair is caught up in a braid down her back, like I used to wear. Maybe Chase has a type. It would almost be funny if I weren’t dying inside.
