Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
The motorcycle is a Harley, or so says the logo on the gas tank. I’m wondering if he has a visitor and if I’m intruding.
Not that it would stop me. I’m on a mission that’s incredibly important to the future of the Titans’ hockey team.
I start up the sidewalk, my heels clicking on the sun-warmed concrete. I make it no more than three steps before the front door opens and Drake McGinn walks out.
Physically imposing at a whopping six six, no man has a right to look so dangerous and sinfully sexy at the same time. I’m usually into clean-cut, freshly-shaven men. Clay has perfectly styled hair, ageless skin due to his religious use of vanity products, and the lean body of a runner. His hands are perfectly manicured and dexterous since he operates on brains and spinal cords for a living.
Drake McGinn looks like he just stepped off the stage of a dive bar after playing heavy metal all night. He’s covered in tattoos, and his beard, while neatly trimmed, is thick and not just a few days away from a razor. His blond hair is carelessly pulled back into a ponytail a few inches in length. Left unbound, my guess is it would fall just to his shoulders. Strands have loosened from the binding, framing a face that’s near perfect with a strong jawline, sensuous lips, and blue eyes that look like glacial ice as the sun hits them.
And those shoulders. They’re a broad, solid mass to his large frame, but in the net, he’s as light as a feather on his skates and as limber as a prima ballerina. His size makes it incredibly difficult to sneak a puck past him, and his agility and speed mean that any tiny hole he might leave uncovered can be shut off with ease.
He’s an exceptional athlete, or so I’ve discovered as I learn more and more about this sport.
It’s confounding to me that while I prefer my men in expensive suits, or just naked, I have to admit his well-worn jeans, fitted gray T-shirt, and heavy biker boots complete a package that would have most women falling at his feet.
I’m not most women, however.
His gaze lands on me, and his mouth parts in surprise before flattening in disdain. He barely spares me a glance before heading straight to his motorcycle, although he mutters as he passes by, “What are you doing here?”
“I’d like to talk,” I reply as I follow him.
“If it’s about the repetitive offers you keep throwing my way, the answer is still no.”
Yes, Callum has been working with Drake’s agent to get him back to the table, but he’s proved to be a very frustrating man. He simply doesn’t want to play for us, and that makes negotiations incredibly difficult.
“I’d still like to be heard,” I say as I watch him open a saddlebag on the side of the bike. He does nothing more than riffle through it before buckling it closed again.
“Don’t have time,” he says, lifting the helmet from where it hangs by its strap on the handlebar. “Have to be somewhere.”
“Where?” I ask, moving closer to him. “Maybe I could meet you after. Take you to dinner?”
Drake swings a long leg over the bike and sits. His jeans pull tight across his thighs, and I force myself to look upward. He dons his helmet and adjusts the chin strap. “I’m going down the road to have a beer.”
I bite my tongue because that’s not somewhere important. Not when the owner of a hockey team has flown in to meet with you.
Reaching out, I put my hand on his arm, and damn… those muscles under warm, tattooed skin are way too appealing. “Give me five minutes.”
“Not interested.”
Straightening the bike, he flips the kickstand back, and I notice once again how his hot-as-hell straddle over the beast of a machine tightens his jeans across his pelvis. I can’t help but look.
When my eyes slide up, he’s staring at me intently, and I’m powerless to look away.
His eyes narrow slightly, but there’s an underlying current of something hellish within those cold depths. “You’re checking me out.”
My hand falls away from his arm, and I step back. “I’m not.”
“You are.” He leans forward, props an elbow on the handlebar, and checks out my body with agonizing slowness. “You’re not very subtle about it either. You know, if you want to try to work out a deal with me, maybe we could go inside and negotiate further.”
The offer is crude, and God help me, causes my skin to flush. But I’m here on business. “Sorry, but I’ll pass. I have a boy toy at home if I need to scratch an itch.”
Drake’s head falls back and he laughs. His teeth are perfect, gleaming white. “A boy toy to scratch an itch? Jesus, lady, that’s pathetic.”