Page 5 of Forbidden Forward

“Depends on the woman,” I finally answer. Then I point at the beer. “Can I get you something else? Maybe a glass of white wine or a spritzer?” Yeah, it’s a stereotype but also kinda predictable.

“No, thanks. I’ll get my own.” She shoves the beer back into my hand, and I raise it in a mock toast as she pivots away from me.

I watch her ass sway as she walks away. Like I said, the view is enjoyable. But also like I said, I need someone who’s light-years distant from Taylor. I’m not sure that girl exists in this universe. And if she does, I don’t deserve her.

Shaking my head, I find a corner and lean into it while I scan the room. I like watching people and filing away mental notes about them. My mom calls it a gift—photographic memory or some shit like that—while my sister says it’s downright creepy. I might agree with her, but hey, it is what it is. Besides, who am I hurting?

I especially like watching my teammates in this setting because it helps me puzzle them out. Call it research. Their personalities shift from their single-purposed on-ice personas when they’re letting loose at affairs like this, and that change offers me a window into what makes them tick.

I’m not doing it to hold something over them. I’m not that guy. My scrutiny has a legit purpose. If I learn a few of their personal habits, what they’re into away from the rink, I can connect with them more seamlessly. You know, like if I find out they’re into water sports, I might invite them along on a sail. But I have to be completely sure they deserve that invite. So far, no one on the Surge has passed the test, but I’m damn picky about the person I get stuck with for hours in a boat. I’m even pickier about who gets to meet Gail. Only a handful of my former teammates even knew she existed, and only two were lucky enough to meet her. I count them among my best friends.

Maybe someday I’ll invite Durby. Angie too—she’s a good egg. If that goes well, he might ask me along on one of his excursions. It’s a slow vetting process, the back and forth, and I hope it’s not a waste of time. Because if I get traded next month, I’ll have to start over again.

Shit. I hope that doesn’t happen, but Coach reminded me before the break that Harper and I are still at odds. “You’re a valuable member of the team, Chaser, but if you can’t get along with the guy who’ll eventually be your captain, then I’m gonna have to throw your name in the ring when management looks at trade assets before the deadline. Team chemistry is everything, and we ain’t got that now with you two rams constantly pawing at the ground.”

In this scenario, I’m the ram who’s supposed to back down. And that sucks because it goes against everything in me to back down.

I nurse my beer and continue to watch the crowd, but I’m getting restless, and my fingers itch to snag one of the ribbons attached to a balloon. My body and brain are spent after the last few months, and I’m anxious to recharge in Beaufort—the one in North Carolina. I’ve made my appearance, heaped my plate with seconds from the buffet, given the bride and groom my best wishes, and thanked my hosts. The cake hasn’t been cut yet, but I’m calculating how much more time I have to spend here before I can make my exit.

My gaze shoots to the French doors that lead to a covered patio, and I’m encouraged because there’s traffic coming and going. I could melt into the flow and easily slip out without being noticed. As I sip my beer, I look round for Durby in case he’s close enough to spy my planned escape.

A shriek pierces my eardrums, and my attention is yanked to a couple of wives who have just entered from the patio. Probably ducked out for a vape. They’re laughing so hard they can barely stand. The shrieker is particularly loud. Or drunk. Or both. I catch a swish of golden hair as one of the ladies backs up, like she’s trying to separate herself from Shrieky. Except Shrieky and her friend stumble backward too. I see what’s unfolding as if it’s in slow-mo, and I react.

I reach the blond as she’s toppling, and she slams against me but stays upright. It’s a win. My hand cups her elbow as I gently pull her out of harm’s way. Shrieky doesn’t notice, and the two ladies move off in a frenzy of giggles. The woman I’ve just caught looks up at me, and her deer-in-the-headlights gaze locks on.

Her eyes are the palest shade of green I’ve ever seen, and I sink into their soft depths. Big. Luminous. Expressive. I’m rooted where I stand, dumbstruck, the air knocked from me. For an instant, there’s a connection, a bow line stretching between us, tying us to one another. I memorize every detail about her.

She has a heart-shaped face, perfect cheekbones, and a sharp jawline. And Jesus, her mouth! It’s rosy and full—almost pouty—and right now it’s in the shape of an O as she stares at me. Her hair is thick and loose, not long, just brushing her shoulders. The strands are like shimmering gold filaments, with a curl at their ends that makes me want to weave my fingers through every single tendril.

What the hell is the matter with me?

She yanks her arm back and runs a hand over her dress, smoothing it. She’s short—no, petite—delicate, with all the right curves in all the right places. And damn, does she smell good! Flowers and lemons and sugar cookies rolled together in one intoxicating fragrance.

I’ve heard about love at first sight, but I’ve always thought it was a bunch of made-up romantic bullshit in books or movies. This girl, though, might convince me otherwise.

I manage to find my voice, and it comes out on the hoarse side. “Sorry if I was a little rough.”

“No, it’s okay. You broke my fall.”

I point at the door behind us. “Plate glass. Didn’t want to see you falling through it.”

“I appreciate that.” Her eyes dart around the room and come back to rest on me. Recognition dawns in them, and they narrow. “Y-you’re Colby Chase.”

Where have I heard this before? Unlike Taylor’s bedroom eyes, though, this girl suddenly looks like she wants to throat-punch me.

I nod. Before I can follow up and ask for her name, she scrambles away as if standing next to me is going to make her go up in flames. Not in a good way. “Um, excuse me,” she mumbles.

I remembered deodorant after my shower today, right?

She scurries off, pausing a moment to throw a quick “Thank you” over her shoulder. She might hate my guts for reasons I can’t comprehend, but at least she’s polite.

Befuddled, I watch her go. Her size pulls at something deep in my chest and makes me want to put my arms around her narrow shoulders and draw her against me. Everything in me wants to protect her. It makes no sense. I’ve been with small women before, but they’ve never yanked on that protective cord I apparently have. This one, though, does something to me. I want to kick the ass of whatever is putting that distressed look on her face—though it occurs to me I’m the one wigging her out and that I might have to kick my own ass.

She’s no longer looking at me as she makes a turn, and her lips curl up in a smile. Even in profile, I see how gorgeous that smile is—and that it’s meant for someone who’s not me. I take a step sideways to discover who the lucky recipient is.

Noooo!

That radiant smile is aimed right at Donovan Fucking Harper, and he’s returning it. This woman must be his girl, though he’s never mentioned her that I know of. But wait a hot damn minute. We were on the road together last week, and I watched him go on the hunt the moment we hit the hotel bar. He does it nearly every fucking time, and he rarely leaves alone.