Page 2 of Spiral
He wandered off toward the food table. I shook my head, chuckling as Oliver approached me and clapped me on the shoulder.
“Your scones are a hit, Jamie. Even if half the team can’t say ‘clotted cream’ without making a face.”
“It’s the simple joys of educating Americans on the finer points of English cuisine,” I deadpanned, the snark in my voice tinged with affection. “Someone has to elevate your culinary experiences. Can’t have you living off hot dogs and popcorn forever.”
Our banter was cut short as more guests arrived, each greeted by Oliver’s booming voice and warm handshakes.
And there he was.
Craig.
I hadn’t been watching for him at all.
Nope.
He was here, a five-foot-ten-inch cute but lethal hockey player. Fast and deadly, he was feared by defensemen all over the NHL for his crafty, squirrely speed. He was dressed in slim-fit cutoffs and a T-shirt that clung to every one of his sexy lines. He arrived alone—I think—with no sign of a girlfriend or boyfriend, and he moved through the crowd with smiles and happiness. He was already halfway through his first beer, with another in his other hand.
As his eyes met mine, the noise of the party faded into a distant murmur. I was so drawn to him, even though he was everything the men I’d previously dated were not: shorter than me, wiry, an air of easy confidence despite the chaos of fame hockey had thrust upon him. His relaxed demeanor here was a stark contrast to his on-ice reputation.
Despite how idiotic it would be to get physical with one of Oli’s teammates, I wanted him.
As our gazes locked, I felt something like hope that maybe he’d come over for a scone and I could dazzle him with something witty. I straightened my favorite dark blue waistcoat. I wore them as a kind of armor, a way of breaking the ice, playing into being a Brit, having something quirky and just for me, but his gaze dropped to my fingers adjusting the fit, and when he glanced up at me, something inexplicable shadowed his expression. It wasn’t discomfort, but there was a retreat, a subtle drawing back that seemed at odds with the smile he offered everyone else. He turned away, weaving through the crowd, a trail of light laughter marking his path. He was utterly unreachable, and I couldn’t help but wonder what I’d done.
Because it had to be me.
My social skills were either at the level of Scarlett and Daisy—I knew all the words to every Disney movie—or at the level of fellow academics. Every other situation was fraught with danger.
We’d spoken only once before, an encounter that had started promisingly enough. He’d teased me about my accent, and in response, I had exaggerated my Britishness, rolling out my best King’s English, which had drawn a laugh from him and a playful declaration that I was cute. Flustered, I’d returned the compliment, called him cute, and for a second, he’d frowned, then it had cleared, and he blushed. Maybe it was being called cute? He wasn’t as big as some of the other players, so was it that I implied he was small? I recall getting flustered, but the conversation had quickly spiraled into academia—with what I thought was a light, flirty discussion about Fibonacci sequences. He’d seemed interested until suddenly, he wasn’t. His words had tangled, and he’d excused himself abruptly, leaving me bewildered and concerned I’d crossed a line I hadn’t seen.
Now, watching him at the party, the ease with which he interacted with others made our previous encounter all the more confusing. Did he think I wasn’t cute after all? The thought nagged at me, a persistent whisper amidst the clinks of glasses and bursts of laughter.
I tried to shake off the feeling, focusing on the guests instead, explaining that jam went on the scone first and, no, clotted cream wasn’t a dipping sauce and needed to be spread, but my gaze was drawn repeatedly to Craig as he moved through the room. He was in the corner with Scarlett and a couple of the wives, touching his toes, everyone laughing as they copied him. He was so… bendy… and when he went into the splits, I nearly choked on a slice of cucumber.
The things I could do to a man that flexible…
Why he seemed to avoid me now, after what had felt like a connection, was a puzzle, but after the first shot of whiskey, my edges smoothed, and with the second, I felt as if I could talk to him. After the third and fourth, with him downing beer like water, I felt as if I could take on the world.
He excused himself and headed upstairs to the bathroom, laughing and joking, taking the stairs two at a time, and, bloody hell, I was after him like a dog on a bone. I found him at the top of the stairs, nowhere near the bathroom, but instead tucked into a small reading nook the kids used, his head in one hand, a beer loose in the other. He was slumped and exhausted, and he hadn’t heard me there.
“Craig?” I asked.
He lifted his gaze slowly, all kinds of resigned. “Jamie,” he said in reply.
I had a hundred things I wanted to ask him or tell him, but a whiskey brain is different from a normal brain, and I yelled the first thing I could think of.
“Why do you hate me?”
Chapter Two
Craig
Hate him?What the actual hell was he even talking about?
My attraction to Jamie Hennessy was about as far from hate, as I was from winning a national speed-reading contest.
Dropping my hand from my muzzy head, I stared at him for what must have seemed like eons to the poor guy. The beer bottle in my hand felt heavier than it should, given it was two swigs from being empty.
“Do you plan to answer? Or are you just going to stare at me as if I have a marching band on top of my bloody head?” he demanded. Then, because he was so fucking adorable, he reached up to feel the top of his head as if he thought there might actuallybea marching band residing on that perfectly combed chestnut hair of his. No matter the occasion, he was always wearing fashionable clothes, vests, ties, slacks, or casual flair, with his scruff just so, his hair gelled to perfection, which was the complete word for Jamie. Perfection. From his clothes to his accent to his sexy-as-sin glasses framing stunning blue eyes. The man was flawless.
