Page 9 of Ice Wolf
“Oh, Lily. I thought I’d need to leave a voicemail. I’m glad I caught you. How about doing your old man the honors of having lunch with me tomorrow? We can go to your favorite Italian restaurant.”
After the day I’d had, why did I have the terrible feeling he was proctoring the perfect setting to tell me I had an illegitimate sibling? “Any reason why?”
“Can’t a father ask his busy daughter out for lunch?”
Laughing, I couldn’t think of a good excuse at this point. “Mother told you about my layoff. Didn’t she?”
“She might have mentioned something about what happened.”
My chest tightened. There was no getting out of having lunch with him. “Sure, that’ll be great. What time?”
“How about one?”
“Okay, I’ll meet you there.”
“It’ll be so good to see you, punkin.”
Punkin. At twenty-six years old, in my mind the name no longer fit. Maybe that’s why I wasn’t marriage material. Who said that crap anyway? What did that actually mean? “See you then.”
Before I tossed the phone, I flicked on the television and pulled up my Instagram account. Maybe experiencing other people’s bad days would put me in a better mood. If that didn’t work, there was always the carton of ice cream I’d carefully placed in front of me alongside the huge glass of wine. I deserved a treat of my own.
I’d told myself I wasn’t going to be upset. Not a single tear shed over the pinhead with the small dick. Yet my eyes filled with them. I’d allowed that man to get under my skin. That was never going to happen again. I was much stronger than to allow a man to influence or seduce me. Maybe this was the point in the great, useless romance novel where the heroine swore off men.
Forever.
Block him from your mind. He isn’t worth your time. Scumbag asshole.
I glanced at several cute dog accounts, which usually put me in a great mood. Today, they came across as flat. I kept scrolling,barely listening to whatever was on the television, but the voices were certainly animated.
When the photograph of one hot man flashed across my phone, I allowed myself to drool a little. Why not? I was single now. The guy was tall, broad-shouldered with dark, wavy hair and holy crap, the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. He was simply gorgeous.
For a few seconds, I allowed a crazy fantasy to play in my head this was the man I’d kissed. No, who’d kissed me. Sadly, that just didn’t happen to a girl like me. I scrolled through the number of pictures, unable to keep my mind out of the gutter.
What was he, a hockey player? Well, duh, the hockey stick gave him away. Wait a minute. What a crazy headline from one of the national newspapers.
Chicago Sun:Is Saint ‘The Savage’ Masters, NHL’s Hottest Bad Boy a Werewolf?
Were they kidding? I chuckled and allowed a few additional wicked thoughts before continuing to scroll. There he was again, this time without a shirt. Holy moly. He was built and so, so hot. Wow. I shifted in my seat, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. Why was my pussy throbbing? When I rubbed my finger across the screen, I closed my eyes briefly and laughed. This man was the epitome of every girl’s fantasy. Tall, dark, dangerous, and rugged.
The headline was similar. I couldn’t help myself, clicking on the link. Of course, I’d have to search for the article on thePeople Magazinelink.
He wasn’t worth all the effort.
However, I was curious. Why was the media crucifying him?
A flicker on television made me lift my head.
There he was again. I leaned forward, reaching for my wine. Saint ‘The Savage’ Masters. Whatever was being said, the photographs were of Mr. Masters with some of the hottest-looking women on the planet.
One after another.
Every single one looked like they just came off a runway in Milan for fashion week. I could never compete with women with perfect breasts and plastic tushies.
Saint in his hockey uniform.
Saint in a bathing suit basking in the Caribbean.
Saint in a tuxedo.
