THE ROMANCE LINE

  LAUREN BLAKELY

  CONTENTS

  Copyright

  About The Book

  Did you know?

  The Romance Line

  1. Zip it Up, Man

  2. You Sexy Little Snoop

  3. Pretty and Powerful

  4. A Nice Intention

  5. The Likeability Quotient

  6. The End of the Fun Fact Era

  7. Good Guy Boot Camp

  8. Tell Me Your Fortune

  9. The Boy Who Pulls on Pigtails

  10. The Summer Garden Dinner Trick

  11. One New Thing

  12. The First Move

  13. Sweet Torture

  14. All The Naked Glory

  15. Raincheck

  16. A Little Lady Boner

  17. Just A Little Sabotage

  18. The Max Effect

  19. A Piece of Me

  20. I Have Every Idea

  21. The Cat Judge

  22. A Thief and a Pirate

  23. My Undoing

  24. A Kiss For The Road

  25. The Real Cliché

  26. A Damn Good Mood

  27. The Player and the Publicist

  28. Sneak Attack

  29. All The Hounds

  30. Upside Down Day

  31. The Boyfriend Treatment

  32. Three Times

  33. A Brand-New Game

  34. The Ugly Truth

  35. The Fake Out

  36. My Escape

  37. Just in Time

  38. A Striptease

  39. My Green Thumb

  40. Ice Kiss

  41. All the Imperfect Pieces

  42. A Beautiful Triad

  43. Can I Get a Fist Bump?

  44. Out Loud

  45. Inescapable Things

  46. A Con Job

  47. The Great Un-spiraling

  48. My New Bed

  49. The Padlockers Assemble

  50. Early Morning Delivery

  51. When You Got Under

  52. Change of Plans

  53. The Real Max Lambert

  54. Breaking the Rules

  55. About That Side Hustle

  56. Get a Room

  57. My Real Favorite Thing

  Epilogue: Say Yes

  Excerpt - My Favorite Holidate

  Be A Lovely

  Acknowledgments

  More Books by Lauren

  Contact

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2024 by Lauren Blakely

  LaurenBlakely.com

  Cover Design by © Qamber Designs & Media

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Without in any way limiting the author’s exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  The first rule of handling PR for a hockey team? Never hook up with a player.

  That shouldn’t be a problem since the last man on earth I want to give an image makeover to is our goalie. He’s infuriatingly hot, famously grumpy and lives to spar with me after every game.

  But shining up his rough edges is my path to landing the promotion I desperately need, so I grit my teeth and do my job. No matter how hard he makes it (especially with that sexy smirk and cool blue eyes.) As we travel from pose-with-a-pet photo opps to cuddle-a-kitten fundraisers, we bicker like it’s foreplay.

  Turns out it is.

  Because as I get to know the man behind the broody iceman exterior, it’s me that melts – right into his arms as he devastates me with a kiss that turns into the hottest, most forbidden night of my life.

  Only once turns into every night as Max shows me how much he wants to take care of me. His possessive touch makes me feel adored for the first time in my life.

  But the man is entirely off limits and I can’t risk my job for more of those soul-deep kisses.

  Because the only thing worse than hooking up with a player is falling head over heels for him.

  DID YOU KNOW?

  To be the first to find out when all of my upcoming books go live click here!

  PRO TIP: Add lauren@laurenblakely.com to your contacts before signing up to make sure the emails go to your inbox!

  Did you know this book is also available in audio and paperback on all major retailers? Go to my website for links!

  For content warnings for this title, go to my site.

  THE ROMANCE LINE

  By Lauren Blakely

  Love and Hockey #2

  1

  ZIP IT UP, MAN

  Max

  Look, I can pull off pretty much anything in the clothing department, but this might be outside my wheelhouse. Especially since I definitely didn’t pack a purple pair of underwear with little flowers all over the waistband and so little material that nothing is left to the imagination. Even mine, and I have a very active one.

  Intrigued, I hold the scrap of purple fabric in front of me in my hotel room. Studying this less-is-definitely-more piece of lingerie, I have to wonder—who even wears this almost thong and also, does it hurt?

  I should probably stop pawing around in this bag that’s clearly not mine but looks just like it. Must have grabbed it in the lobby by mistake, and I’m guessing this suitcase doesn’t belong to one of my teammates either. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. To each his own and all. But this cornu-fucking-copia of lace and satin doesn’t look like it would fit a pro hockey player.

  There are only a handful of women traveling with the team on this road trip to Seattle. The athletic trainer, the team doctor, and the publicist.

  My mind catches on that last possibility.

  This can’t belong to her.

  It just can’t.

  Not straightlaced, rule-following, pantsuit-wearing Everly Rosewood. She’s the kind of woman who owns exactly seven sets of cotton bras and panties, in the same matching shade of nude, same matching style, so she can grab and go at the crack of dawn all while devising new ways to torture me with press requests and promo shoot ideas.

  No way does Everly own anything that’s not navy, black, or beige. Best I return this bag to its rightful owner, pretend I never saw what’s in it, and then never think about it again. Searching for the luggage tag, I find one attached to the handle and flip it over.

  I freeze. Then, I heat up everywhere. We’re talking inferno levels. This bevy of beautiful lingerie belongs to the team’s publicist after all. The clever, mouthy woman who hates me. Yep, the one and only Everly Rosewood, who accomplishes more before her workday begins than most people do in a year. But this does not compute—she can’t possibly dish out a list of promo duties in that teacherly way of hers while wearing a purple thong.

  This is a test. This is clearly some kind of test. No, it’s a downright moral dilemma.

  Do I slam it shut or hunt around in her things a little more?

  I need some distance from temptation. Spinning around, I pace toward the window overlooking the city of Seattle, rainy because of course it’s rainy, and the arena where I’ll be defending the net early tomorrow against one of the toughest teams in the league.

  “All you have to do is zip up that suitcase, return it, and go the fuck to sleep,” I mutter.

  Great. Just great. Now I’m talking to myself. They say goalies are a little unhinged but this is next level even for me. I grip the windowsill, staring at the Space Needle lit up against the night sky, then I tear myself away, stalk right back over to the bed, ready—I swear I’m ready—to zip that suitcase all the way up and say goodbye to it.

  Or, really, I’m almost ready.

  I scrub a hand across my beard and gaze a little longer at the treasure trove of lace and satin, like a siren calling to me in the most tantalizing voice.

  How do you think the slay-the-world-one-member-of-the-media-at-a-time queen would look in purple lace? Or in soft blue satin?

  Does she have a date tonight? My jaw ticks. Is she meeting a secret boyfriend in the rainy city tomorrow? It ticks harder. Does she—oh, hell—wear these every day to work under those pantsuits that drive you crazy?

  And it ticks the hardest.

  I haul in a breath, trying to locate my moral compass. But it’s hard to find right now. I try again with a pep talk. “All you have to do is reach for the zipper. Pull the teeth closed around one side, then the other. Done.”

  But I don’t move. I stand here stupidly because all those sexy things are scrambling my brain. Taking up all the space in
my head now that I know Everly Rosewood wears red lace panties, the color of my dirty dreams.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I mutter. “It really doesn’t matter what she wears.” Squaring my shoulders, I get ready to perform the most herculean task—zip it up.

  As I reach for the bag, my phone buzzes. Saved by the bell. I grab it from my back pocket at Mach speed, grateful for the distraction from a moral dilemma worthy of that vintage board game Scruples.

  It’s a text from my agent, Garrett.

  Been talking to Thrive about your sponsorship. Need to run some things past you. Let’s chat when you return to SF.

  That has to be good. Why else would he text me late at night? Dude isn’t going to text with bad news like, saying, you lost your last sponsor less than a week into the season.

  So, clearly this is a good sign. I dictate a reply.

  Works for me. Maybe I’ll even let you take me to that new kebab place on Polk Street and give me the good news.

  The bubbles dance for a minute. A long minute that should cool me off so I stop obsessing over this bag. Finally, Garrett’s reply lands.

  Don’t think I didn’t notice you finagling a free meal. And sure. Kebabs will do. Just know this—I’m working hard to make this happen. I know you’ve got plans.

  I furrow my brow. Well, no shit. That’s his job. He always works hard. Doesn’t need to tell me that twice. But I’m not his easiest client lately, so maybe this is just his nice guy way of reminding me he’s juggling all the broken plates I’ve thrown his way.

  So I should take this exchange as a win, return this bag, and crash.

  Except, what is that scrap of sinful red lace taunting me from the top of the stack of neatly folded blouses in the center of her bag? I shove the phone back in my pocket and then my curious fingers have a mind of their own. One look can’t hurt. Fine, one touch. I snatch up the soft strap poking out of the blouses and fish out—what is this? A demi-bustier? A halter half bra?

  I lift it to get a better view. It’s sheer red lace, the color of a cherry, with the daintiest ruffle along the top. Maybe it’s a bra of sorts. I don’t even know. Then, with a new kind of reckless abandon, I reach for the next thing, and the next, and the next.

  Until…what have I done? I’ve plundered her bag. Yep, I’m a lingerie pirate.

  This is bad, man.

  But this is also an opportunity. I smirk as I get to work neatly folding every single silky item.

  An opportunity to give her hell.

  I pack them all back up, except for this little red thing, and head to the door, like a good boy.

  Well, not really. Because tonight, I’ve been a little bit bad.

  2

  YOU SEXY LITTLE SNOOP

  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.