The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Everly

It’s official. I am a thief. Crouching back on my heels on the plush hotel room carpet, I steal a whiff of the grumpy goalie’s cologne.

It’s bold and spicy, but strong too, starting with chili pepper and finishing with cedar, and it smells like the kind of guy you can’t stop looking at when you go to a club with your girlfriends. That unknowable man with the dark gaze who leans against the sleek, silver bar and surveys the scene with cool blue eyes. The man whose stare is undressing you as you dance for him.

Someone so cocky you hate yourself for wanting him.

I shudder as I close my eyes, catching the final after-notes from this sapphire blue bottle. When I open my eyes, I force myself to cap it.

Blinking off the heady fog, I set the cologne back down in Max’s black travel kit as I stare at the evidence in front of me. A wide open suitcase that isn’t mine—one I didn’t shut when I discovered we’d accidentally grabbed each other’s bags when we arrived after our flight to Seattle from San Francisco.

It’s damning. I’m not just a scent thief. I’m a veritable snoop.

Why don’t you just lick his tube of toothpaste too? Rub your thigh on his shampoo bottle? Mark his things a little more?

Ashamed, I jerk back from the suitcase that’s been my downfall for the last five minutes since I noticed the luggage switcheroo when I arrived at my room. I undo and redo my ponytail again and again. What have I done? Did I really look through one of the hockey player’s things?

Girl, you sure did. And you relished every single second of it.

Embarrassment crawls up my chest. I can’t believe I rooted through his clothes and his travel kit instead of just, oh say, closing the bag and texting him about the mix-up.

LIKE AN ADULT WOULD DO.

But I’m evidently a cat. I now know what cologne Max wears, what color his boxer briefs are, and what flavor lip balm he likes. Also that he uses a coveted face moisturizer that’s made from the best grape-seed oil. I wish I could afford this stuff. But I can never let on to Max that I know all these details of his life.

I can definitely never admit I pilfered an inhale of his Midnight Flame—such an annoying cologne that annoying men who like to needle helpful women wear.

Especially since he probably didn’t even toss a glance at my things. The man’s so uninterested in anything but his own agenda .

Hustling, I hunt for my phone so I can text him. I spot the device, then quickly dictate a note.

Hi, Max! There’s been a little mix-up, and I have ? —

A loud knock on my door startles me, then a deep, masculine voice calls out: “Room service. We have the Veuve Clicquot you ordered and the birthday cake in bed.”

What?

I didn’t order that. Or anything. Plus, that’s way over my per diem. My boss would reprimand me with a cool smile, and I hate reprimands, especially ones I don’t deserve.

“Coming,” I say, before I can close the suitcase. Once I cross to the door and peer through the hole I gasp, then drop down even though he, obviously, can’t see through the peephole.

It’s Max Lambert, the wearer of the cocky cologne. The owner of the bag I snooped through. The man who’s hated me since before I worked for this team.

Think fast .

Several feet away from me, his suitcase is wide open. He might hear if I head back over there. I slip off my heels as quietly as a mouse. “One sec,” I call out in a muffled voice, like I’m far away from the door, then pad back to the bag and zip it up, but the zipper snags.

Fuck a duck. It’s stuck on a pair of his boxer briefs.

Kill. Me. Now.

“Coming,” I say, hastily.

“No worries, Miss Rosewood,” he says in his fake room service voice. “Happy to wait all night with your special cake.”

I barely have the time to roll my eyes, but I manage even as I shout brightly, “I know it’s you, Max. ”

“And your champagne. Don’t forget I have your champagne,” he says as I yank harder and harder.

“I still know it’s you,” I say, trying to stay cheery as I tug the damn zipper. But I just. Can’t. Get it. Squatting in front of the suitcase, I put everything I have into pulling on it, but then I land on my ass.

“You busy rooting through my things?”

I cringe, mortified. Actually, what is worse than mortification? Because that’s what I’m feeling right now. Exponential mortification.

But I am a problem solver by nature. I didn’t land this plum gig handling press for the NHL team because I can’t handle problems. I can so handle them. I wiggle the zipper a little to the left, a little to the right, using a soft touch, and voila.

It’s closed.

I take a breath, smooth out my navy blue blouse, run a hand down my ponytail, then head to the door, chin up, smile on, never let them see you sweat . Max won’t know I was a bad girl. I swing it open and paste on a smile as I meet the face of the man who’s made an art form of vexing me. Ice blue eyes, fair complexion, a chiseled jaw covered in a trim beard, and dark brown hair that’s a little wild, a little wavy, a little too long. The net effect? All you want to do is run your fingers through it. A scar cuts through his right eyebrow, unfairly making him even sexier, and also a bit scary. He’s six-foot-four, and when he’s on the ice he looms over the net like some kind of Arctic monster guarding his frozen cave. He’s a fearsome goalie, and he’s big everywhere—with thick thighs, strong arms, a broad chest, and a hockey butt. This sport does unholy things to players’ backsides. Right now though, he’s resting one forearm against the doorframe, the other is out of view, and he’s smirking.

I’d like to say it’s a welcome change from his scowl. But I’m not so sure. Still, I like to fight fire with fire, so I smile wider. “How’s it going? Do you need anything? Like a debrief on all the fabulous things we can discuss with the media tomorrow? If memory serves, Seattle is where you started out.” I splay out my hands like I’m creating a headline. “The hometown boy makes good.”

It’s a story the press would eat up, even though he plays for the visiting team. Still, there’s little the media likes more than a returning sports hero.

Well, a scandal. They like a scandal more. Which is exactly what I don’t want him to ever face again, though the last one was no fault of his own—at least as far as I know. I don’t have all the details. Max is notoriously tight-lipped.

But he isn’t now, as he scoff-laughs at my request. Jackass.

“Let’s take a raincheck on that feel-good story,” he says, then tips his chin behind me. “By the way, the zipper’s a little wonky on that. But you probably already know.”

My cheeks flame, but I ignore the splash of heat, holding my chin up high. “Thanks for the heads-up,” I say.

Looming in the doorway, he hoists up my suitcase and I try to grab it, but the jerk is too tall, too strong, and too tricky. “And I believe you left this with me. But you probably figured that out when you opened mine.”

“I did not leave it with you,” I say, momentarily exasperated. Does he think I wanted him to look through my luggage? Oh, crap. Did he give it the same examination I gave his? I really hope not. The last thing I want is Max knowing a single detail about me outside of work.

“Fine, fine. It was just a mix-up. But I have one question.”

I groan privately, but smile publicly even though it’s just the two of us here in the hallway of the Luxe Hotel late at night. “Yes?” It’s asked sweetly, with sunshine, like how I usually try to behave around him. Around everyone .

He motions to my room. I sigh but open the door the rest of the way, and he strides inside like he owns the hotel. That’s how he walks. Oozing confidence. Radiating sex appeal. Looking like sin. I hate how sexy he is, and he can never know.

As the door shuts with an ominous click, he sets down the luggage on the carpet and raises his other hand. My eyes widen in shock as he asks, “What is this called? Out of curiosity?”

I gasp.

One of my favorite little lacy things is dangling from his finger. And I was dead wrong about him spying. He’s as bad as I am. I snatch it from his big hand. “It’s a bralette,” I say defensively as the sunshine in me starts to fade, clouds rolling in. “Why did you go through my things?”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “How else would I know if the bag was mine?” Max bats his ice blue eyes so innocently. But of course he’s not innocent.

Then again, neither am I. “You take one quick look, then shut it when you don’t see a thousand and one pairs of gray sweatpants,” I explain in my best helpful tone.

But as I say that a voice in my head tsks me. You didn’t take one quick look. You scratched and sniffed.

“Please, Everly. I travel with a thousand and two. ”

“Appreciate the correction.” I stare him down, not giving an inch. “Though I presume once you saw it wasn’t full of your things, you would’ve just returned it.”

Instead of taunting me . But I keep that to myself. I don’t need to give him more ammunition.

His gaze drifts pointedly to his suitcase behind him. “Right. I probably should have done that. It would be wrong to go through someone’s stuff. To discover their, say, black boxer briefs, raspberry-flavored lip balm, noise-cancelling headphones, secret journal that they keep every night listing all the good things that happened that day or could happen one day, and their expensive moisturizer because God only gave them one face, and it’s a fucking great face so they treat it well?”

Is he an evil wizard? Or just the biggest pain in my ass? “I’m sure you don’t keep a secret journal,” I say brightly.

But I remind myself that the season just started and I can’t let difficult people irritate me. My boss told me a few days ago there’s a promotion available this year, so I’m going to have to keep my eye on that prize, and not on the prickly problems.

“Are you, Everly?” With one dubious brow arched, he stares at me, like he’s a lie detector test. “You sticking to that?”

I cross my arms. “Yes. And you?”

He waves a muscular arm at the suitcase he’s returned. “Oh, I already admitted I looked through it. I was damn curious. And I asked what that piece of lace was. A bralette, if you recall. I’m just wondering if you did the same. It’s a simple question really.”

I swallow and school my expression. “Of course I didn’t.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire .

“If you say so,” he says, smiling, leaning an inch closer. “But I think you’re a terrible liar.”

I burn, but I’m not a team publicist so I can fight with players. I’m a team publicist so I can fight for them. I swallow down my ire, and say, “It’s a good thing you stopped by actually. I’ve been meaning to connect with you. I’m thinking about putting together a promo event with a local animal rescue once we’re back in San Francisco. And I thought, how adorable would it be if we had the big, bad goalie posing with a little kitten?”

Max will hate that for ruining his icy image. He loves it when the other teams think he’s an unapproachable dick. Well, guess what? He is.

“Does that work for you?” I ask.

He steps closer. So close I catch another hint of the Midnight Flame. Only this time, it’s mixed with his skin. It’s muskier, darker, sexier. More virile, and it sends a rush of heat down my belly as he drawls out my last name. “Rosewood.” He says it like he’s playing with me, ready to pounce. “Good thing I love kittens.”

Damn him. I want to stomp my foot, but I’d never give him the satisfaction. “Wonderful. When I think of you I think of kittens. And don’t you forget to put it in your secret journal of good things that might happen some day, ’kay?”

“I’ll be making an entry tonight, alone in my bed wearing only my black boxer briefs,” he says dryly, as he grabs his bag. Then, without a smirk or a scowl, he wheels it to the door. “Enjoy the bralette, Rosewood.”

I can’t let him get the last word in. “Lambert!”

He turns my way. “Yes?”

I tilt my head. “Where’s my cake? It sounded so good.”

His eyes narrow as he draws in a sharp breath. Then his gaze drifts to the bag he returned, and he asks, a little strangled, “Got a hot date here?”

Like I’m going to tell him. I bob a shoulder. “I don’t wear my bralette and tell.”

He grabs the door handle. “Shame. I was about to send you the birthday cake.”

My mouth waters. I want birthday cake. But I want the satisfaction of not revealing that the lingerie is for me and only for me. I wave happily to him. “I guess I’ll order it myself for my company and me.”

His eyes flash with something almost feral, then he huffs out an annoyed goodnight, and leaves.

Heart beating too fast, I shut the door, catching one last hint of his fading cologne. Max Lambert is the bane of my existence and if I could wish for one thing this season, it’d be to never have to deal with him again.

If only wishes came true.