The Romance Line (Love and Hockey #2) Read Online Lauren Blakely

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Forbidden, Funny, Sports Tags Authors: Series: Love and Hockey Series by Lauren Blakely
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Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
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Before my dad can even attempt to swipe his phone, I slide mine over the card reader. It’s nice that they don’t have to think about whether it’s in the budget like they did when we were kids. I like that they no longer have to worry.

And I don’t ever want that to change.

Later that night, after my parents and Kade have met Athena and I’ve said goodbye, my phone flashes with a message from Everly. I sneer at it even while I click it open so fast. It’s the time to meet her tomorrow evening. Then a chipper message can’t wait.

I scoff.

That’s doubtful. She probably wishes she were getting a root canal instead of dealing with me. Understandable. I feel the same about her.

I just wish she weren’t so distractingly beautiful, and after I get ready for bed and wander past the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, I wish I weren’t wondering where she lived.

11

ONE NEW THING

Everly

This avocado sushi is melting in my mouth. It’s so good, I want to groan. No, I want to Food Network moan. But that’d be wildly inappropriate for a business dinner.

Which is clearly what this is with Max, which is why I dressed for work. Trim slacks, a white blouse, and my hair in a high ponytail. I always wear it back at work.

I’ve learned that in a male-dominated field, it’s extra important to have boundaries. I’ve set plenty for myself—dressing only in a professional way, looking the same day in and day out with my hair and makeup, and acting above board.

Most of all—having no crushes on players.

At least, no crushes on players that I’d admit out loud to anyone but my friends.

“This is amazing,” I say after I finish the piece of sushi. That’s a much safer assessment than going all orgasmic eye-closing.

“Yeah, it sure seemed like you liked it,” Max says dryly.

What’s that supposed to mean? Except, fuck a duck. I think I might know. “Well, it’s good,” I say defensively.

His smile is ludicrously cocky. “I could tell you were enjoying yourself.”

Shoot. Was I food moaning even when I tried not to? That’s a bad habit of mine, and I blame Marie. Heat creeps across my cheeks, and for a few seconds, I stall, hunting for a plausible excuse, then offering up the first one that comes to mind. “I haven’t had sushi in a while. So I was excited.”

And that was weak. But I add a big smile to try to sell it. Like, maybe he’ll think I’ve just been smiling because of my love for this food. That’s all. Just a sweet, innocent smile.

With his chopsticks in that big right hand—how much of my ass could he cover with that hand? No. Don’t think that—he reaches for a yellowtail roll, takes his time swirling it in a soy sauce and wasabi mix, then leans closer, dropping his voice to a bedroom whisper. “I think they could even tell you liked it in the restaurant next door.”

My jaw drops. I was food moaning. And he caught me red-handed. I don’t know how to backpedal on this one, but…maybe it’ll help us work together. I can admit something awkward about myself, then we can get to the reason for this dinner—the battle plan I have with me on my goes-with-me-everywhere tablet. “I’m sorry,” I say, then shake my head. “It’s this thing my best friend and I used to do. We had contests every time we went out to eat. We pretended we were Food Network chefs. She wanted to be one—a chef. She was an amazing cook.”

And holy shit. I just went full word-vomit confession.

His smug smile evaporates. He sets down the soy-sauce-and-wasabi-drenched roll before he even brings it to his mouth. “Was?” he croaks out.

A one-word question that asks everything.

But it’s hard for me to say everything that happened the day I lost her, and a part of myself too. So I say the simplest thing. “She died three years ago. In a car accident.”

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and for a few blurry-eyed seconds, I think he’s going to squeeze my hand, and for a few more seconds, I want him to.

Maybe he senses it. As my vision swims and I blink back unwelcome tears, his hand settles on my wrist. Warm, comforting, reassuring. “You must have been close to her,” he says gently, squeezing my wrist.

I nod, unable to speak and feeling foolish for the intensity of my reaction. It’s been three years. I should be able to say she died without crying. But sometimes I just can’t. I was the driver, after all. Even if we were hit by another car, I was still the driver. I’m also the survivor.

Instinctively, I reach for my shoulder, feeling the silk strap of the lacy lavender bra I’m wearing today, then the hypertrophic scar there under my shirt, the harshest reminder of what happened. It’s hard not to touch it when I think of her, or that evening, or the terrible broken days that followed as I tried to heal. A choice she never had.


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