Total pages in book: 10
Estimated words: 9060 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 45(@200wpm)___ 36(@250wpm)___ 30(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 9060 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 45(@200wpm)___ 36(@250wpm)___ 30(@300wpm)
My pulse spikes. She’s been the best part of my last few days. “We meet again,” I say.
She gives a small smile. “Lucky us.”
“Indeed.”
The barista sets a coffee tumbler on the counter in front of her. “Here’s your pour-over with oat milk. For Jane.”
Jane. I’ve got to wonder if that’s her real name, or her coffee name.
She turns back to him. “Thank you,” she says, then makes a move to lift her phone to pay for it.
Nope.
I step forward, waving her off, fast reflexes and all. “I’ve got it.” I turn to look at the beauty, then enjoy myself as I say her name—fake or real, I don’t care. “Jane.”
Her red lips curve up. Then, playfully, she says, “In that case, I’ll have a few bags of beans. A couple sesame bagels. The roasted almonds and the morning oats with chia seeds.”
Little does she know I’d get it all for her. The whole shop if she asked. “Whatever you want. It’s yours.”
She takes a beat, her eyes sparkling. “Coffee will do,” she says, then gives a slight tip of her head my way. “And thank you, sir.”
It comes out sensual, a little husky. It goes straight to my brain, which quickly flashes images of her saying that in other ways, other places.
“You’re welcome,” I say, then step back in case she wants to leave. And if she does, fine. I’m not in the business of pursuing women who don’t want to be pursued.
But if she opens the door, I’ll kick it the rest of the way.
She spins back to the barista but tosses me a coy look, her red waves catching the morning light through the window, looking coppery and shimmery. “And my English friend will have his usual. An English Breakfast.”
I fight off a smirk. She’s noticed me too. I set down my to-go cup, and the barista takes it to fill with hot water.
“We really do need to stop meeting like this,” I say, and fortunately, I have a solution since I pride myself on solving problems. Teammates not getting on? I sit their arses down and make them talk till they work it out. Brownstone runs out of hot water one morning? I fix the water heater myself. Missed my chance last season with the woman at the coffee shop who likes to flirt too? I’ve got a plan for that today. I reach into the back pocket of my jeans, sliding a finger along the soft envelope once more.
“Do we though?” she counters.
“That’s a fair point,” I say, then thank the barista as he hands me the mug. I turn to go, and in perfect sync, Jane walks with me. “We don’t have to stop.”
She roams her clever eyes over me. Judging by her smile and the way her gaze lingers, she seems to like what she sees. “Go on,” she says as we leave the shop and stand outside in the Manhattan morning.
I take out the envelope with the tickets in it. “We could meet again later this week. I’d love it if you’d come to the home opener. I have a VIP ticket for you, Jane…?”
I wait for her to supply a surname. There’s something teasingly familiar about her, but I’ve never been able to place it.
She’s quiet for a beat, her green eyes sparkling, her lips curving into a grin she seems to try to fight off. Maybe she’s trying to place me too? Hard to say, and hockey players aren’t always recognized, which works fine for me. I’d rather let my stats speak for themselves.
She licks her lips, takes her time, then says, “Jane Smith.”
Right. Sure. But I’m not about to call her on that. “Jane Smith,” I say, accepting her coffee name.
She takes the envelope with her polished nails, gunmetal gray. “It was nice meeting you…” She lifts her chin, her eyes widening, waiting for me.
“Shaw Coleman. Defenseman on the New York Ice Kings,” I say. “But you can just call me your English friend.”
That smile? It widens, and it looks almost…conspiratorial.
No idea why it would. But maybe she’s been wanting the same thing I have—the chance to meet again.
“Thanks for the coffee. And the invitation, Shaw Coleman.” It’s said like it tastes good on her lips.
I bet her lips would taste good on mine.
“There are actually two tickets in there. Bring a friend. Don’t bring a date, Jane,” I say, locking eyes with her, making my intentions clear. “Since you’ll have one after the game.”
Her smile spreads, pleased and sexy.
Then, out of the blue, she steps closer, her honeysuckle scent wafting around me, and she presses her lips to my cheek unexpectedly, leaving a faint trace of a kiss as she whispers, “I’ll be there for the game and after…my English friend.”
With her lipstick on my cheek and her honeysuckle-infused confidence trailing behind her, she takes off, walking the other way with a defiant click-clack of her boots, leaving me on the street with the thrill of watching her go.