Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 31257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 156(@200wpm)___ 125(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 156(@200wpm)___ 125(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
"Fuck," he groans, breaking the kiss. "How am I supposed to practice when you've got my dick hard as a rock?"
I press my lips to his ear, getting as close to him as possible. "Think about the tattoo on your ass," I whisper reaching for the door handle. "That should take care of the problem."
He growls and lunges for me, but I throw myself out of the truck, laughing.
Noah's teammates are chaotic good. It's the only way to describe them. They're loud and boisterous, spending as much time giving each other grief as they do actually practicing. It's fascinating to watch, though.
I haven't been to a hockey practice in a long time. Nash stopped letting me attend when he went into the AHL. He said he didn't want me growing up around a bunch of rowdy hockey players. I think he was worried that some of the younger players would try to flirt with me or something. I'm not entirely sure. Some of the youngest guys are barely out of high school. They're still just kids.
It's crazy to me to imagine living the kind of life they do at any age, let alone at eighteen or nineteen. Nash has always seemed so much older and wiser. Even though he played on a college team first, he still would have entered the draft at twenty. I don't think I ever considered how overwhelming that had to be.
I think I've always felt so much guilt over everything he gave up that I've never let myself see it from a different perspective. But as I sit on the bench, watching Noah and his teammates zip back and forth across the ice, I can't help but consider that maybe Nash didn't give up as much as I've always thought he did. Maybe he made the choice he did as much for himself as he made it for me.
"Aspen."
I turn at the sound of my voice to find Dillon squeezing his way down the bench toward me.
"Hey," I murmur, my gaze falling to the album in his hands. "More photos?"
"Just one this time." He stops beside me, looking out at the ice.
Noah must see him because he breaks away from Colter and Reid and skates in our direction.
"Have you found the fucker?" he growls, ice flying up from his skates when he stops against the boards.
"Working on it," Dillon says. "I've got a couple of leads, but I need your girl to look at another photo."
Noah jerks his helmet off. His short hair is smashed flat on top of his head and soaked with sweat. He watches intently as Dillon flips the album open and then turns it around for me to look at.
"Do you recognize the men in this photo?" he asks.
I stare at the photo for a long moment, an instant shock of recognition rushing through me. It's the two men from the shop. I think they're behind the bookstore right down from the shop. At least, it looks like the bookstore. The redheaded one, Silar, isn't looking at the camera as he runs past, but the other one looks right at it.
"I know him," I whisper, my stomach churning as I stare at his face. He's handsome, with stunning obsidian eyes and a cleft chin. "He was in the shop on Friday."
"You're sure?" Dillon asks.
I lift my gaze from the photo, looking at him. "I'm positive. He asked for my number." I thought he looked familiar in the shop, but it was dark and everything was chaotic. I didn't see him nearly as well as I saw his partner-in-crime. But there's no mistaking him in this photo. "He said his name was Troy."
A possessive, predatory growl emanates from Noah's throat.
"Troy Crevier," Dillon confirms. "Heir to Crevier Enterprises."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Noah curses. "You're kidding me."
Crevier Enterprises is one of the biggest trucking companies in the United States. Why is the heir of the company breaking into a coffee shop? I doubt he's hurting for cash. He probably owns more property than most of the men in this town.
"Why the fuck would the heir of a trucking company need to knock over a coffee shop?" Noah asks, echoing my thoughts.
"That's exactly what I plan to ask him," Dillon says, slipping the photo album off my lap. He flips it closed, tucking it under his arm. "Just as soon as I find him."
"You can't find him?" Noah's voice drops to a deep, menacing growl, far more intimidating than if he'd shouted the words.
"He's currently MIA." Dillon grimaces. "I've got people working on it. As soon as I find him, you'll know it."
"Is she safe in the meantime?" Noah demands, clearly not satisfied with this answer. "If he thinks she can identify him, he has more to lose than the other motherfucker. His entire family stands to lose something if she points the finger at him."