2
Jules
As we maneuver through the bar, I angle my head and take in Rider’s cute dimple. “Why are you grinning at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you hit the boards one too many times.”
Rider opens the heavy front door and gestures for me to exit. “Hockey fan, are you?” he asks as he joins me on the wet sidewalk.
I snort. “Not even a little bit.”
“Are you serious?” He gives a slow shake of his head, and runs his fingers through his short hair. “I don’t think we can be friends any more, Jules.”
“We’re friends now, are we?” I ask.
He gestures with a nod. “It’s over, and I’m afraid you’re going to have to walk on the other side of the street.”
I whack his stomach—damn, the man is hard—and he lets loose a loud oomph.
“For the record,” he says, “I’m not a fan of nurses either.”
“What could you possibly have against nurses?” I hold my hand out and test the skies. Looks like the rain has stopped. For now. I mean, this is Seattle and it could downpour again any second.
“Last year I landed in the hospital—”
“What were you in the hospital for?”
“Nothing important,” he says quickly, and continues with, “As soon as I’d drift off, the damn nurses would wake me up. It was fucking annoying. Then they’d poke and stick me with things and I think they took great pleasure in it. Sadistic, all of you.”
I laugh. “Aw, did the nurses upset the little baby with three nipples?”
He scrunches up his face. “Funny girl.” He gives my ponytail a tug and the second he does, the air around us shifts, becomes a little more volatile…electric. My lips part, and his gaze drops, like he can’t take his eyes from my mouth. Okay, I must be imagining things here. Lindsay is the kind of girl who attracts guys like Rider and Kane. Where she’s adventurous, bold and always up for something wild, I’m the quiet girl, the caretaker, the good girl who always blends into the woodwork. Tonight, the fact that Rider chose Lindsay—not me—for his friend Kane, is a testament to that.
“So…ah. Yeah,” Rider says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You never got to show me how it was done.”
“How…what was done?” I ask, my mind careening off in an erotic direction, imagining all the dirty things we could show each other. Which makes me nearly laugh. What dirty things do I know?
“You called me a rookie when I was trying to find you a guy, and said you’d show me how it was done. You never got a chance to be my wingman.”
“Right, and it’s wingwoman.”
He nudges me with his shoulder, and the intimate contact sends a ridiculous streak of heat through my chilled body. “What did you think I meant?”
“That,” I say quickly. Too quickly judging by his smirk. With a little more confidence I add, “That’s what I thought you meant.” His grin widens, like he’s a cocky son of a bitch who knows my stupid brain had gone off in a dirty direction.
“What would you have said?” he asks.
“It was a gem. I’m going to save it for next time.”
“Oh, we’re doing this again, are we? I thought you said you didn’t like hockey players.”
I actually said I didn’t like hockey, not hockey players. Truthfully, I’ve never met a hockey player until tonight. But instead of pointing that out, I say, “And you don’t like nurses, so we’re even. And…you did ruin my date night with my girlfriend, so I feel like you owe me date.”
“You want to go on a date?”
“Not with you,” I say, and make a face like the idea is absurd. I pull my phone from my pocket, about to grab an Uber, even though it’s still early and the thought of going home to an empty apartment doesn’t hold the appeal it did an hour ago. Normally I love the quiet after a busy shift. Love to make a hot cup of herbal tea and whip up dinner for one in the kitchen.