Nope. Not even going to think that word.
Ryker gets in on the driver’s side, looks over at me, and chuckles again. Without him rendering me the village idiot by his touch, I cross my arms over my chest and say, “It’s not that funny.”
He turns the car on and we both reach for our seat belts. “I’m sorry. No more laughing. I promise.”
As he pulls out of the parking spot, I make my token protest. “We should have driven separate cars.”
“And yet I feel like we should ride together. It’s just more time where we can talk, right? Much better idea.”
Hmmm. That makes sense. I guess.
“How did your interview go on Monday?” Ryker asks. “Sports Elite, right?”
“How did you know about that?” I ask, astonished.
“Your dad came down to the locker room as we were getting ready for the game Monday night to wish us luck. Said that you couldn’t make it because of the interview. He’s really proud of you.”
I smile and dip my head. God, but I love my father. The most wonderful and influential man I will ever have the privilege of knowing. He single-handedly raised me after my mother died when I was four, and even though he was running a professional hockey team—based first out of Hartford, Connecticut, and then Raleigh after the team moved—I never suffered for it. I was always his main priority in life, as I am today. I know that would be true even if I was a high school dropout who bagged groceries for a living. To me, and I’m sure to him, it’s just a bonus that I followed in his footsteps and want to be involved in his hockey dynasty.
And because thinking of my father makes me gooey, it loosens my tongue a bit. “The interview went fine. The reporter shadowed me all day and then we had about a forty-five-minute Q&A. His questions were thought provoking, but I have no clue how he’ll spin the article.”
“Who was the reporter?”
“Chad Sykes.”
“He’s a decent guy. Interviewed me a few times. He’ll be fair, but he’ll offer both sides to the debate that’s waging over your appointment.”
“I wouldn’t expect otherwise,” I tell him truthfully.
We talk some more about the interview while Ryker drives us to the closest coffee shop. He handles his car with the same assurance that I’ve seen him exhibit in the few times I’ve dealt with him. During our contract negotiations, he was as cool as a cucumber. He knew he was being released from the Eagles because of what happened between him and Sutter, and his options were limited, yet he didn’t jump at my first offer. Or my second or third. He sent his agent back and forth with me to iron out a deal that forced me to pay a little more than I wanted, but on the flip side, I only cut a two-year deal with him. I needed to be prepared to unload him if my metrics were wrong.
Ryker actually takes us to a local pastry shop that also serves coffee and tea. After we place our orders, he pulls his wallet out and hands some cash to the woman behind the register. I immediately knock his hand back and hand her my credit card.
“I’m paying,” I tell him with a no-nonsense look. “This is a business meeting and I can write this off.”
“It’s my bonus, remember?” he says with a grin.
“Well, I did say I’d buy you a cup of coffee. Not a chocolate croissant and a blueberry muffin,” I tell him as I eye the tray that she hands to Ryker.
“I’m hungry,” he says simply as he takes the tray and seeks out a table while I sign the credit card receipt.
Once we’re seated in a back corner, Ryker digs into his breakfast and I sip my own coffee. There’s a few other patrons in the shop, but for the most part we’re being ignored.
“Want a bite?” Ryker asks as he holds the chocolate croissant out to me.
I groan. “I wish. Stuff like that goes straight to my hips.”
“You’re full of it, Big Bang,” he says with a grin, and pushes the croissant closer to me. He gives it a slight wave and the smell of chocolate wafts my way. “Just a little taste.”
“Fine,” I grumble, and lean forward across the table to take a bite. My teeth sink down into the light crust and warm chocolate spills over my tongue. I can’t help the moan…absolutely impossible with what was just put into my mouth.
As Ryker pulls the croissant away from me, a small dribble of chocolate stays on my bottom lip. I quickly lick it off and then chew on the ecstasy in my mouth. I look at Ryker, nodding my head vigorously to indicate how good that was.
He smiles at me, but it’s almost lecherous in nature. His eyes travel down to my lips and he says in an almost whisper, “Still got chocolate on your lip.”
The way he’s looking at my lips…it wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if he just leaned across the table and licked it off. I think by the mere fact that I don’t make an immediate move to wipe it off myself must mean that I want him to do that. Finally his eyes rise to mine and our gazes lock.
I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “What are we doing?”
“Eating chocolate croissants and drinking coffee.”
“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “What are we doing?”
He studies me for a moment, acting as if he’s trying to glean something from my face, but in truth I can see the gears grinding in his brain. He’s trying to decide how truthful to be with me, not to ease his own conscience but to ease mine. I know this because Ryker Evans is a man who really doesn’t care about appearances.
Ryker gets in on the driver’s side, looks over at me, and chuckles again. Without him rendering me the village idiot by his touch, I cross my arms over my chest and say, “It’s not that funny.”
He turns the car on and we both reach for our seat belts. “I’m sorry. No more laughing. I promise.”
As he pulls out of the parking spot, I make my token protest. “We should have driven separate cars.”
“And yet I feel like we should ride together. It’s just more time where we can talk, right? Much better idea.”
Hmmm. That makes sense. I guess.
“How did your interview go on Monday?” Ryker asks. “Sports Elite, right?”
“How did you know about that?” I ask, astonished.
“Your dad came down to the locker room as we were getting ready for the game Monday night to wish us luck. Said that you couldn’t make it because of the interview. He’s really proud of you.”
I smile and dip my head. God, but I love my father. The most wonderful and influential man I will ever have the privilege of knowing. He single-handedly raised me after my mother died when I was four, and even though he was running a professional hockey team—based first out of Hartford, Connecticut, and then Raleigh after the team moved—I never suffered for it. I was always his main priority in life, as I am today. I know that would be true even if I was a high school dropout who bagged groceries for a living. To me, and I’m sure to him, it’s just a bonus that I followed in his footsteps and want to be involved in his hockey dynasty.
And because thinking of my father makes me gooey, it loosens my tongue a bit. “The interview went fine. The reporter shadowed me all day and then we had about a forty-five-minute Q&A. His questions were thought provoking, but I have no clue how he’ll spin the article.”
“Who was the reporter?”
“Chad Sykes.”
“He’s a decent guy. Interviewed me a few times. He’ll be fair, but he’ll offer both sides to the debate that’s waging over your appointment.”
“I wouldn’t expect otherwise,” I tell him truthfully.
We talk some more about the interview while Ryker drives us to the closest coffee shop. He handles his car with the same assurance that I’ve seen him exhibit in the few times I’ve dealt with him. During our contract negotiations, he was as cool as a cucumber. He knew he was being released from the Eagles because of what happened between him and Sutter, and his options were limited, yet he didn’t jump at my first offer. Or my second or third. He sent his agent back and forth with me to iron out a deal that forced me to pay a little more than I wanted, but on the flip side, I only cut a two-year deal with him. I needed to be prepared to unload him if my metrics were wrong.
Ryker actually takes us to a local pastry shop that also serves coffee and tea. After we place our orders, he pulls his wallet out and hands some cash to the woman behind the register. I immediately knock his hand back and hand her my credit card.
“I’m paying,” I tell him with a no-nonsense look. “This is a business meeting and I can write this off.”
“It’s my bonus, remember?” he says with a grin.
“Well, I did say I’d buy you a cup of coffee. Not a chocolate croissant and a blueberry muffin,” I tell him as I eye the tray that she hands to Ryker.
“I’m hungry,” he says simply as he takes the tray and seeks out a table while I sign the credit card receipt.
Once we’re seated in a back corner, Ryker digs into his breakfast and I sip my own coffee. There’s a few other patrons in the shop, but for the most part we’re being ignored.
“Want a bite?” Ryker asks as he holds the chocolate croissant out to me.
I groan. “I wish. Stuff like that goes straight to my hips.”
“You’re full of it, Big Bang,” he says with a grin, and pushes the croissant closer to me. He gives it a slight wave and the smell of chocolate wafts my way. “Just a little taste.”
“Fine,” I grumble, and lean forward across the table to take a bite. My teeth sink down into the light crust and warm chocolate spills over my tongue. I can’t help the moan…absolutely impossible with what was just put into my mouth.
As Ryker pulls the croissant away from me, a small dribble of chocolate stays on my bottom lip. I quickly lick it off and then chew on the ecstasy in my mouth. I look at Ryker, nodding my head vigorously to indicate how good that was.
He smiles at me, but it’s almost lecherous in nature. His eyes travel down to my lips and he says in an almost whisper, “Still got chocolate on your lip.”
The way he’s looking at my lips…it wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if he just leaned across the table and licked it off. I think by the mere fact that I don’t make an immediate move to wipe it off myself must mean that I want him to do that. Finally his eyes rise to mine and our gazes lock.
I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “What are we doing?”
“Eating chocolate croissants and drinking coffee.”
“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “What are we doing?”
He studies me for a moment, acting as if he’s trying to glean something from my face, but in truth I can see the gears grinding in his brain. He’s trying to decide how truthful to be with me, not to ease his own conscience but to ease mine. I know this because Ryker Evans is a man who really doesn’t care about appearances.
