She wanted to tel him that Conner’s life did not revolve around his schedule, but during the long hockey season, it did. As a result, so did hers.
“That’s fine.”
He opened the door, then turned to look at her. She stood on the step above him as the cool night air leaked inside. She folded her arms around herself and waited for him to leave. He didn’t. Instead, he tilted his head to the side and looked at her. His gaze moved across her face as if he was looking for something.
“Huh,” he said, just above a whisper.
She untucked one hand and held it palm up. “What?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.” He turned on the heels of his Prada loafers and shut the door behind him. Autumn took a step down and flipped the dead bolt. Okay, so she didn’t know for sure that his shoes were Prada, but she figured it for a fairly safe bet. Sam liked the best, in everything from his shoes to his women.
Which was why she didn’t fit into his life any more than he fit into hers. Never had. And was probably the reason he didn’t like her house. It wasn’t new and flashy. The latest model.
She chuckled as she moved downstairs to her office at the back of the ground floor. According to what she’d read online, Veronica Del Toro was Sam’s latest model. Tal . Big lips. Bigger boobs. Typical Sam.
And yes, she occasional y read articles about Sam and his latest escapades. She was Conner’s mother. It was part of her job. A tiny part, but stil part of her job was to know what sort of women Conner was exposed to although she never heard her son mention anyone but the “assistants.”
Autumn walked to a big leather chair, spun it around, and sat. An event binder, several bride magazines, and a red laptop sat on her desk. When she googled Sam, she found articles that usual y started off with: “When Sam LeClaire winds up for a slap shot, defenders duck, forwards flee, and goalies pray to God the puck hits them in a wel -padded place.” Or links that led to stuff like “Greatest Hockey Fights” or “Hockey Brawlers” or “Sam LeClaire vs. Domi or Brown or Parros or whoever.” It was ridiculous, and she tried her best to teach Conner that violence was never the answer. That it was much better to be nice to people.
She flipped open the event binder she’d put together for the Wil y Wonka party and reached for a pencil. She adjusted the catering cost and looked for some place to cut.
The last thing Autumn w
anted was for Conner to grow up and be like his dad. It was up to her to make sure Conner treated people better than Sam did. Treated women better. No superficial supermodels. No revolving door in his bedroom. No getting married to girls he didn’t know in Vegas. Best just to stay out of Vegas–maybe the whole state of Nevada—altogether.
Once she’d popped the top on her Coppertone sunscreen that day by the pool at Caesars, her life changed forever. Once she’d run her hands al over those washboard abs and hard chest muscles, she’d fal en head over heels in lust. He was a gorgeous man who’d thought she was an exotic destination. Looking back, she’d like to say she’d put up some resistance to the deep desire pul ing her under, but she hadn’t. Instead of grabbing her beach bag and backing away from that smorgasbord of sin laid out in front of her, she had knelt beside his chaise and squirted sunscreen into her palms. “Are you here alone?” she asked, and dropped the tube on the ground. Beneath the brim of her hat, she glanced at his ring finger. It was bare, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t married or had a girlfriend.
He shook his head and turned his face to the sun. “I’m here with a couple of buddies.”
That didn’t mean anything either, but this was the second time she’d seen him alone. She rubbed the lotion in her hands, then touched his abdomen. The heat from his skin warmed her palms and tingled the pulse at the base of her wrists.
“Are you here with friends?” he asked, his voice al calm and cool as if her hands on him had no effect. Like she was the only one getting al tingly.
“No. Just me. I asked a friend, but she didn’t want to come.”
He looked at her, the intense Nevada sun cut through the leafy palms overhead and bleached the corner of his mouth and a patch of his left cheek.
“Why?”
Autumn shrugged, and her thumbs brushed the trail of hair on his hard stomach as she slid her hands to his heavily defined chest. She wondered if he was in town for some muscleman competition. “She said she doesn’t like Vegas.” Which was the excuse that her friend had given, but Autumn suspected that the truth was she’d grown in a different direction than the friends she’d had before her mother’s il ness.
“But you came anyway,” he said matter-of-factly. Stil sounding unaffected, but the muscles beneath her fingers bunched and turned hard.
“Of course.” She’d had a rough few years. “I made a to-do list.”
“Real y?” One corner of his mouth lifted. “What’s on it?”
“Different things.” Good Lord was she real y rubbing lotion on a gorgeous stranger. “Some of them I’ve already done.” Apparently she was.
“Like?”
And having a good time doing it, too. “Like I watched the Bel agio fountains and bought a flamingo from the Flamingo.” She rubbed lotion onto his solid pecs. Beneath the brim of her hat, she stared at defined muscles and tan skin and swal owed the drool in the back of her throat. “And I went to Pure last night.”
“I remember.” Her thumbs brushed across his flat brown nipples, and he sucked in a breath. “What’s left?”
She smiled. “I real y want to see Cher’s Farewel Tour here at Caesars, but I can’t get tickets.”
“Cher? You have seriously got to be kidding me.”