no, I’m not. Actually, I’ll be playing hockey in the men’s league, a game which will likely be broadcast, as Amelie SanSimeon-Wipf and I break gender equality barriers and try to break each other’s bones.
Not that I could tell him any of that.
How pissed off would Nolan be tomorrow night when he saw me suited up in hockey gear and not at home pressing my interview suit, and shooting bullets at the net instead of going over the bullet points of my last questionnaire?
Plenty pissed off.
I didn’t answer; I focused on lacing up my left skate. Then I pushed to my feet and sidestepped onto the rubber mat. I smiled at him. “Thanks for checking on me, Nolan.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? You seem off.”
“I am. I hate lying. I’ll just be glad when this is over.” I patted him on the knee before I stepped onto the ice. “Get some rest, Fancy Pants. You look like you could use it.”
Fifteen
NOLAN
Fancy Pants.
And a fucking knee pat.
Gabriella Welk was the hardest goddamned woman to read that I’d ever met.
On Monday, when we’d found the clothing she needed to give her a visual edge for this interview, she’d shown me a vulnerable side of herself I hadn’t expected.
She’d hugged me before she left.
And she’d held on.
And on.
During that wonderfully impromptu physical display, with her wrapped in my arms, her cheek to my chest, her hair tickling my chin, I was enveloped in the sweet cocoa bean, vanilla aroma that was all her.
I’d been thankful for the wool and down coats between us or she would’ve known how thoroughly her scent had aroused me.
Literally a dick move.
Not the first one I’d made one around her, probably wouldn’t be the last. The more time I spent getting to know her, via our crazy text messages and her in-person antics, the more I realized my dickish diatribe about her not being my type had been completely true.
Had been.
Because that brash, crude, hard, unforgiving, judgmental Gabi . . . wasn’t the real Gabi at all. Sure those attributes were part of her, but not all of her. Not even freakin’ close. She’d shown me the loyal, funny, honest, playful and dare I say . . . sweet? side of her that was at the core of who she was. I found those characteristics appealing as hell.
So lack of attraction wasn’t the issue for me now. Now I had it bad for her.
Real bad. Like show-up-at-the-damn-ice-rink-after- a-fifteen-hour-workday-just-to-see-if-I-could-get-her-to-smile-at-me kind of bad.
And when she had? I felt like I’d accomplished something monumental today.
This was after I’d negotiated a million-dollar discount on a software prototype LI was bidding on.
Just when I’d scrapped my idea to wait around and ask Gabi to dinner, my phone buzzed.
Caller ID read Ash.
I answered, “This is Nolan Lund.”
“Why do you insist on doing that when you know damn well it’s just me?” Ash complained.
Standing, I hustled up the incline that led out of the rink. “Maybe I’m someplace where I need to present a professional tone.”
“Wrong. You’re at the ice rink. I can hear the blowers going.”
“I stopped in briefly to get verbal confirmation for a snag I’d hit for my LCCO event this weekend,” I lied. “But it’s all good. So what’s up?”
“Honestly? I’m sick of my own company. Wanna grab a beer and some wings?”
“No work talk?”
“None.”
“Excellent. Where do you wanna meet?”
“The only place to have wings: Branyon’s.”
“See you there in twenty.” I wouldn’t have time to go home and change. But my motto had always been better to be overdressed than underdressed.
I cranked on my audiobook for the drive, letting it distract me from my day.
Branyon’s was busier than I expected for a Wednesday until I realized it was ladies’ night. Luckily Ash had already snagged a booth in the back corner.
“Hey.” I hung up my topcoat and then peeled out of my suit jacket before I sat down.
Ash eyed my shirt, vest and tie combo. “I’d look like a clown if I wore that. Looks great on you, however.”
“Thanks.”
“I ordered the appetizer platter, a dozen wings and a pitcher of Leinie’s.”
“Sounds good.”
The waitress showed up with two frosted glasses and a pitcher. She filled our mugs and bailed.
“So you’re sick of your own company, huh?”
“I’ve gotten into a rut.” He swigged from his mug. “I’m partially blaming you for that.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“Nothing. That’s why I’m blaming you. We used to hang out all the time. Then Jax returns to town—”