Page 17 of He Has Game (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
She jumps from the couch, apologizing and swearing at the same time. Dashing the few steps back to my kitchen I grab a towel to wipe up the mess.
“Don’t worry about it. The couch is old and the alcohol will kill the germs already infested in it. I’ll toss the rug.” Looking at it, I blot the stain but know I’ll need to buy a new one.
“You bet your damn ass I’m not worried about a fucking rug. You just told me you’re dating Finnegan Reed. What kind of joke—?”
“I’m not joking.” I sit on the arm of the couch and give her an apologetic look because I’m lying to her, even though she doesn’t know that because she trusts me.
“You’re dating him? For real? You sure you’re not just hooking up? Maybe you’ve misinterpreted his intentions—after all, if you only had coffee—”
“We’re going to the St. Jude’s Benefit Gala at Hawthorne’s by the Sea in Swampscott tomorrow night.”
She stops talking and stands up again, then takes me in a smothering hug.
“Oh my God. I’m so happy for you. I have no idea what you did to him, but I’m thrilled.” She lets go of me. “And if it’s true, I fully expect to get tickets to every game from now until they win the Stanley Cup.” After refilling her wine glass, she sits back down and eyes me.
“So tell me exactly how you managed to get the attention of the most notorious bachelor in Boston—and got him to date you when we both know he never dates, according to Gossip Girl—only hook-ups.”
“I guess Gossip Girl is wrong,” I say, knowing I sound lame. Grace knows I’m not exactly a man magnet or a coy flirt.
“Look, Vivian. I know you’re a beautiful person, inside and out, but up until now it’s been like a well-kept secret. Like the lost Ark or Bigfoot.”
I laugh and wave my hand at her in a mock slap.
“Tell me what happened. Exactly.”
Great. Now I have to make up a story how I got a makeover and caught Finn’s attention. Except the timing is all off because we were supposed to have met a month ago. Well before the makeover. I take a sip of wine to stall and work my brain for a plausible story.
“About a month ago, I was . . . here checking out the apartment and . . . testing out my new contact lenses when I went to the coffee shop and . . .”
“And what? You flirted with a famous hockey player?” She sounds incredulous.
“I spilled my coffee on him.”
“Way to get a guy’s attention.” She laughs, satisfied with the explanation because of course it makes sense. I would do something like that. Except I didn’t. I actually did flirt. A little. Okay, it was him flirting with me mostly, but I rose to the occasion. I have a feeling I’m going to be doing a lot of rising to the occasion.
A flash of naughty insight prompts me to wonder if he was rising to the occasion himself and exactly how excited he was by our kiss.
“So what’s he like—for real?”
“He’s a gentleman. And he’s funny. We sat and talked after I cleaned him up and it turns out he lives nearby.”
She fans herself. “With neighbors like that . . .” Her grin deepens and she mock whispers, “Have you slept with him?”
“Grace—no. It’s only been a month.” I don’t know how I’m going to manage tonottell her we’ve been forbidden to sleep together. No hanky-panky. And I have an awful feeling that Finn plans to take that directive seriously. To protect me from him. Or from myself. But . . . I want him. So bad.
Or Vivvie, my naughty self, wants him. The rational Vivian side of me knows better than to play with a player.
What’s wrong with a little playing around?
Everything? Nothing?I don’t honestly know what the answer is. Maybe it all depends on Finn. After all, I hardly know him. Having a crush from afar is one thing, but it’s hardly the foundation of a healthy relationship, and within a healthy relationship is the only way I’d consider making love to him.
No matter if my naughty girl side sighs in despair.
But I’m a romantic, not a fool. Right?
“He’s picking me up in a limo tomorrow night.” Now my nerves change to a hiccupping thrill. Sharing this part of it, the authentic part—the idea of spending time with a hunky man, having his attention, sends me haywire. Irresistible bubbles of pleasure rise in me.
“This is unbelievable. You’re so lucky. I’m so thrilled for you.”
Unbelievable. She’s right. It’s not real. No way should I be letting myself get excited this way. Especially since he’s a perfect stranger, albeit an irresistibly gorgeous one, a familiar-from-afar kind of stranger. But I really don’t know him. Not much anyway.
He has a quick smile, a filthy mouth, and an irreverent sense of humor. Then there’s his power, an aura of energy and self-confidence I can feel like the vibrations of a full orchestra. But I sense a dark underbelly in him too, like an out-of-tune violin. In some ways, he reminds me of Heathcliff fromWuthering Heights, as if all I need to do is scrape away the thin film of his good humor to find the brooding trouble underneath.
