Page 4 of Powder
“By reading a murder mystery?” I teased.
His mouth quirked, and God, his smile was gorgeous. His eyes were gorgeous. For a second, I forgot how to breathe.
“Who knows what’s gonna happen in Belize,” he mused.
I grinned at him. “Maybe someone gets offed with a toothbrush. Airport purchase gone wrong. Classic whodunit.”
“A toothbrush.”
“Yep. No one suspects the old lady in the raincoat, wielding a toothbrush.”
“In a raincoat? On a tropical island beach.”
I leaned in conspiratorially and ran with it. “Picture it—sun blazing, palm trees swaying, and there’s this sweet little grandma in her plastic raincoat, trudging along the sand. Everyone thinks she’s harmless, just another tourist who packed wrong. But secretly? She’s a cold-blooded killer. Toothbrushsharpened to a lethal point, minty fresh death on the beach. CSI: Caye Caulker.” I couldn’t help laughing at my own dumb idea, half expecting him to tell me to shut up.
He snorted a laugh, and holy fuck, I was combusting in my seat.
“You’re on Caye Caulker too?” he asked after a pause.
“Yeah,” I said quickly.
“Two weeks at the Palms & Coral Resort, all-inclusive, courtesy of my sister—she was owed a favor and cashed it in for me. And you?”
“I’m there too. Courtesy of my sponsors. After my so-called breakout year.” I rolled my eyes at myself. “Not that it was really a breakout year—I’m twenty-seven, not seventeen—but this is the year I finally got my shit together. Solid media attention, steady runs, actual wins. Hence ‘breakout.’ Not that you need to know all that.”
“Cool.”
“At least I’ve done well enough that my sponsors don’t have to care I’m gay and worry about who I sleep with, only that I land the tricks.” The words slipped out before my brain caught up, and panic coiled in my chest. Shit. Had I just said that out loud? “Can you ignore what I said? I’m not hitting on you or anything like that. Please don’t hurt me, big guy.” I was joking, but I must have seemed terrified or something, because he smiled, a flicker of compassion softening his face.
“It’s okay,” he said quietly, like he meant it, like I didn’t have to brace for impact. Jack closed the book fully, tone dry. “I’m bi, and also recently divorced.”
What did I say? Should I be honest that I followed the hockey gossip sites as avidly as the ones for my own sport? “I read that. I’m sorry.”
“It is what it is,” he lied. I could see the pain in his beautiful eyes.
Then he tensed, seemed to go into his own world, frowned, and changed the subject. “So, we’re in the same hotel,” he finally said.
“Uh-huh,” was all I could manage.
“Missed opportunity if youweren’thitting on me,” he murmured.
“Huh?” Had I misheard? What in God’s name had gone through Jack’s thoughts to start a conversation that way? Was tall, built, and gorgeous hitting on me?
This time, his eyebrow raised in a way that spoke volumes. His expression shifted—speculative, assessing—as if he was really looking at me now. His gaze lingered, heavy enough that my skin prickled. Was it possible the Railers’ captain was checking out the skinny-but-wiry snowboarder in the seat next to him? Heat coiled low in my gut, every nerve ending lighting up, and I was half hard just from the thought of Jack O’Leary’s blue eyes fixed on me like that.
“My sister says they have all kinds of things lined up I can try—snorkeling, diving lessons, sunset catamaran cruises, zip-lining over the jungle, yoga on the beach, paddleboards, tours out to the reef.”
“Uh-huh,” I repeated, wriggling in my seat.
“She said the nightlife is quiet, though,” he added. “Plenty of time to stay in bed.” He wasdefinitelyleaning in, and I wassure as hellall the way hard now, thanking anyone who’d listen for the table that sat over my lap. “And sleep,” he finished.
“Sleep. Yeah.” Oh, brain, don’t fail me now.
“Maybe, if I’m not reading this wrong, we make our own nightlife?”
Oh fuck.
THREE
