Page 18 of He Has Charm (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“The Brawlers’ townhouse on Beacon Hill would be perfect,” Zoey says, her face lighting up. “We’d be neighbors.” She looks pleased, but Rafe and the others give me a darker look.
“We?” O’Rourke says. His eyes flick between me and Harper, so I know he knows who I mean bywe. And I know he doesn’t like it. A surge of resentment hits me because the distrust is misplaced. They understand the sex video was at least partly bad luck and the kind of thing that probably could have happened to most of them when they were single. Sure, I may be a baller, but I never fooled with anyone who didn’t want to fool back, who didn’t know what they were getting into, or more like not getting into because they knew it was always fun-only.
“Yes,” I say. “Harper and I will be living together. Because she’s my handler and—”
“It’s a strictly professional arrangement,” Harper adds quickly. Finn snorts and O’Rourke’s expression remains tight with concern. “I’ll look into the Brawlers’ town house if it has plenty of room.” Harper says, looking to Zoey for reassurance.
“Absolutely,” Zoey says.
“I admit I don’t know you very well,” Ryan says to me, “but what I know makes me question your moral character when it comes to women. So I just want to make sure you understand that we consider Harper a good friend, and the kind of woman who deserves respect and a far better man than—”
“Don’t worry about Knight,” Harper scoffs as my blood boils, even though I half agree with him because when it comes to Harper I seem to have trouble keeping my head. Besides, if the shoe were on the other foot, I’d be more forceful about it than he’s being. Although from the disconcerted look on his wife’s face, I’d say she’s the influence for his toned-down lecture. “He’s been nothing but a gentleman,” she says. “Sex video and man-whore status notwithstanding, he’s perfectly trustworthy.” Even I look askance at her confident statement.
“You make sure Harper’s faith in you isn’t misplaced,” Ryan says. “Rafe’s big fists will make sure you regret it if you step out of line. Even a little.”
* * *
When we get back to the hotel, Harper announces that she’s tired and says good night.
“Thanks for sticking up for my less than perfect character tonight.”
“Don’t make me regret it. Besides,” she gives me a conspiratorial look, “I’ll only be living with you on an as-needed basis. I’ll pop in on occasion. I’ll be like your roommate with a boyfriend across town. I’m sure you can handle an occasional night with me under the same roof without caving to temptation, Knight.”
“Sure, but the question is, canyou?”
“I’m not tempted by you in the least.” She rises to my bait.
“I meant, it’s your job to be my handler. If you’re only here on occasion aren’t you worried I’ll have an orgy when you’re gone?” I smirk because joking is my only defense when I’m wondering about my poor dick’s survival. She rolls her eyes, but I see the twitch of uncertainty. Then I have to ask, “Is that where you’ll be staying? With a boyfriend across town?” My gut clenches because it’s one of those questions I don’t really want to know the answer to, but I need to know.
“No. Not that it’s any of your business.” She picks up a pillow from the couch as she walks by and throws it at my head. I duck, but she has good aim. “But you’re right.” She bites her lip and I suppress a groan at the surge in dickish interest. But it’s not my dick’s fault if I’ve trained it to have expectations at the end of a night out. Though, not counting my birthday a couple of weeks ago, it’s been a while.
“Glad you agree, but I was kidding.”
“This is no joking matter,” she says, an inner struggle clearer on her face than if she had good and bad angels sitting on her opposite shoulders shouting at each other. “I’m committed to watching you—whether you need it or not. Jett made it clear. As much as I’d rather stay with my friend,” she heaves in a big breath, “I can’t. Damn it.”
I laugh and throw the pillow back at her.
“You’re quick,” she says. “You ever think of becoming a professional athlete?”
I do a shit job of repressing my grin and she tosses the pillow back at me, hitting me in the shoulder this time, because she was quick enough so that I couldn’t dodge it.
“This should be fun, St. John.” I force myself to call her St. John because I need to stop thinking of her as sugar buns and make sure I never utter that name—my personal name for her now etched in my head forever—out loud again.
