“Probably like he does to you.”

  She takes a gulp of her wine. “So, he is no more.”

  “I’m sorry,” I lie.

  “No, you’re not.” She forces a smile. “You hated him.”

  “I never met him.”

  “But you still hated him. I could tell in the way you glared at him during the Corporate Cares Charity Gala when we ran into each other.” She eyes me above the rim of her glass.

  I laugh and tilt my head to the side. “You’re right. I did hate him. He wasn’t good enough for you.”

  That and I can’t stand the idea of any other man touching you.

  “Says the man who doesn’t know him.”

  “I don’t have to meet him. No one’ll ever be good enough for you, Dekk,” I say, our eyes holding. Including me.

  “Not your business,” she murmurs and her words hang in the unsettled air because fuck if there isn’t so much unsettled between us. Like why she walked away. Like how I let her. “Besides, you know me, I suck at relationships.”

  “It wasn’t relationship status, was it?”

  She snorts. “Not even close.”

  And there’s something about the way she says the words, almost as if she’d been trying to talk herself into believing it was more than whatever they thought it was for so very long, that she almost feels a relief that she can stop bullshitting herself now.

  “So you came all this way to take a spin around my cock for old times’ sake, then?” My words are meant to ease the tension—partially—and to see that gorgeous smile of hers.

  “Yes. That’s it.” She sighs. “Do you really get women with lines like that?” she asks dryly.

  “I don’t have to speak and I get women.”

  “Jesus. And you wonder why we fought all the time.” She rolls her eyes for good measure.

  “We fought all the time, because you could never get enough of me and because I . . .” I falter over my words, because I prefer not to finish the thought. Maybe because I can’t. Maybe because the truth is I was starting to feel things and those things were feelings . . . and feelings are bullshit.

  “Because you, what?” she asks, her interest piqued. That slow crawl of a smile does things to my insides that shouldn’t be legal.

  I take a moment and let the topic die. The last thing I need to do is to get into shit that doesn’t matter. How her walking away fucking sucked and was the closest thing I’ve ever felt to regret. How seeing her here right now is like a slap in the face of how good we were when we were good and how bad we were when we were bad and everything in between.

  But more than anything is how she makes me feel, when every other fucking thing in my life is on dull fucking mute.

  I look at the label on my beer as the crowd erupts into a Happy Birthday song on the other side of the bar, moving for a change in topic. “You’re smart as hell, Kincade. You know if you’re sitting in a bar full of Jacks, no one will think twice if any of us talk to you.”

  “That’s your first mistake,” she says, her voice low as she shifts to turn and face me. “No one is paying any attention to where I am or who I’m talking to.”

  My eyes drag over every seductive inch of her before returning to those eyes of hers. “You’re a hard one to miss.”

  “I doubt that, considering half the women in this bar are showing about ten times more skin than I am.”

  “You don’t have to show skin to be sexy, Dekk.” My voice deepens and lowers with the words, and once again memories flicker to the forefront of my mind. Tangled bodies and unattached hearts. “We both know that.”

  She clears her throat and shifts in her seat. “You look good too.”

  “I look like something the cat dragged in. My cheek is sore from that stick I took to it. I’m limping like an eighty-year-old man from my knees hurting so bad . . . and I’m just all-around exhausted. This beer doesn’t help with that, but you being here does.”

  DEKKER

  I STARE AT HIM. AT his dark hair that’s a little long, a little shaggy, but fits the man as a whole. At his bright blue eyes that look too closely, and his five o’clock shadow dusting across his jaw. Sure, his cheek is red from the hit he took, but there’s something about him that makes you stare.

  And savor.

  All man, all arrogance, with a hint of boy beneath the surface who’s living out his dream.

  And he knows me way too well.

  This beer doesn’t help with that, but you being here does.

  I choose not to acknowledge it.

  I opt to ignore how it tugs on those feelings that seeing him—and talking to him—have drummed up.

  The ones I feared would rear their ugly head when my dad told me who my client to win was.

  “You do look a little rough around the edges,” I say, because it’s so much easier to notice the shadows under his eyes and the tension in his posture than to admit the punch in the gut I felt the minute I laid eyes on him. As always.

  “Candor always was your blessing and curse,” he murmurs as he shifts in his chair, and I take in the abrasions on his knuckles from tonight.

  “It’s why I’m good at my job. I know when to coddle versus when to push.”

  He chews the inside of his cheek as he surveys the members of his team on the other side of the bar. “So who are you here to push?”

  “What’s going on with you?” I ask, pushing his comment to the side and his need to know why I’m here. “Things good? Life outside of hockey good?”

  He purses his lips and lifts his brows, but it’s there for the briefest of seconds—a stutter. Was Dad right? Is Hunter’s behavior of late unrelated to him simply being an asshole?

  “What is it, Hunter?” I ask, reaching out to put my hand on his arm, sensing something is bugging him.

  But his rare drop in his guard is replaced almost instantly. He makes a show of removing my hand, as he stands and places his own on the back of my barstool. My breath hitches as his fingers sweep ever-so-subtly against the skin on my neck. Chills chase over my flesh and I hate the visceral reaction my body has to it—to him. It’s as if I still want him even though I know the havoc he’d wreak on my system.

  He leans in so the heat of his breath feathers over my ear for the second time in this conversation, but I stand my ground and don’t move. “How about I’ll tell you what it is, when you tell me why you’re here. And I know you won’t do that . . . so my secret’s safe for the time being.”

  I stare at him, at the cocky smirk that quickens my pulse, and shake my head. Now is not the time nor place to proposition him about KSM. I knew that coming tonight. I thought I’d hate him on sight after how we left things. But, no. It’s not hate I’m feeling. It’s lust.

  “Hunter. I—”

  “Ah, if it isn’t the Ice King and the Frigid Queen,” Katzen, the LumberJacks goalie says as he stumbles over and hangs an arm on the back of my chair where Hunter’s just moved his from.

  “Hey, Katz,” I say but my eyes go right back to Hunter.

  “Drunk as always,” Hunter says and presses his palm against Katz’s chest to push him back.

  “Fuck yes, I am. We won. You rocked. I got a little playing time.” He laughs at his own joke considering as their goalie he was protecting the net, saving goals left and right, the entire game. “And shit—you are looking mighty fine tonight, Miss Kincade,” he slurs as he draws out the word Miss.

  The muscle in Hunter’s jaw ticks, and I shake my head to try and stop him from acting on whatever darkness I see in his eyes. With his recent antics, I’m not exactly sure I trust he won’t use force to move Katz away from me.

  “I’m looking fine every night,” I say with a wink, knowing the rumors about him and his drinking are more truth than fiction. Guys like Katz are a dime a dozen and working in this industry has taught me how to take care of myself and push back. “A good agent would remind you that hockey is your job, and that hangover you’re angling for isn’t going to help your stats any.”

  Katz makes a hissing sound. “Did you just burn me?” He laughs. “See? That’s why we call you the Frigid Queen, cold as ice and not afraid to burn anyone at the stake.”

  “Dramatics get you nowhere.” I chuckle to play off his moniker, but hate that it irks me.

  Katz sets his empty glass down and looks from me to Hunter and then back. “You know? You guys make a cute couple. You should really do something about that. The two of you together. You and your captaining,” he says, pushing on Hunter’s shoulder then turning toward me, “and you and your bossiness.” His laugh is obnoxious and over the top. “Like sleep together or make a porn or something hot like that . . . but then again, coupling isn’t really Hunter’s strong suit . . . but it could be mine.”

  In the morning he’ll feel like an ass for hitting on me. I know this, he’ll know this, but the tightening of Hunter’s fists tell me his temper is flaring regardless. His forgiveness isn’t as readily available as mine. And I’m not sure if I should be flattered or pissed at his overprotectiveness when he has zero claim on me.

  “Hey Katz,” I say and rise from my seat, going for shock value to deescalate the tension. “I’d say Hunter is the type to be more into fucking than coupling . . . and uh, how do you know we haven’t already? Those memories of us together. On the kitchen counter. In the nightclub at Mandalay Bay. In the press box before a game.” I groan overdramatically. “Those are what keep me satisfied on those cold, lonely nights.”

  “What?” Katz screeches, body jolting, as I put an arm around his shoulder.

  “Get real,” I say and push him away playfully, refusing to meet Hunter’s eyes, knowing one glance and Katz will know the truth. “I’d never sleep with a hockey player. They’re all stick and no finesse. A discerning woman likes slow. She likes skill. She likes to know that once the goal is scored he still has more in the tank.”

  “Stick. Skill. Finesse,” Katz murmurs.

  “Damn straight. Stick. Skill. Finesse.” I stand on my tiptoes and press a kiss to his cheek, my voice lowering as I say, “I’ve yet to find a hockey player who can deliver that.”

  “Maybe you’ve dated the wrong hockey players, then,” Katz replies.

  “Maybe I should be worried that you’re more concerned with Hunter’s between-the-sheets tendencies instead of his on-the-ice skills.”

  “Fuck off,” he says with a wave of his hand but with a grin a mile wide. “I like you, you know that?” He nudges Hunter and shakes his head. “She gives as good as she gets.”

  Hunter bristles at the double entendre that Katz probably has no clue he managed.

  “That’s no way to talk to a lady, Katz. Remember what I said. Finesse.” I look around the bar and then back to the two men—one drunk and careless, the other tense and on edge. “It was a pleasure, gentleman, but I must be heading out. I expect to see that finesse on the ice next game.”

  “And you’re here why?” Hunter asks with just the hint of a smile curling his lips. One that screams arrogance and sexiness and makes me wonder if he’s trying to figure a way to get me back in his bed tonight.

  No way.

  No how.

  This will be a strictly professional trip.

  “I’m traveling with the team for the next however long. Call it customer maintenance.” I shrug coyly. “That’s why.”

  And without another word, I walk out of the bar with my head held high while holding on to tonight’s small win.

  Hunter Maddox came to me.

  That’s a start.

  DEKKER

  I FEEL SO ALIVE AS I walk the streets of Chicago. I stay among the crowds, milling around on my way back to the hotel.

  My cheeks are cold but the chill isn’t enough of a sting to ease the hurt from Chad’s rant, which I really haven’t had much time to process. I’ve been in go-mode since I left the office, what feels like days—not just hours—ago.

  But his words linger. “For what it’s worth, you’re cold-hearted, Dekker. Lack the sort of passion I want in a woman.” They hurt more than I’d like to admit.

  First, him calling me cold-hearted and then Katz calling me the Frigid Queen. What the hell?

  I haven’t always been unresponsive. Uninspired. Passionless. But, I did realize that while I wasn’t in love with Chad, I also wasn’t in like with him either.

  Maybe the thing with him was more of convenience.

  Who knows.

  I’m done.

  We’re done.

  Life moves on.

  The doorman to the Thompson Chicago greets me as I step into the lobby of the luxury hotel. The dark brown décor is the perfect mixture of modern and old-world with its reception desk on one side and its elegant bar on the opposite end of the massive space. Classical music plays softly in the background, accompanying the soft hum of chatter from the bar’s occupants.

  Glancing that way, I recognize a few players relaxing at the tables off to the right, and wave in greeting when one of them recognizes me.

  “You good?” Heffner calls out.

  “Yeah, thanks. Just tired. Good night, guys.”

  With my coat wrapped tightly around me, I head toward the bank of elevators and push the up button. It dings within seconds and after I enter the car and push my floor, a hand stops the door from closing.

  “Hold up.”

  When I look up, I’m stayed by the intense eyes the color of the sky. I despise the thrill that shoots through me at the sight of him—at the complication of him—but it doesn’t make the ache it leaves me with any less potent.

  Crap.

  He doesn’t say anything as he steps beside me, but rather holds my eyes and leans a shoulder against the wall. I refuse to retreat.

  The doors finally slide closed.

  “You don’t date hockey players?” he asks, repeating my words back to me, as he cocks his head to the side.

  “Nope.”

  His chuckle is a low rumble that’s equal parts smooth and rough and reminds me of what his hands on my body used to feel like.

  “Nope?” He reaches out and tucks an errant lock of hair behind my ear. “I seem to remember you dating a hockey player before.” He lowers his voice so it’s a seductive whisper and takes a step closer to me. “The one whose memory and stick skills keep you satisfied on lonely nights.”

  I open my mouth and then close it, knowing there’s absolutely nothing I can say to take back those comments. Even worse, I can’t pretend those words were a lie . . . because they’re not.

  “Stick. Skill. Finesse.” His eyes light up with so much more than humor when he stares at me. Desire swims with lust, and the sight of it shouldn’t surprise me, but it unnerves me.

  “I was just . . . I was putting Katz in his place.”

  “Was it true though? How exactly did my memory keep you satisfied on those lonely nights?” There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips with an intensity in his eyes that demands an answer.

  Sexual tension thickens in the elevator as a floor dings, the door opens, but no one gets on.

  It doesn’t matter if someone did though because nothing would break his focus on me.

  And I feel it all the way to the apex of my thighs.

  Memories of him—his skill, his prowess, his finesse—own my mind, and I can’t divorce myself from them and the man standing before me.

  No matter how much I tell myself I need to.

  The urge to reach out and touch him is real, which I hate.

  The door shuts.

  “Not true,” I murmur.

  “Ah, that’s where I think you’re lying, Dekker.” He closes the distance with another step. Our chests are all but touching as he braces himself, placing one hand on the wall beside my head. “Your lips and eyes aren’t matching up there. Sure, you’re telling me you don’t think of me, but your eyes”—he emits a guttural hum in the back of his throat—“they’re telling me you can’t stop thinking about me . . . because as you know, I’m the triple threat.”

  “Triple threat?”

  “All stick, all finesse . . . all stamina.”

  I roll my eyes at his macho, chest thumping. “See? That’s why whatever it was between us never worked—”

  “You mean sleeping together?” he asks.

  “Yes. That.”

  “Can you not say it? Can you not say ‘having sex with you,’ because that’s what we did.” He leans in so his lips are near my ear, so one hand can trail a finger down the line of my jaw, and whispers, “We had a lot of sex. Incredible sex. Mind-blowing sex. Incomparable sex.”

  “Sex is sex,” I lie as my nipples harden at the thought of us together, the palpability of our attraction still volatile in nature even all these years later.

  “Not ours.”

  I lift a lone eyebrow to meet the dare in his eyes and know it’s a mistake.

  “Then I’ll remind you.”

  His lips are on mine before I can process his words, a torrent of desire owning my thoughts—and my body.

  Good sense tells me I should resist him, but the heat of his body and warmth of his tongue fires everything inside me that dear ole Chad never could.

  Funny how I never noticed it until now.

  Hunter’s hands don’t touch me, but stay positioned on either side of my head. His body doesn’t meet mine, but brushes ever so subtly.

  But his lips own mine. How they move, how they possess, how they control.

  And as much as I want to say I’m helpless to the onslaught of desire they bring me, I also want to own every damn sensation they summon within me. The chills chasing, the adrenaline coursing, the ache simmering, and the desire mounting.

  There’s comfort in the familiarity and a thrill of newness simultaneously.

  Need wars against want as he launches an all-out assault on my senses with his mouth.

  The man can kiss.

  How did I forget how devastating his lips were when they connected with mine?

  “Dekker,” he murmurs. The strain in his voice mirrors how I feel—flustered and aroused, dashed with a mix of regret.

  I lose track of my senses, of my resolve, and with lust leading my thoughts and the memory of him urging it along, my hands are on him. His chest. The back of his neck. His ass.