Page 27 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
“It’s great,” I reply, my eyes wandering over the empty seats in the rink below. “But, you know, can't shake the feeling that I've turned traitor on you guys.”
There’s a pause, and then a chuckle, warm and reassuring. “Traitor? Come on, we’re thrilled for you. You've earned this, sis. And besides,” his tone turns playful, conspiratorial, “just watch out, because we’re not going to go easy on you. You’re the competition now.”
I laugh, the sound more relieved than I’d like to admit. “They’d better not. I expect nothing less than your worst.”
“So... how’s Dom taking it?” I venture, curiosity getting the better of me.
Sam goes quiet for a beat. “Honestly? He gets weird when you’re brought up. Clams up like a kid who lost his favorite toy. But otherwise, he hasn’t said much. He’s Dom. You know how he is.”
I nod, even though Sam can’t see it. Dom Steele, the enigma. A part of me wonders if he's seething, plotting, or if, just maybe, he’s indifferent.
As if on cue, my computer pings with a new email. I glance at the screen, and there it is, bold against the stark white background: an email from Dom, the subject simply reading, “Chat?”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. So, the man of steel wants to talk. The timing couldn’t be more Dom — just as I'm settling into my new kingdom, he reaches out.
“I’ve gotta go, Sam,” I say, my gaze still locked on the email. “Looks like I’ve got some business to attend to.”
Sam’s voice takes on a teasing edge. “Go get ‘em, GM.”
We say our goodbyes, and I’m left alone with the blinking cursor, a decision hovering in the space between click and ignore. Finally, with a mixture of trepidation and a dose of that Carrington sass, I click the email open.
“Free for a talk?” is all it says. Classic Dom. Short, sweet, and to the point. His words are followed by the name of a restaurant and a reservation time.
What thehellcould he possibly want?
Part of me wants to reply with my own short, sweet, and to the point response—“screw off.”
But the greater part of me wants to know why he’s reaching out.
I sigh, sitting down and typing a response.
One way to find out.
14
Dom
Theclinkoffinedining cutlery forms a high-class soundtrack as I sit at a table with a view of downtown Seattle's lunch hour pulse. I've chosen a place discreet yet impressive—mirroring the nature of the conversation I'm about to have. I'm rehearsing lines in my head, each one sounding more ridiculous than the last. A fake engagement? It's a Hail Mary slapshot from down-rink, but I'm down by two goals and there’s a minute left on the clock.
I glance at my watch, the seconds ticking down like the final moments before a game-winning shot. That's when Isabella walks in, and I swear the room tilts slightly on its axis.
She's in a suit that means business, tailored to perfection, making her look like she's stepped right out of a high-powered board meeting. There's a confidence in her stride, a certainty that's always been her signature. It's damn hot, I admit reluctantly. The subtle wave of her hair, the cut of her jacket, the way her skirt outlines her stride—she owns it, owns the room, owns the moment.
She sits, her guard up, eyes already asking the questions her lips haven't yet formed. I don't blame her; our last few encounters have been less than friendly.
"You're looking... sharp," I start, the understatement hanging between us. It's true, though. She's sharp in every sense of the word—her style, her wit, her hockey sense.
She arches an eyebrow, unimpressed by the small talk. "Dom, let's cut to the chase. What's this all about?"
Straight to the point, just like Isabella.
I take a deep breath, laying the foundation first. "I hear you're doing good work with the StarPucks," I say, and it's not flattery—it's a fact. "You've got them rallying, and that's no small feat."
She nods, accepting the compliment with a grace that suggests she's well aware of her accomplishments. But her eyes remain fixed on me, expectant.
I lean forward, forearms on the table, locking onto Isabella's scrutinizing gaze. "The thing is, Isabella, your move... it rattled some cages. My investors are nervous, and when they're nervous, I've got to fix it."
She tilts her head slightly, the gesture loaded with skepticism. "Which investors?"
