Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
He started in his seat, lowering his glasses like a movie star a moment later. “Can I help you?”
“You’re not eating,” I replied testily. “Not even one bite. What is wrong with it?”
“Uh…nothing.” He picked up a french fry and popped it into his mouth. “See?”
I glowered menacingly. “The burger, not the pomme frites.”
He cocked his head, a smile tugging the corner of his sexy mouth. I tried not to notice the sexy part, but that wasn’t easy. Riley Thoreau was stunning—broad shoulders, floppy dark-brown hair, gray eyes the color of a stormy sky over Lake Saint-Jean, a crooked nose, a square stubbled jaw, and a wicked jagged row of stitches along his temple.
He picked up the burger with both hands and locked his gaze with mine as he opened wide and took a huge bite. His gloomy expression turned euphoric, and crisse, I almost swallowed my tongue.
“Mmm, good.”
I arched a brow. “Not good. Magnifique.”
He chuckled softly. “That’s what I meant to say.”
“I thought so. Bon appétit!”
“Wait.” He set his burger on his plate and wiped his hands on his napkin. “I’m sorry. I think we met last summer while I was here for the camp or Vin and Nol’s wedding. You’re the chef, right?”
“Oui. Jean-Claude Bouchard. Or JC.” I offered my hand and shook his politely. “They love abbreviations in this town. My mother wouldn’t approve, but I’m used to it now.”
“I’m Riley.” He pulled his glasses off and squinted. “We definitely met. Don’t quote me, though. My memory is wonky lately.”
“I know who you are. I follow hockey closely.”
His smile dimmed. “Ahh. Well, cool. It’s nice to meet you. The burger is great. Thanks for coming by to, um…”
“Nag you?” I suggested. “No problem. Complimentary nagging is on the house. No other kitchen in the area provides this service. Remember that.”
Riley laughed, a soft, deep rumble that reminded me of cognac and leather. And sex. You know…basic inappropriate thoughts.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good. I’ll leave you to enjoy your meal in peace, but…first, I have to ask one question.”
He gave me a wary once-over as if wondering if the large lumberjack-looking man in an apron was a threat. I could understand why. No one wanted to be hovered over at the dinner table. And certainly not by someone my size. I was six four, barrel-chested with reddish hair, a Quebecois accent, and according to some, I had a tendency to be “too honest.”
But curiosity got the better of me.
Riley picked up another fry. “Go for it.”
“Why is Childress your co-captain? He is an idiot. What were they thinking?”
He grinned like I’d hoped he would. “I have no idea.”
“You had no say?”
“No.”
“That is bullshit. That would be like Nolan telling me he has a friend who makes great pancakes and I should hire him as a sous chef. That’s nice and all, but it’s not job experience. Faults can be hidden by maple syrup, whipped cream, and berries, eh? The truth is in the jus.” I slid into the booth in an effort not to loom over him. “Don’t worry. I’m not staying. I just need my answer, and then I’ll go. And you’ll keep eating.”
“You know, you’re kind of bossy,” he snarked without heat, picking up his burger.
“I know. I am terrible. Nosy too. So…” I circled my wrist meaningfully.
“Childress is a good forward. No doubt about it.”
“But he’s not great. He’s a showboat. He cuts corners and relies on fancy footwork when he should hustle instead. I don’t respect that type of play.”
Riley finished chewing. “You have a strong opinion about this. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Slammers fan.”
I waved dismissively. “No, no. Your team is…mmm…”
“Don’t hold back now.” He snorted in amusement.
“Okay, you’re bad.” I held up a hand like a stop sign. “Not you, personally. I think you’re very talented. But your team…meh. I’m prejudiced, though. I’m from Quebec. We have the worst weather, but we do hockey better. There’s no point in arguing, right?”
He barked a laugh. “You’re a lot.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t think that was a compliment.” Riley nibbled a fry, his eyes crinkled with humor. He looked decidedly more relaxed now and more handsome than ever.
I smiled good-naturedly. “It’s better if I take it as one. I’m very sensitive.”
“Noted. As for Childress…I don’t know what to say. He’s young.”
“You’re not old.”
“I’m thirty-five. Ancient in hockey years.”
“I’m forty. I am dead in gay years. C’est la vie.”
Riley ate another fry. “You’re gay?”
“Oui, we’re a rare breed in this town,” I lamented theatrically. “But we’re not talking about me or the other gays. We’re talking about the kid who wants your job. Don’t let him have it.”
“It’s not up to me. Childress is hungry…and he’s a flashy player with promise who can score.”
“Ahh, the politically correct reply. I understand. It’s probably in your contract to pretend to be neutral about your teammates. That would be difficult for me.”