She snorts. “Not even close.”
And there’s something about the way she says the words, almost as if she’d been trying to talk herself into believing it was more than whatever they thought it was for so very long, that she almost feels a relief that she can stop bullshitting herself now.
“So you came all this way to take a spin around my cock for old times’ sake, then?” My words are meant to ease the tension—partially—and to see that gorgeous smile of hers.
“Yes. That’s it.” She sighs. “Do you really get women with lines like that?” she asks dryly.
“I don’t have to speak and I get women.”
“Jesus. And you wonder why we fought all the time.” She rolls her eyes for good measure.
“We fought all the time, because you could never get enough of me and because I . . .” I falter over my words, because I prefer not to finish the thought. Maybe because I can’t. Maybe because the truth is I was starting to feel things and those things were feelings . . . and feelings are bullshit.
“Because you, what?” she asks, her interest piqued. That slow crawl of a smile does things to my insides that shouldn’t be legal.
I take a moment and let the topic die. The last thing I need to do is to get into shit that doesn’t matter. How her walking away fucking sucked and was the closest thing I’ve ever felt to regret. How seeing her here right now is like a slap in the face of how good we were when we were good and how bad we were when we were bad and everything in between.
But more than anything is how she makes me feel, when every other fucking thing in my life is on dull fucking mute.
I look at the label on my beer as the crowd erupts into a Happy Birthday song on the other side of the bar, moving for a change in topic. “You’re smart as hell, Kincade. You know if you’re sitting in a bar full of Jacks, no one will think twice if any of us talk to you.”
“That’s your first mistake,” she says, her voice low as she shifts to turn and face me. “No one is paying any attention to where I am or who I’m talking to.”
My eyes drag over every seductive inch of her before returning to those eyes of hers. “You’re a hard one to miss.”
“I doubt that, considering half the women in this bar are showing about ten times more skin than I am.”
“You don’t have to show skin to be sexy, Dekk.” My voice deepens and lowers with the words, and once again memories flicker to the forefront of my mind. Tangled bodies and unattached hearts. “We both know that.”
She clears her throat and shifts in her seat. “You look good too.”
“I look like something the cat dragged in. My cheek is sore from that stick I took to it. I’m limping like an eighty-year-old man from my knees hurting so bad . . . and I’m just all-around exhausted. This beer doesn’t help with that, but you being here does.”
CHAPTER SIX
DEKKER
I STARE AT HIM. AT his dark hair that’s a little long, a little shaggy, but fits the man as a whole. At his bright blue eyes that look too closely, and his five o’clock shadow dusting across his jaw. Sure, his cheek is red from the hit he took, but there’s something about him that makes you stare.
And savor.
All man, all arrogance, with a hint of boy beneath the surface who’s living out his dream.
And he knows me way too well.
This beer doesn’t help with that, but you being here does.
I choose not to acknowledge it.
I opt to ignore how it tugs on those feelings that seeing him—and talking to him—have drummed up.
The ones I feared would rear their ugly head when my dad told me who my client to win was.
“You do look a little rough around the edges,” I say, because it’s so much easier to notice the shadows under his eyes and the tension in his posture than to admit the punch in the gut I felt the minute I laid eyes on him. As always.
“Candor always was your blessing and curse,” he murmurs as he shifts in his chair, and I take in the abrasions on his knuckles from tonight.
“It’s why I’m good at my job. I know when to coddle versus when to push.”
He chews the inside of his cheek as he surveys the members of his team on the other side of the bar. “So who are you here to push?”
“What’s going on with you?” I ask, pushing his comment to the side and his need to know why I’m here. “Things good? Life outside of hockey good?”
He purses his lips and lifts his brows, but it’s there for the briefest of seconds—a stutter. Was Dad right? Is Hunter’s behavior of late unrelated to him simply being an asshole?
“What is it, Hunter?” I ask, reaching out to put my hand on his arm, sensing something is bugging him.
But his rare drop in his guard is replaced almost instantly. He makes a show of removing my hand, as he stands and places his own on the back of my barstool. My breath hitches as his fingers sweep ever-so-subtly against the skin on my neck. Chills chase over my flesh and I hate the visceral reaction my body has to it—to him. It’s as if I still want him even though I know the havoc he’d wreak on my system.
He leans in so the heat of his breath feathers over my ear for the second time in this conversation, but I stand my ground and don’t move. “How about I’ll tell you what it is, when you tell me why you’re here. And I know you won’t do that . . . so my secret’s safe for the time being.”
I stare at him, at the cocky smirk that quickens my pulse, and shake my head. Now is not the time nor place to proposition him about KSM. I knew that coming tonight. I thought I’d hate him on sight after how we left things. But, no. It’s not hate I’m feeling. It’s lust.
“Hunter. I—”
“Ah, if it isn’t the Ice King and the Frigid Queen,” Katzen, the LumberJacks goalie says as he stumbles over and hangs an arm on the back of my chair where Hunter’s just moved his from.
“Hey, Katz,” I say but my eyes go right back to Hunter.
“Drunk as always,” Hunter says and presses his palm against Katz’s chest to push him back.
“Fuck yes, I am. We won. You rocked. I got a little playing time.” He laughs at his own joke considering as their goalie he was protecting the net, saving goals left and right, the entire game. “And shit—you are looking mighty fine tonight, Miss Kincade,” he slurs as he draws out the word Miss.
The muscle in Hunter’s jaw ticks, and I shake my head to try and stop him from acting on whatever darkness I see in his eyes. With his recent antics, I’m not exactly sure I trust he won’t use force to move Katz away from me.
“I’m looking fine every night,” I say with a wink, knowing the rumors about him and his drinking are more truth than fiction. Guys like Katz are a dime a dozen and working in this industry has taught me how to take care of myself and push back. “A good agent would remind you that hockey is your job, and that hangover you’re angling for isn’t going to help your stats any.”
Katz makes a hissing sound. “Did you just burn me?” He laughs. “See? That’s why we call you the Frigid Queen, cold as ice and not afraid to burn anyone at the stake.”