Dirty Talker (Slayers Hockey #4) - Mira Lyn Kelly Page 0,29

them to State.

That part sounds familiar. The arm. The snap. The—

“Yo, Wade’s girl,” the guy from the back of the booth—Collin—says, leaning across the curved bench with a beckoning wave. “The prodigal son’s return always takes a while. Have a beer and take a load off.”

It seems like a better plan than standing awkwardly beside my fake boyfriend while half his graduating class closes in on him. But before I can let go of Wade’s hand, his grip on mine firms and I’m tucked back to his side. Those laughing blue eyes turn hard as they meet Collin’s.

And that is not something I’ve seen from Wade before. Well, maybe close to the one he gave O’Dwyer back at the Five Hole after I humiliated myself in front of him that first day.

“Take it easy, man.” Collin starts climbing out of the booth, grabbing his glass on the way. “Joking. And I’m taking off anyway.”

Wade’s jaw is set hard, the muscle jumping, once, twice, as Collin claps the other guys on the shoulders and then, cutting through the crowd, heads for the exit.

I start to ask, but he shakes his head. “That guy’s trouble. I’ll tell you later.”

There’s an awkward beat, but Tommy clears his throat and wedges his barrel chest past me to slide into the booth himself. Patting the bench beside him, he gives me a wide grin. “Come on, Harlow. Tell me how this guy fast-talked you into a trip to exotic Enderson?”

Wade

I am not a good fucking guy.

Tommy and DJ have been telling Harlow stories about the misadventures of my youth for the last hour, giving her crap about never having watched a football game, giving me crap about how they totally get why she hasn’t seen a hockey game either, and making the girl who isn’t actually mine laugh like… Damn, like I like making her laugh.

And I’m jealous.

Which is crazy because I’m not the jealous type, and it’s bullshit because I’m not supposed to want this to be real. We have a deal. And I don’t want to be the guy flipping the script.

That’s why I had to get her the hell out of that hotel room tonight.

One look at Harlow with those smokey eyes and her hair pinned back so I could see the silky length of her neck on one side—damn—I knew we had to get out. That if we didn’t, I’d end up putting some move on her and being the total douche I’m trying so hard not to be.

One week. That’s all I’ve got to make it. And then once we get past the I Dos, once I have her back in Chicago where she’s got home-ice advantage—then I’ll pull out everything I’ve got.

Probably on her doorstep.

But not now. Not here. Not when I can’t fucking tell if the signals I’m getting off her are about perfecting our fake, or because she’s feeling it too.

Harlow turns in her seat, eyes bright and beautiful, still laughing from whatever story Tommy was telling her. “Wade, you were such a hellion! And here I’d been so sure I was signing on with a good guy.”

I want to be. But even her teasing me with my own words is working against that effort, doing things to me it shouldn’t.

Climbing out of the booth, I hold out my hand, and when she gives me hers, I draw her along with me.

“Are we leaving?”

“No way, Good Girl. We’re dancing.”

Her eyes go wide but I don’t give her a chance to say no before I’m pulling her in against me and spinning her around. And the quick move pays off, because then she’s laughing, her hands against my chest, holding tight to my shirt as she finds her balance.

God, that’s nice.

“Wade! I’m not— I don’t really—”

“Sure you do.” Keeping an arm behind her, I lead us onto the small dance floor that’s been filling up since we arrived.

“So we’re selling it now?” she asks, hands sliding up to my shoulders. “Anyone in particular you’re trying to convince, or just Enderson as a whole?”

Pretty sure I’m selling it to all the guys who keep staring at her, wondering whether they’ve got a shot at the prettiest girl here.

They don’t.

“Sorry about that business with Collin, back there. I wasn’t expecting to see him—though I probably should have.”

“Not your favorite person?”

“Not even close.” More than ten years later, and I still can’t think about the guy without feeling like I’m suffocating beneath the weight of his bad choices. “Tommy and DJ