Ten first dates, p.6
Ten First Dates, page 6
She didn’t bake cookies, but she didn't even really like cookies? What the fuck was he doing here?
Having the best fucking sex of your life. Four times. And wanting more right this second.
Dammit.
He turned to head for the front door again, not wanting to say anything about seeing her again.
“You know, they never questioned Matthew’s parents as suspects.”
He stopped and looked back with a frown. She was thinking about the cold case from last night? First thing in the morning? After the night they’d had? “His parents?” Spencer asked, despite all the other questions.
She propped up on one elbow, the sheet almost falling away from her breasts.
Spencer felt his body tighten as if she was lying there bare naked. He wanted her again. Right now. Even after having her, very well, in multiple positions.
“Yeah. They asked them a few questions about what time he got home, his emotional state, appearance, stuff like that. But his parents should have been suspects.”
And despite them talking about murder. And a pretty gruesome one at that.
“Why do you think that?”
“The file said he and the girl fought on the way to her house and that he slapped her. The other boy confirmed that and also reported Matthew was distraught after that. His parents confirmed that. Maybe he showed up at home upset. Maybe he told his parents he hit the girl. Maybe his stepdad hit him a couple of times. Maybe his stepdad was a drunk. Or an asshole child abuser. Or had stolen property. Who knows? No one ever looked at them as suspects. Maybe the stepdad was afraid the girl would tell someone Matthew hit her. Maybe his stepdad lost his cool and he beat the shit out of him because he’d done something foolish and was going to get cops poking around the house or cost them a bunch of legal fees. And maybe he beat him so badly that he ended up dying, and they had to dump his body.”
Spencer stared at her. She said it all very matter-of-factly.
And it wasn’t a crazy theory.
“You've been thinking about this? Between when we talked about the case and now? In spite of all the stuff we were doing?”
She grinned. “Well, I wasn’t thinking about it during if that's what you're worried about.”
He shook his head. He had actually been wondering about that. He sighed and focused on what she’d said. “So you think it was the kid’s parents?”
“I'm just saying it's a possibility. Other than those first interviews, they weren’t questioned again and no one else was questioned about them. I think the cops screwed up.”
Spencer mulled that over. Fuck. It all made sense. It was horrific, of course. But people did terrible things to the people they were supposed to love and care for all the time. He knew that. “You got to that fast. And you were even a little… distracted…last night.”
She shrugged. “I’m just really good.”
He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. He liked her. He really liked sleeping with her, but he also liked her. And she was weird and a little dark and didn't even like cookies.
All of this had been a terrible idea.
But at least he got to leave her in bed. Not his bed. And she wasn’t propped up reading. But she was smiling. All in all, he could not be upset with how the night turned out.
“I'll see you, Max.”
She frowned. “We’re not dating now are we?”
He hesitated. Why did he hesitate? And why was she frowning? “No. We’re…”
She lifted an eyebrow. And didn’t even attempt to fill in that blank.
“Friends,” he said weakly. “We’ll probably run into each other once in a while.”
She grinned. “Okay. Good luck with your cookie erections.” Then she flopped back onto her back, pulled her comforter up to her chin, and closed her eyes.
He choked. “Uh, thanks.” Dammit. This girl was just not what he’d expected.
He needed to avoid her. As much as possible. As in not seeing her again. Even at Zander and Caroline’s future wedding. He needed to be sick that night.
He might also need to give up cookies. Forever.
But of course, at the last minute, he grabbed the bag of cookies on the way out the door, and stubbornly dug a chocolate chip out as he headed for his truck.
Maxine Keller was not going to ruin cookies for him.
And it took one bite to realize he was totally fucked. He was definitely going to think of her every time he ate one. And chocolate chip really were his favorite. Besides brownies, of course.
Two weeks later…
“There’s been a bomb threat at the New Orleans News.”
Spencer’s partner, Chris Wilson, looked up. “I heard.”
“Let’s go.”
“Where’re we going?” But Chris was already on his feet.
“To her place.”
“Whose place?” Chris followed Spencer’s long strides down the hall.
“Max Keller.”
So much for not seeing her again. He hadn’t eaten a fucking chocolate chip cookie in two weeks. He hadn’t talked to Zander in two weeks for fear he’d say something about Caroline, which would remind Spencer of Max. Spencer hadn’t spoken to Wyatt in two weeks other than texts because he was afraid his brother would ask about her.
And he’d still fucking thought about her every damned day.
“Who’s Max Keller?” Chris asked as Spencer hit the door leading to the parking lot so hard it bounced off the bricks with a bang loud enough they probably heard it back in the main office.
“The reporter the threat was directed at. She’s not at the office, no one’s heard from her yet this morning, she’s not answering her phone.”
Spencer’s gut was so tight he felt like he might be sick.
“This isn’t our jurisdiction, is it?” Chris asked. “Local authorities will handle it.”
“Just get in the truck,” Spencer told his partner tightly.
Chris did.
Spencer left a black mark on the pavement as he peeled out of the parking lot.
Thank you so much for reading Bayou Tonight!
Spencer and Max’s full-length, stand-alone, HEA can be found in
Gotta Be Bayou!
How do you get over a woman you never should have been, ahem, under in the first place?
Just when FBI special agent Spencer Landry had decided to forget about investigative journalist Maxine–Max–Keller and their one hot night together, there’s a threat made against her and Spencer’s protective instincts get all riled up. Again.
So now they’re shacking up on the Louisiana bayou and pretending to be in love so he can keep Max safe until the guy is apprehended.
Considering their chemistry and that he can not stop thinking about the gorgeous-and-doesn’t-know-it, smart-mouthed, bold-and-yet-vulnerable redhead, this could be a fun few days, right?
Nope. She’s all wrong for him.
And she hasn’t forgotten he can be kind of a jerk.
Sure, the naked-times are great, but he told her exactly what he wants— a bubbly, sweet school teacher who bakes him brownies and loves to cuddle—and Max ain’t it.
Max not only doesn’t bake, no one has ever called her sweet. And cuddling? Shudder.
Plus his bossiness is super annoying for someone who’s been taking care of herself all her life. But now they’re stuck together and dammit, besides being hot and very good with his mouth, Spencer is pretty irresistible with baby goats, little kids, and attempts at baking. And don’t forget alpha-protective. All of which makes her stomach feel very swoop-y.
No wonder her clothes keep falling off.
But this is a temporary situation and they’re only faking it. So falling for the guy is a terrible idea.
She really should have kept that in mind.
Get it HERE!
ALSO BY ERIN NICHOLAS
Want more from my bayou world! I’ve got so much more sexy fun for you!
Boys of the Bayou
My Best Friend’s Mardi Gras Wedding
Sweet Home Louisiana
Beauty and the Bayou
Crazy Rich Cajuns
Must Love Alligators
Four Weddings and a Swamp Boat Tour
Boys of the Bayou Gone Wild
Otterly Irresistible
Heavy Petting
Flipping Love You
Sealed With a Kiss
Say It Like You Mane It
Head Over Hooves
Kiss My Giraffe
Badges of the Bayou
Gotta Be Bayou
Bayou With Benefits
Rocked Bayou
ABOUT ERIN NICHOLAS
Erin Nicholas is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over thirty sexy contemporary romances. Her stories have been described as toe-curling, enchanting, steamy and fun. She loves to write about reluctant heroes, imperfect heroines and happily ever afters. She lives in the Midwest with her husband who only wants to read the sex scenes in her books, her kids who will never read the sex scenes in her books, and family and friends who say they’re shocked by the sex scenes in her books (yeah, right!).
Find her here:
THE GIRL IN THE JERSEY
AINSLEY BOOTH
When a mystery girl wearing a hockey jersey and a matching toque to mine tumbles out of a post-game party, I have to follow her. When we end up at the bar, trading stories and laughs? I have to make a play for the rest of the night. That she only wants one night, and doesn’t want to give me her name…those are problems for the morning. And that tiny niggle of worry? I have to ignore it...
Copyright © 2022 by Ainsley Booth
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Also by Ainsley Booth
About Ainsley Booth
CHAPTER ONE
Harper
The downside of actually wanting to watch the whole hockey game and not miss a second of the action means standing in line for the ladies’ room in between the second and third period. A very long line.
My bladder regrets the second beer I guzzled as if it was the elixir of life. But it helped me unleash my inner hockey fangirl, so this is the price to pay.
The girl ahead of me is on her phone, furiously texting, and I have to gently remind her that the line is moving forward.
“Sorry,” she mutters, barely glancing at me. But something catches her attention, because she does a second look, this one raking down my body.
I’m wearing black leggings, warm boots since it’s the middle of winter in Buffalo, and an Arizona jersey. While the Buffalo arena is within driving distance of my house, I enjoy being the odd girl out—the weirdo in the wrong jersey when I go to games. This is the third time I’ve done one of these weekends in Buffalo, and each time I’ve worn the visiting team’s sweater. I’m getting quite the collection at the back of my closet.
This girl, on the other hand, is dressed for a nightclub. Skinny jeans with more rips than make sense for a freezing cold arena, a slinky top that looks like it unlaces, and pretty lingerie underneath both—matching, and that I can tell that from the gaps in her clothing says something about her plans for the evening.
“Are you an Arizona fan?” she asks.
“I hate hockey.” Then I add, because I’m honest to a fault, “More of a love-hate relationship, I guess. It’s complicated.”
She looks confused, then flicks that away. It doesn’t matter, her expression clearly says. Right, that’s information best shared with my therapist.
“I need a plus one for a party with the team tonight, and you’re hot. Do you want to come?” She makes a face. “Don’t tell them you hate hockey, though.”
“Pardon?” I tilt my head to the side. “What team?”
She glances down at my jersey again, that confused expression back, like she’s wondering if I’m stupid. “The one whose jersey you’re wearing?”
“Oh.”
“There’s a thing after the game, with some of the Arizona players. The rule is, pretty girls who come have to bring a friend. You’ll do.”
I’ll do.
Whew, that hits hard in a way I do not like. “I’m good, thanks.”
She jiggles in frustration, a little mini tantrum that she does a good job of containing as she realizes she can’t force a stranger to come to a party with her. “Argh. Look, my friend said that she’d come with me, and now she’s backing out. I need to get inside that party.” She shows me her phone. “I’m an influencer, and the inside scoop on how to get into parties like this would make amazing content. I could spin it for months.”
At least she’s not just a puck bunny. She’s just as selfish as those players will be, and I can respect that. She has my attention now. “And you need to bring a buddy?”
The line moves forward again.
“A hot buddy. It’s a whole thing. The players want their choice of girls, you know?”
Oh, I know. Something ugly inside me rears its vicious head. I fed that little monster two beers, and now I’m considering a very bad idea. “Have you been to this kind of party before?”
“Yep. That’s how I got on this invite list.”
“Who organizes it?”
She launches into a long story about this other influencer. I don’t care. I’ve changed my mind. I’m in. I give her my number, and we make a plan to meet up at the end of the game.
I get back to my seat just before the start of the final period.
Arizona gets a rare-for-this-season away game win, 3-2, and as I watch them skate off the ice, I wonder which of them will be at the party.
Most of the young guys, definitely. How many of the married ones? The superstars?
I read the hockey gossip. The message boards I lurk on are full of snide comments and blind items I gobble up like the worst kind of candy. Tonight, I’m actually going to be witness to something like what I’ve read about.
Here goes nothing.
CHAPTER TWO
Kieran
I like playing in Buffalo. The hotel we stay at is right next to the arena, and there’s a good steakhouse that will keep a private room open for us if we win and want to burn off a little excess energy with a good dinner and some socializing.
Stanzi has someone on speed dial, too, so there are always pretty girls. And lots of Canadians come to the games, which I appreciate. Their fandom hits differently, something I’ve been craving lately.
And this season—my first playing for an American team, one that’s not doing well—I need to focus on the little things I do like about how the game is going for me. Like tonight’s win. Fuck, that felt good, after two losses in a row.
Less great is the “It’s not you, It’s me” text I got before the game from the woman I’ve been seeing in Phoenix. She’s not wrong to break things off. I’m hoping to be traded again sooner than fucking later, and I’m always on the road, anyway.
That I’m mostly bummed about the loss of a satisfying blow job is probably a sign that it was, in fact, me.
I finish up in the dressing room, thank the equipment guys for their hard work in getting our gear all packed up, then hit the locker room to shower and collect my personal belongings. Tonight’s suit is blue, the leather shoes are brown, and the tie is covered in hockey sticks. Because we’re in Buffalo in the dead of winter, there’s also a wool overcoat and a toque. The winter hat is also covered in hockey sticks.
Bespoke dork, a men’s magazine recently proclaimed in a four-page spread I did with them. I can embrace that. Life’s too short to take fashion seriously, but a well-tailored suit just feels good to put on.
So does a toque covered in hockey sticks when it’s minus fifteen. Celsius. I still haven’t figured out the Fahrenheit conversion.
On my way out the players’ exit, a few fans call my name. I stop and sign a Montreal jersey, ignoring the pang in my chest. This is the job. Everyone gets traded at some point.
I just didn’t expect it to be me. The kid from Winnipeg, drafted by Montreal. Gold medallist at the World Juniors, then the Olympics. Canadian boy through and through.
After spending six years reigning supreme over the best team in the league by the only standard that mattered—the fervour of its fandom—one could excuse me for thinking I might spend my entire career in Montreal.
Now I live in a desert and play in a half-full arena with teammates I don’t mind, but I think they’re all phoning it in.
There’s no heart. Even when we win.
“Have a good one,” I say, waving goodbye.
We’re spending a second night in Buffalo before travelling on to Colorado tomorrow. We’re often wheels up after a game, but Buffalo’s hotels are relatively cheap, and there’s not too much trouble for players to get into when it’s this fucking cold outside.
