The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Max

“Welcome to the Most Spectacular Little Circus in Vegas.” A short white dude sporting a twirly mustache and a top hat waves grandly to the big top he stands under.

Or, really, the little top.

Everly found a tiny shoestring circus on the outskirts of Vegas to take me to. She’s an evil genius. She is Einstein-ian in her makeover planning, since I’m sitting on the cramped metal bleachers with my knees in my eyes.

This woman lives to torture me.

“I’m your ringmaster—Victor Valenti. Prepare to be dazzled by feats of wonder and magic, where reality blurs with illusion and dreams come to life before your very eyes,” the ringmaster booms, his voice echoing throughout the tiny tent. The air is thick with the scent of popcorn and cotton candy in the early afternoon.

The crowd of maybe one hundred erupts into cheers. Everly sits beside me, a mischievous glint dancing in her eyes. She knew exactly what she was doing when she suggested we visit this circus. But as much as I want to be annoyed by her cunning ways, I’m too damn impressed. There’s no room for a six-foot-four guy here, and this was a brilliant way to make me suffer. She’s so beautifully mean, and since she expects nothing less than ire from me, I mutter, “These seats are smaller than coach.”

She arches a brow, whispering, “And you would know how?”

That’s fair. “True. I haven’t flown coach in years.”

“So you’re not really suffering much then, are you?”

I harumph. She’s got me on that too. Still, I counter with, “Define suffering.”

As the ringmaster waxes on about the death-defying acts we’ll soon witness, she levels me with a stare that’s as sexy as it is withering. “This,” she says, gesturing to her face. “This is suffering right now.”

I smirk. “Good.”

“I had a feeling you’d like it.”

“Just like you enjoy my pain,” I toss back.

She pats my thigh. “It gets better. I promise.”

I glance down at her hand on the denim on my leg. Well, that is better, truth be told. My body sizzles under her touch, even though it’s irritating, this reaction to her. But it’s especially irritating when she takes her hand away and I miss it.

How can one person wind me up and annoyingly turn me on at the same time? That’s the real feat of wonder and mystery—that the woman next to me in the snug blue button-up blouse with short sleeves that show off toned arms is vexing me every single second.

With a swish of her trademark ponytail, Everly turns her gaze back to the man in the center of the stage as he says, “And now, the Amazing Valentis.”

The lights dim, casting a hush over the crowd. We’re wedged in next to the rest of the audience. A spotlight illuminates the center ring all the way to the top of the tent, where a trapeze drops down. A woman, clad in sparkling purple sequins and white feathers that catch the light, has one knee hooked over the bar. The rest of her hangs gracefully upside down. She rocks gently, then quickly as another trapeze drops down. A man hangs from the bar, swinging toward her, and soon he reaches her.

She grabs his hands and he catches her so she’s sailing under him.

Everly gasps. Gone is the sassy woman who needles me better than an acupuncturist. In its place is a woman awed by each death-defying move of a pair of trapeze artists. They execute them perfectly, then land on a mat, sticking their arms straight up in the air.

Everly claps loudly, looking like she wants to jump to her feet to give them a standing ovation.

The ringmaster introduces the next act—a juggler who tosses flaming batons high into the air. As he throws higher and higher, I lean closer to my companion, my shoulder bumping hers. “So you’re a closet circus fan. I get it now, Rosewood.”

She squares her shoulders, defiantly. “No. It’s just impressive.”

“Right. Sure,” I say, doubtful. “That’s all it is.”

She rolls her eyes at me. “You can’t handle the fact that I have a hidden appreciation for the extraordinary.”

“Next thing you know, you’ll be running away to join the circus. ”

“Don’t tempt me. I might just leave you and the Max makeover behind.”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “You wouldn’t. You like spending time with me too much.”

She scoffs. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“Don’t have to. It’s just a fact.”

With a beleaguered sigh, she looks away from the juggler, her brown eyes locking with mine. “Fine. I’ll take the bait. Why is it a fact?”

“Because you, sunshine, love torture.”

“Is this torture, Max? Is this really sweet torture?” she asks, leaning closer.

Her perfume swirls around me, seductive, alluring. A promise of sultry nights, and long, slow kisses that should never end. And I have the answer. Yes, this is torture. I’m entirely distracted by her scent. And I can’t resist stealing a hit. I shift toward her, catching another hit of it as I whisper in a gravelly voice, “The sweetest.”

She swallows, then blinks, like she’s been knocked off-kilter. “Good,” she says, but she sounds a little wobbly.

Like how I feel as my pulse kicks faster just from being near this woman. This attraction is getting to be a serious workplace hazard.

I’ve got to get a handle on this lust. I tear my gaze from her, forcing my focus on the juggler as he flips the fiery batons higher and higher still.

Everly stares hard at the ring too, like she’s also resetting her focus. Interesting.

At some point, though, she relaxes, watching the juggler again with avid eyes, then delighted ones. Everly’s enrapt. It’s kind of endearing, her joy in the show. That’s so not what I expected from this tough, fiery, fierce goddess of PR. But then again, Everly finds the bright side in everything—even circuses. I tip my chin toward her, catching her eye as I ask, “Do you have a thing for jugglers?”

“Do you have a thing for talking during a show?”

“Yes,” I say, because she smells too fucking good. I can’t focus on anything but her. With barely any space on these bleachers, I’m entirely too close to her on this too-small bench with too-little room, while I’m stuck inhaling her scent that’s driving me wild. I blame the perfume for what comes out of my mouth next. “Admit it—you’ve been secretly dying to take me out.”

She turns to me, shooting me a you didn’t just say that stare. But it’s not like she’s mad. More like she’s curious as hell. “What does that mean?”

“That maybe this was part of your plan all along,” I say, as nonchalant as I can be. “A date at the circus.”

She rolls her eyes. “Max, we’re here for a picture for your social feed. Step one, remember?”

“And yet I don’t see you taking one,” I say, busting her on a technicality, since I can’t stop giving her a hard time.

Her eyes widen, like she’s just realized that she’d forgotten our raison d’être. “I know that. I have a plan,” she says, defensively.

“Sure you do,” I tease.

“I do,” she insists quietly, but she’s already busy snagging her phone from her purse in a rush, like she wants to prove a point. She lifts it and snaps a quick shot of me. Then, the juggler. But she seems…shaky.

I smirk. Yup. She was having fun, despite herself. She was having such a good time she forgot her mission. Because I, Max Lambert, might be an unapproachable jerk but I’m also a damn good time. I inch closer once more, this time setting a hand on her shoulder. Her breath hitches, but she tries to hide it with a quick inhale.

“I won’t tell a soul you’re loving this,” I say, low and smoky in her ear.

She rolls her lips together, like she’s holding in words she wants to fling at me, words dipped in her brand of sexy sarcasm. Words meant to dress me down, that I can’t seem to resist eliciting from her.

“It’ll be our secret,” I press on, even lower, even raspier.

She’s stoic, her gaze focused on the act on stage doing…I don’t even know what. I don’t even care. I can’t stop teasing her. “It’ll be just between us,” I add.

Briefly, she closes her eyes. My attention snags on her bare forearms. Oh. Oh. Goosebumps are rising on her pale skin, a tell-tale sign she’s aroused. My head swims with this new knowledge. My mind short-circuits. Is Everly Rosewood turned on from the things I whispered in her ear at the circus? I raise my face slowly, getting a glimpse of her neck, her throat, the exposed skin at the top of her dark blue blouse.

It’s flushed.

She opens her eyes, and I sit back, too pleased, too fucking satisfied. I cross my arms, enjoying… everything .

Acrobats soar through the air and the fire-breather commands the attention of the audience. A man in black leather throws knives at a woman dressed in a tight, sleek catsuit. As the show reaches the end, the juggler returns, this time swallowing swords.

Which makes me cringe. My throat hurts from looking at him. “How the fuck does he do that?” I whisper. No low, seductive words this time. Just shock.

“No gag reflex,” Everly says, deadpan .

Great. Just great. My mind is off and running. “For real?”

She’s quiet for a beat, those pretty lips curving in the slightest smile as she murmurs, “I hear it helps with…swallowing.”

My chest burns, flames licking my blood. She went there. She fucking went there, and now I’m a volcano as I picture Everly Rosewood’s beautiful mouth doing unholy things to my dick.

I stare at her lush lips longer than I should till her eyes widen, and she pats her own chin subtly, a sign of something.

“What?” I ask, my voice rough.

In a whisper, she says, “Your mouth. It’s hanging open.”

Busted . But I’m not even sure I mind.

When the circus ends, we make our way down the bleachers and across the sawdust on the ground. As we exit the tent, Everly nods in the opposite direction of the street where the Lyft dropped us off. “I arranged for you to meet the ringmaster.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “You did?”

“Of course. This was a PR thing. It’s for your social,” she says.

Right. Of course. I’d let the moment get away from me. I’d let my thoughts wander too far. She guides me through the fairground to a tiny trailer where the ringmaster waits for us, his mustache curling with a bit of sweat. Hard work, running a show.

“Hello, Mr. Valenti. I’m Everly Rosewood,” she says, sticking out a hand. “We emailed.”

“Of course,” Victor says, shaking hands, as jovial as he was onstage. He turns to me. “You must be Max Lambert. The hockey guy, right?”

“That’s me,” I say.

“Everly says you’re pretty good on the ice. I’m more of a theater man myself but if you ever do tricks on skates, let me know.”

And there’s a first time for everything. I was just invited to join the circus. “Thanks. I will. Great show,” I say, working on being nicer, more approachable, more outgoing, so I add, “Do you all, um, train and study in the circus arts?”

Is that even what it’s called? I have no idea, but it sounds plausible.

“We do. I come from a long line of circus artists. Seventh generation myself,” he says, puffing out his chest with well-earned pride, and as we chat more about his family, Everly snaps some pics of us. I guess she was prepared after all.

“And what about you, Max? Does your family do hockey?” he asks.

“Actually, my parents are teachers,” I say.

That seems to catch his interest. “What do they teach?”

“Dad is a drama teacher and Mom teaches dance. That’s how they met—they had to share space at a little theater in Seattle where he was directing a play, and she was putting on a recital. Been together ever since. And they teach together, too, at a performing arts school in the Bay Area.”

“It’s lovely that they work together.”

“Yeah, it really is. More than thirty years married and still going strong. Honestly, I’m just glad they don’t mind watching me play hockey now and then,” I say, then shrug, almost apologetically, “even though it’s not a play or musical.”

“I’m sure they don’t mind it one bit,” he says, like a proud dad too. “I always like seeing what my kids love. Fortunately, I get to see them juggle every day.”

“They’re the jugglers?” I ask, a little amazed in spite of myself.

“They are,” he says, proudly.

“No shit. That’s awesome,” I say.

“I think so too,” he says.

We wrap up a few minutes later and once we’re in the Lyft, Everly lifts her chin and says, “I was right.”

“About what?”

“Circuses are your favorite thing.”

I scoff. “They’re not. I’m not a circus guy.”

The smirk doesn’t disappear from her face. “But you’re wrong.”

“I think I know what my favorite things are, sunshine.”

She turns to face me with that trump-card smile. “Do you?”

“I sure do, and they’re not circuses.”

“But you like your family. And you liked talking to Mr. Valenti about his family. So, really, it was no hardship going to the circus. In fact, you enjoyed chatting with him about your parents. So that’s another real favorite thing.”

Holy. Fuck.

Forget evil genius. She is next level. I can’t even be annoyed. I’m too impressed with how she plays the game.

“Has anyone told you that you’re Machiavellian?” I ask as the car heads toward the team hotel. I’ll need to get ready soon for the game. I skipped my game-day nap. I like them, but I slept on the early flight this morning so I’ll be fine.

“As a matter of fact, yes. You . You just did.”

“Well, you are.”

She’s smiling. “I know.”

As the car swings onto the Strip, my phone buzzes, and I check it. It’s a text from my mom.

Guess where I found your kitten?

I groan, bracing myself for Athena’s antics.

Top of the fridge? Bottom of the laundry basket? Inside the dryer?

I hope it’s not the latter. But I bet it is. She’s the sneakiest.

Your closet. Top shelf. Sleeping on a tie.

There’s a pic attached of the tiny furball curled up on some sapphire blue neckwear. Fuck, that’s cute.

Everly shoots me a curious look, like she wants to know what’s on my phone. “All good?”

But if I let on that I foster kittens, I’ll never hear the end of it from her. “Yep,” I say, shutting the text.

She returns to her phone, typing away. Smiling too. That looks like how a woman smiles when she sets up a date. A fire rages in my chest, out of control in seconds.

“Got a date?” I ask. It comes out strangled.

“Maybe,” she says, a little flintily.

The flames burn higher. Brighter. Hotter. In seconds, there’s a wildfire in me, eating the forest alive. “Is he your type? ”

“I guess I’ll find out. We’re going to grab lunch on Sunday,” she says.

“Lunch,” I scoff. “That’s weak.”

“Why is lunch weak?”

“Because it’s lunch. Who takes a woman out for lunch?”

“A nice guy,” she says.

I grind my teeth, then stare out the window, my jaw ticking the rest of the way back as I think about her lunch this weekend.

As I’m heading to the Vegas arena a couple hours later, a text from her lands on my phone. It’s a link to my social feed.

She dropped some pics from the circus. The shot of me watching, a pic of the sword swallowing, then the final snap of the ringmaster and me.

The caption reads: If hockey doesn’t work out, I might run off to join the circus.

I shake my head. She’s brilliant. So fucking brilliant. And I bet this fuckface she’s having lunch with won’t appreciate her clever ways.

She needs a guy who does. A guy who does more than take her to lunch. A friend takes you to lunch. A date doesn’t take you to lunch on a Sunday.

Wait. This Sunday. I know something that’s happening this Sunday right around noon. I send her a text.

Max: Had a great idea for my next favorite thing. There’s a fun bike ride in the city this weekend. Starts at noon on Sunday. You can get another pic.

Who’s the evil genius now?