I accidentally bid on a date with hockey star Rake Hanson, AKA Mr. Puck-Head, at a charity auction.
Now I’m stuck with him.
He’s the poster boy for everything I can’t stand in a guy – sports nut, ego, and that annoying thing called charm.
Some “prize.”
While his grunts and one-word answers threaten to drive me up the wall, at least he’s nice to look at with those broad shoulders, strong jawline, and big… hands. Regardless, he’s an unrepentant grouch. If he ever smiles, I have no doubt his face will crack.
Our date, where I must beam for the cameras and pretend I don’t loathe every second of it, is destined to be a frosty disaster. It goes even worse than I imagine, involving a chartered flight to Vegas, too many cocktails at a roulette table, a wedding chapel, and a couple drunken “I do’s.”
And now his sports agent won’t let me dump his sorry ass until the end of the season.
So I, Petal Parker, am stuck in this bizarro world of stinky jocks, gossip columns, and flashy parties.
But the touches… and the glances… threaten to melt the hard ice around my heart. As the final buzzer of the season nears, I find my fake relationship with Mr. Puck-Head skating dangerously close to scoring the real thing. Ditching my fake husband is suddenly no longer as urgent as his deep, sexy kisses.
“Hey, Petal. When was the last time you did something completely out of character? Like batshit crazy, unconventional, and spontaneous?”
My mouth opens, then closes again, like a gasping fish.
“Let your hair down, baby,” Rake says.
“It’s already down,” I say.
Truth be told, I don’t do a lot of crazy. But I’m not about to admit that to Rake and his friends. They already think I’m a charity date.
Wendy and Daria are at my side. “You know the saying, ‘when in Vegas,’ right?” Wendy asks, nudging me with a giggle.
“Yes, I’m familiar with it,” I say nervously.
This can’t be happening. My resolve is crumbling. Actually, really crumbling. The tequila shot, and the wine before it, has gone to my head, and I’m really, actually contemplating doing something only a fucking idiot would consider.
That’s me. A fucking idiot.
But I’ve been careful all my life. Made nothing but good decisions.
How often do I get to make such a gloriously bad one?
#2
I haven’t had balls this blue since I was a skinny sixteen-year-old trying to figure out how to get laid.
And it fucking sucks.
Sure, I could go get off with some other chick. There’s certainly no shortage of women dying take off their panties to spend time with a high-profile athlete.
That might be a shitty thing to say, but it’s true. Ask any of my teammates. Even the married ones have to fend off the women looking to hook up with a walking wallet.
That’s what I call us guys who have money.
And there was a time not very long ago when I would have taken one of these women up on their offer to relieve my aching balls. But, for some reason, the thought of that just isn’t holding the appeal it once did.
I blame it all on Petal. Petal Parker.
The ballbuster I never saw coming.
There’s no way to prepare yourself for a woman like her. She just appears on the scene one day, and you’re fucking smitten, and it’s hard to think of anything else.
It’s also hard to prepare for the fact that she couldn’t give a shit if I lived or died. I’m not used to that.
It’s humbling.
Embarrassing.
And driving me up a goddamn wall.
#3
“Are you teasing me?” I murmur.
He tilts his head. “Maybe,” he sing-songs. “Do you feel teased, Petal? Is there something you want that you’re not getting?”
He’s good. Very good.
“I… want more. I want you to touch me everywhere,” I breathe.
He presses his lips against my ear. “Good girl.” He grabs my jeans by the waistband and pulls me to him, hard, grinding his erection against me.
M. Lane is the not-so-stealthy alter ego of USA TODAY bestselling contemporary romance author Mika Lane. She’s OBSESSED with bringing you sassy stories with imperfect heroines and the hot dudes they bring to their knees.
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