Page 45 of He Has Charm (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
Without being asked, I get up and refill his empty mug. He looks up for a blink, his expression schooled, and doesn’t say a word. No praise and not even a thanks. My pathetic pangs of need for some semblance of normalcy, of easy camaraderie without sexual innuendo on either of our parts, ratchets into simmering annoyance. Because now he’s just being a jerk. But can I really complain? He is being civil and that’s all I can really demand. I can’t make himlikeme or be his easygoing, carefree self with me.
We return to eating in silence and, as I’m wiping my mouth with my napkin and Maddox is working on his second helping, I clear my throat, ready to talk and be normal.
“I found this box of your memorabilia. I figured you should unpack it.” I point to the big brown packing box sitting on the counter to the side.
“I recognize it. I’ll take care of it.” He looks at it and then, hallelujah, his first smile of the day finally appears on his face. He stands and opens the box and rummages through, then pulls out a book. It’s a cookbook. “One of my prized possessions. Figure it should go in the kitchen. I’ll be doing my own cooking when I’m in town, su—St. John.” He looks at me like he’s expecting an argument.
“No problem. Do whatever you want in the kitchen.” I eye the cookbook. It’s a hardcover copy ofGordon Ramsay's Healthy, Lean & Fit: Mouthwatering Recipes to Fuel You for Life.“Gordon Ramsay is my favorite,” I blurt. Then I go for broke. “Mom and I fell in love with him watchingHell’s Kitchen.” He gives me a long, assessing look, the fixation of his stunning eyes impaling me and undoing all my professionally trussed-up nerves.
“We share the obsession then,” he says, cracking a small smile. “Hell’s Kitchenis my must-watch show. My only must-watch show.” He reaches into the box again. “In fact…” He pulls out a framed photograph and turns it around to show me, his smile now broad and beaming. “I met him in Las Vegas and we had a drink together—a health drink, but still.”
“Wow, that is so cool.” I take the photo from him and stare at the two of them smiling, arm in arm. Regardless of my former idolization of Chef Ramsay, my eyes keep going back to Knight and his infectious sexy grin and those teasing baby blues. “Great photo. Love that he signed it to his ‘favorite troublemaker.’ Did you sign his photo? You’re a celebrity too.”
He laughs. The sound runs through me like a magic elixir unbunching all the tension I’d been holding whether I realized it or not.
“I’m no Gordon Ramsay,” he says. “But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered that you think I’m at his level.” I smile and nod, warmth flooding my chest and creeping up my neck to my cheeks. Shit. I clear my throat.
“Look, about last night,” I say because I can’t stop myself. The need to clear the air as if it’s filled with poison overwhelms me. “I shouldn’t have… I mean I wanted to… but… I’m sorry I’ve been giving you mixed signals. Whatever attraction we have between us, well, we both know it’s … professionally unhealthy.” I don’t add that it’s unhealthy for me in every way imaginable, a danger to my very heart and soul, because that would be melodramatic and unprofessional. Though sadly, it would be true, exactly how I feel.
“I know,” he says. He looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. I feel like a balloon after someone stuck a needle in it, deflated all at once. Why did I imagine he’d argue, tell me we should… I don’t know what.
“Oh. Of course you do. You’re more experienced in these things than I am. You’ve had millions of—well not millions, but surely hundreds of women who…”
He smiles and comes to me. “I have to go now, Harper.” He wraps his arms around me in a hug and I tense up and push away, more confused than ever because I thought we just agreed we couldn’t do this, that we’re strictly professional.
“We’re not playing house, Maddox. I’m your agent. Agents don’t hug their clients goodbye when they’re leaving for a game. They—”
“Oh come on. You’re not suggesting we shake hands, are you? You’re so much more than my agent. Face it, in spite of everything, we have to deal with the fact that we’re roommates for the duration.” I scrunch my forehead and shake my head.
Weareroommates and he’s saying everything I wanted to hear from him. That’s why I don’t trust the return of his too easy familiarity. I’ve learned today that his good nature and attention come and go. And it’ll all disappear the second the season is over when I’m no longer his handler, living in his space, and we go back to agent-client.
Of course that’s the way it should be. I’m not thinking it should be anything more. He’s giving me exactly what I want. Easy camaraderie while we’re sharing a townhouse, on a mission together. I don’t want any more than that.
He’s a client and a difficult one at that. He’s childish and silly. And sure, maybe he’s fun and hardworking, but—what the hell difference does it make what he is? He’s off the table for anything more than a friendly business relationship. So no need to worry whether he’s childish or serious. I should be thrilled.I am thrilled.
“We’re all business.” I hold my line by folding my arms across my chest.
His gaze follows my movement, scalding me with those brash blue eyes. Doubling down on my scowl, I refuse to blush, but when that doesn’t work, I turn away.And we’re back to square one. He comes up behind me. Putting a hand on my shoulder, he gently turns me around and I let him because apparently I’m like putty in his hands.
“It’s not the end of the world if we’re friends is it? That can’t be against agency policy. I count Jett as a friend, so you may as well be one too.” He lets out a deep sigh. “Though you’d be a first.”
“Your first female friend? May as well,” I mutter. His idea of friends and mine seem to be very different. Still refusing to look at him, I pull away. “Good luck. With the game.” I wave my hand, annoyed that I’m flustered, that my chest is tightening because he’s leaving and I’m still confused about where we stand. Though I shouldn’t be because he made it perfectly clear that we’re friends. “Play your best and score big for the fans.”
“Are you a fan?”
“I’m one of the biggest Brawlers fans because—” He doesn’t give me a chance to explain that it’s because our agency has three clients on the team. He flashes that infectious grin and the warm crinkles surround his eyes, making me feel it’s authentic, more than automatic reflex, not thoughtless or meaningless.
“Done and done, sugar buns. Next goal is for you.” He salutes me and adds, “I’ll text you when I get there.” He leaves, thank god, without touching me again, without another flirtatious innuendo. Though he’s back to calling me sugar buns again. I think I’m just about immune to it now and it’s a good thing. Because it’s hard to withstand his flirting and not think there’s something to it, that there might be a real attraction between us. I mean more than the obvious physical pull any sane female and any healthy adult male would have.
But my attraction doesn’t feel very sane right now. It feels obscenelyinsane because I can’t wait for him to come back and do some cooking—in the kitchen. And I can’t help picturing him at the stove wearing nothing but an apron. Shit.
I need to take care of my starving lady parts problem and I’m afraid my vibrator—who I should name Knight—wouldn’t be enough, even if I’d brought it with me.
***
A couple hours later, after I’ve seriously dented my to-do list for the day, making calls to Mamma Regina’s and the children’s hospital, I call Shelly. Unable to keep the problem to myself, I tell her all about my Maddox Knight obsession. According to her, my problem is nothing that a fling with a man who isnotmy client won’t cure. And I might just go along with her suggestion tonight if I manage to finalize the details of Mamma Regina’s promotional deal at a reasonable hour. We have the commercial shoot tentatively scheduled for two weeks from today.
“So what do you say, hot pants?” Shelly says. “Is it a date?”
