Page 8 of Revenge Puck

“Oooh,” Blaire purrs. “Strong words. Tell me everything.”

“He mansplained nepotism to me. He implied I got my job because of my brother, which is rich coming from a man whose uncle literally hired him.”

There’s a pause on the other end.

“Whatan asshole!” Blaire curses appropriately. “I could have predicted this, but didn’t want to assume he was a dick based on how tight his pants were.”

I laugh. His pantsweretight. “And then he told me I was being sensitive!”

“He did not!” Blaire sucks in a sharp breath. “Okay, that’s it. We’re burning down his entire block.” She pauses. “Honestly, Juliette? Considering your Hall Pass is a hockey god, I’m literally so shocked Preston’s aesthetic made your girlie parts tingle.”

They didn’t.

Not really.

But I’m taking chances. Saying yes more. Getting outside my comfort zone, a.k.a. out of my apartment. Dating outside my type because my type hasn’t worked out in the past.

Shaking my head, I step forward off the curb—and smack directly into a solid, immovable, warm wall of a human.

“Oof—!” I stumble, phone nearly flying from my hand.

A hand catches my elbow, steady and solid.

“Easy,” a low voice rumbles. “You okay?”

I look up. And immediately forget how to form coherent sentences.

Oh…

Oh, shit.

I know this guy. I have a crush on him.

Aaron Bishop.

My brother’s teammate. The Ice Wolves enforcer.

Mister Hall Pass himself, in the flesh…

This cannot be happening. I did not collide with someone I’ve only fantasized about in all my bookish girly dreams. The man I swore—after too many glasses of wine during Girls Night Out and Blaire egging me on—that I would, one hundred percent, bang if the universe ever handed me the chance.

Which, apparently, the universe has decided to do. Put me in his path, anyway.

While I’m fresh off a bad date, and wearing shoes I can’t run away in.

“Juliette? HELLO?” I hear my friend screeching through the phone that’s been forgotten in my hand. “Are you there? Answer me!”

I raise it to my face. “Um…I’ll call you back.”

“No! What’s going on? Did that piece of shit Prest?—”

I hang up. Tuck the phone in my pocket and push the hair back from my face.

I blink up at Aaron, brain short-circuiting.

He’s even broader up close. All solid muscle and quiet intensity, like someone carved him out of granite and then gave him bedroom eyes for kicks. His Ice Wolves logo jacket hangs open, shoulders filling it, and I’m painfully aware that I’m staring at his chest.

It’s so, so good…