Page 11 of XOXO, Summer
For now, at least.
I shrug despite him or anyone else being able to see me. “It’s not an uncommon name.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His tone is rough and raw, and I imagine his jaw flexing with irritation. There’s something ridiculously hot about that.
I gulp, hoping he can’t hear it, though it’s so loud in my ears that I’m now worried they can hear me swallowing in Half Moon Bay. “I’m sure you didn’t call to chat about the commonalities of your name, Mr. Sutton. How can I help you?”
“Despite what you might think,Ms. Season, I’m not so arrogant that I can’t admit when I’m wrong.”
I look around like there might be a camera hidden somewhere. There are miles and thousands of trees between us, but it sure feels like his eyes are on me. “Is this a setup?”
He chuckles, the edge of his annoyance dissolving. “It’s not a setup.”
“Oh. Okay. This is a good start.” I start driving toward home.
“I was wrong.” A man who can own up to his errors in life? I approve. “It’s the shower.”
I burst out laughing before he finishes speaking.I knew it. As my inner champion does another victory lap, I say, “Fine. I’ll be right over.”
Sure, I might be as smug as a bear that just got away with the honey, but at least I didn’t say I told you so.Yet.
CHAPTER 4
DANIEL SUTTON
“Itold you so,” Summer says as soon as I open the door. You’d think she’d won the Stanley Cup after shit-talking all season with that self-righteous smirk in place. It’s something I’m personally familiar with since that was me in the third season of my career.
And fourth.
Ninth.
Eleventh . . .fuck it. It’s every season.
Attitude shapes her body, her hand planted firmly on a kicked-out hip, giving those curves a nice S in the same fitted pale-blue dress she was wearing earlier. It’s short, how I like them, showing off her great legs and shoulders, fantastic tits, and hips to hold.
The swim trunks I’m stuck wearing until I can shower don’t exactly hide anything, so it’s not wise for me to continue thinking about my new landlord’s body or imagining holding her in certain positions. I drag my eyes back up to catch her staring at me.
Parted plush pink lips send my thoughts right to how they’d look wrapped around me. Blue eyes, brighter thanthe dress but softer than the sky, are fixed on my bare abs, inspiring me to run my hand over all eight of them.
Her bottom lip pinkens even deeper as she digs her teeth into it.
It’s not the first time a woman has stared at me like that, and I’d be willing to wager my penthouse in Manhattan it won’t be the last. Comes with the territory. Pro athlete. Celebrity, which I fucking hate. More money than I can spend in two lifetimes. Other than me being an athlete with enough to give my kid the life I didn’t have, the rest is meaningless.
The goal wasn’t to become famous. It was to becomea legend. I want my name carved into the Hockey Hall of Fame next to the best that ever played the sport. Gretzky. Lemieux, Gordie Howe, Orr—and Sutton. Most valuable player seven times in my career has put me on track, and I won’t accept anything less.
Hitting a genetic goldmine asGQandPeople’s“Sexiest Man Alive”—three different years—is a bonus.
Her gaze lingers, making me think she’s not as innocent as she portrays. “Not sure if you knew, Ms. Season, but my eyes aren’t down there.”
I’m hit with a glare, though I have a feeling it’s not as hard as she probably thinks it is. With a tilt of her head that leaves her ponytail swinging to the right, she blinks twice. “I’m well aware of where your eyes are located, Mr. Sutton.”
“You sure about that?”
“Absolutely, thank you very much.” By the hoity-toity tone, the lady doesn’t like to be called out. I don’t blame her, but I’m enjoying this little kitten trying to work herself into a panther. And failing. She’ll need sharper claws for that.
“You’re welcome.”
