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  Smithy’s mouth opened and closed like a fish.

  A screech drew everyone’s focus. Or at least the six of them that weren’t moving chairs. Because apparently, Marcel, Martin, and Raph had skipped the cheese standoff and were bringing stools over. Stools they crammed around the table that was meant for maybe six normal people, but definitely not seven bulky hockey players, one fairy-type hockey player, and one normal woman.

  Thus, she was plastered against Oliver.

  And frankly, it wasn’t a bad place to be.

  Though she couldn’t let his maneuvering stand without at least pushing back a little bit. Which meant when he tried to snatch a popper, she smacked his hand away.

  His brows raised.

  “No poppers for men who manipulate my friends”—she narrowed her eyes—“who is going to be their employee.”

  “Oh, there’s no manipulation,” Pru called from across the table. “I asked that one if he knew you well. He told me he’s been trying to get you to agree to a date.” Hazel almost choked on her tongue as six male pairs of hockey player eyes came to her (not seven because Oliver’s hadn’t left her since he’d perched himself on the stool next to hers and yanked her flush up next to him).

  “You won’t date my boy?” Smithy asked.

  More tongue choking.

  Then she lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. “He says we’ve already been on five dates.” A glare up at him. “But technically, I don’t believe you’ve actually asked me—”

  “Really?”

  She thought back. “No, I don’t believe you’ve ever said, Hazel Reid, would you go out on a date with me?”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “Hazel Reid, would you go out on a date with me?”

  “I—” Her mouth opened and closed. How did she answer that?

  Easy. Yes! her brain screamed.

  But in front of six of the biggest gossips on the team? And a woman who would probably go straight to the top of that gossip list, thus usurping Smithy and the rest of them to become the biggest?

  Pru started cackling.

  At one with the gossip squad already.

  Marcel, who she was starting to realize was the only nice one in the group (hmph!), took pity on her and picked up the menus that were stashed behind a bucket that held condiments, napkins, and silverware at the end of the table. He passed them around and said, “I want nachos. Who’s going to share with me?”

  “Me!” Pru called, and pushed the plate to the man sitting next to her.

  How she’d maneuvered that, Hazel didn’t know.

  Except that she was Pru, and Pru could manage anything if she put her mind to it.

  Smithy, meanwhile, leveled a glare at her. “Seriously? You’ll share with him but not with me?”

  “Yup.” Pru picked up a chip and popped it into her mouth. “Because he’s pretty, and you’re not.”

  Smithy gaped, momentarily at a loss for words, which was a freaking miracle in and of itself because Smithy without words wasn’t something that ever happened. But put him up next to Pru? And apparently miracles could happen.

  At least for a few moments.

  Because he was Smithy, he recovered quickly. “You think Marcel’s pretty?”

  A nod. Another chip into her mouth. “Uh-huh,” she said around the bite.

  Let it be noted that Marcel still hadn’t taken a single chip.

  “But I’m not,” Smithy said.

  “Nope.” There was a pop on the P sound that made Marcel jump, but he tentatively reached for a chip and placed it in his mouth. “You’re manly in a way that’s very take-me-to-bed-and-fuck-me-senseless”—Marcel choked—“but no, sorry, honey, but you’re not pretty.”

  The table was quiet.

  Hazel glanced up, saw Oliver’s mouth was parted in surprised shock.

  She leaned in, whispered in his ear, “Didn’t know you were getting that, did you?”

  His head slowly turned so he could meet her eyes. His lips were close, near enough that if she moved the slightest bit, their mouths would touch. “She is—” Mentally, Hazel braced. If he had a problem with Pru, even after he’d hired her, it would be a problem. Not with the job. She knew that Oliver wouldn’t be the kind of guy to do something that would affect that, just because Pru was throwing sass. But if he didn’t like Pru out in real life, that would be…well, it would make Hazel feel yucky because Pru was her friend. “—awesome,” he breathed, astonishment in his gaze.

  Awesome.

  She felt that against her lips.

  She wanted to feel it against her tongue.

  So…

  Fuck it.

  She kissed him.

  In front of the seven biggest gossips.

  She just…kissed the wonderful, sexy man, who’d gotten a date six before he’d even gotten a date one, who touched her cheek gently, who tucked her into his side and held her like she was precious, and who…she wanted.

  Just quite simply, wanted.

  Oliver didn’t hesitate. He kissed her back, tongue and teeth and lips, his arms banding around her, his mouth sending her soaring in just seconds.

  But before she fully flew off into space, she heard Pru say, “Well, I think that means Oliver is getting a first date.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Oliver

  He held Hazel’s hand when they walked out of CeCe’s.

  He didn’t think he’d eaten that much fried food since…well, ever.

  Where the girls put it, he didn’t know.

  But Pru had eventually come around and allowed the guys to share, even Smithy, when Oliver promised she could order anything off the menu.

  Which she had.

  A ridiculous amount of food that he’d balked at.

  But…they’d eaten it all.

  Down to the tiniest crumb of cheese curd, they ate every bit of fried and cheese-covered morsel. And drank beer. Well, the girls had cosmos and the guys beers, but alcohol had been consumed and food eaten and that was why he leaned close and whispered, “Date six.”

  She snorted and grinned up at him. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “Group date still counts as a date.”

  A shake of her head. A sigh. “Apparently it counts as date six.”

  He almost did a fist pump that she was going along with his ridiculousness. “Yup.” He brushed his lips over her temple. “So, what do you want to do for date one?”

  Her gaze came to his, and it was nearly impossible to not get lost in her gorgeous brown eyes. They swirled with humor, sparked with happiness, danced with mischief. He wanted to kiss her again, but…romance.

  So, he tugged her toward her car, waited for her to unlock the doors.

  “Oliver?” she asked, once he’d opened the driver’s side one and was urging her inside. He flattened his palm on her back, paused his urging.

  “Yeah, babe?”

  Her body drifted to his, and he got flowers in his nose, soft curves against his hard, a sweet smile aimed in his direction. “Aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?”

  His cock twitched, as though she’d reached down and cupped him between his legs.

  “We haven’t had a first date yet, baby.”

  A smile that could rival the Mona Lisa. It was full of secrets and confidence and naughtiness. “We’ve had six.”

  “Oh, is that how you’re playing it, babe?”

  She shrugged. “I’m going to play it however it’ll get your tongue in my mouth.”

  More cock-twitching.

  And then he tugged her close, slipping an arm around her waist, getting the curves against his body and against his palm—fuck, but if he didn’t know which ones were better. Either way, he didn’t care. She wanted it. He could give it to her.

  It was as simple as that.

  He dropped his mouth to hers.

  A kiss. It shouldn’t be anything extraordinary. But with Hazel it was. One touch of her lips and the universe fell away. He was floating through space, his only anchor
her tongue, her body, her hands. They wove into his hair as she went on tiptoe, holding tight, her body weight going against him. He didn’t think about his leg or the prosthesis when he took it, how everything had changed, but when it came to Hazel, everything was for the better.

  It was touch and sensation.

  Her and him.

  Pleasure coiling through him, chased rapidly by desire.

  He stepped forward, pinning her against the car, rocking into her, stroking his hand along her rib cage, knuckles brushing along the side of her breast. She startled then moaned, the sound vibrating against his tongue, leaning into his touch.

  And fuck what he wouldn’t give to not be in a parking lot right now.

  Just…one more second.

  One more touch.

  Her hand slid from his hair and down along his side. It slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, dancing over his skin, on his back…and then around to his front.

  Oh, that was fucking good.

  It was also bad. Really bad because it made him hard-pressed to remember that they were in a parking lot, that he was going for romance, that he needed to ignore the urge to spread her over the backseat and fuck her senseless. Or to sit in the driver’s seat and have her on top of him, fucking him senseless. Or both and—

  With a groan, he tore his mouth from hers.

  His hips were pressed to hers, the socket of his prosthesis was digging into his thigh, and everything was stiff—but most especially his cock, so really there were worse problems to have when it came down to it. Slowly, he pushed off her, making sure he had his balance before fully straightening and then making sure she had hers.

  Having to think about that, about her, making sure she was good, settled his desire, reinforced his control, stopped him from getting her in the back seat and trying to sort out the logistics of fucking her against that leather and doing his best to fog up those windows.

  Later.

  They would do that later.

  Because logistics was also something he needed to think about, something he should have considered…oh, six dates before (okay, almost two weeks ago, during that first session in her office when he realized she was attracted to him and not disgusted by what he had become). But the point was that he hadn’t slept with a woman since his injury, and he’d done PT for a lot of different movements and activities, practicing like crazy for anything he might encounter.

  Except fucking.

  He hadn’t practiced fucking.

  “What?” Hazel asked, her chest heaving, her mouth kiss-swollen, eyes half-lidded.

  He dragged his thumb over that bottom lip, trying to summon the control to not take it again. “I was just thinking.”

  “Thinking instead of kissing?” she asked lightly. Her hands smoothed over his chest.

  Another kiss.

  He wanted it.

  But…parking lot. Romance.

  Still, he could tell her what he was thinking about. “Thinking about fucking instead of kissing.”

  Her mouth formed an adorable little O, and he forgot about parking lots and public places. He forgot about romance. Instead, he slanted his lips over hers, tasting that O, tasting the cosmos on her tongue, savoring the lazy strokes they gave each other, the way she clung to him for several long moments before he summoned his control again and released her.

  “I like thinking about fucking,” she murmured.

  He chuckled. “I like it, too,” he told her, “and believe me, I’m going to be thinking about it a whole lot between now and date one.”

  Teeth into a plump, bruised lip.

  Fingers clenching his shoulders.

  Temptation personified.

  He nudged her toward the driver’s seat again. “Go home, babe.”

  She sighed and wrinkled her nose. “I don’t wanna.”

  Amusement trickled through him. “You should, anyway.”

  “Or…” A breath. “You could get in my car, and I can drive you back to my place and—”

  “Gonna stop you right there, baby,” he murmured, leaning close and pressing a light kiss to her earlobe. “Candles and music. A nice dinner and flowers. Time together that’s not rushed or on a whim or crashed by six nosy hockey players.”

  “Seven,” she murmured. “Pru is maybe the nosiest of the bunch.”

  He grinned. “I stand corrected. Seven nosy hockey players.”

  Fingers on his jaw. “I can feel you hard against me.”

  On a groan, he dropped his head to her shoulder. “Killing me, babe.”

  “Good,” she whispered, her hand sliding over his neck, drifting into the hair on his nape. “Because I’m wet and aching and going to make myself come once, maybe twice when I get home.”

  It was a wonder he had any blood left in his brain, but he managed to bite back the groan that was threatening to rumble up his throat. “Get in the car, babe.”

  She smiled, ran her fingers through his hair one more time.

  Then she got in the car.

  He closed it behind her, watched as she drove away.

  And then he went home to start planning logistics.

  Because he had the feeling that fucking was going to happen sooner rather than later, and he needed to be prepared.

  The next day he walked into his office, planning to drop his stuff and then hit the coffee shop on-site to pick up Hazel’s drink.

  But his office was occupied.

  He grinned at the petite, curvy brunette perched on the edge of his desk.

  “Giving me ideas, babe.”

  She held up a to-go cup of coffee for a heartbeat before setting it on his desk. “Desktop sex?”

  “And back of the door sex and office chair sex and—”

  She squirmed.

  He grinned.

  He’d spent a long time last night thinking about logistics with his leg, planning and fantasizing in the best way possible. And he thought he had it down.

  Or at least, he was game to get in lots and lots of practice.

  “You know I haven’t had sex since the accident,” he said softly.

  Her expression had been hot, her eyes scorching, but his statement cooled that desire. Which wasn’t what he wanted, but partly necessary, he supposed, since she was going to be part of it. “Oliver,” she murmured. “We don’t have to—”

  “Oh,” he said, “it’s a have to. Believe me, I’ve been dreaming about having you in my bed for ages. It’s a have to.”

  She pushed off the desk, crossed to him, resting her palm on his heart.

  He liked that, liked when she came close, came to him without hesitation, placed her hand on his chest and seemed to be just taking in the feel of his heart beating. Maybe gauging his reaction by keeping track of his pulse, maybe just enjoying being close.

  “It wasn’t stopping at a have to,” she told him, eyes flashing as they met his, though her smile softened the expression. “It was a we don’t have to rush. Because there isn’t a rush, honey. We can take our time and figure it out and go slow.”

  “So says the woman who’s had sex in the last nine months.”

  “Bad sex,” she muttered.

  His brows lifted.

  “That’s not fair.” She took a breath. Released it slowly. “It’s just that sex with Trevor…well, it wasn’t always effortless, and his kisses never made me feel like yours do.”

  “As much as I don’t like to hear you talk about another man, especially one who’s a fucking asshole, who clearly didn’t appreciate you, I do like that you like my kisses.”

  “Like is too mild a word.”

  Oliver grinned. “Like that, too, babe.”

  A breath. Cheeks going rosy. “I was trying to reassure you that I don’t think sex between us is going to be an issue.”

  “Oh, I know it’s not going to be.”

  Her eyes went wide. “What?”

  “I’ve been planning logistics.”

  “Lo-logistics?”

  “Yup.”

  Thos
e eyes were so fucking gorgeous going wide like that. “I—”

  A knock at the door.

  He touched her cheek. “I’ve got a meeting with Marco and Pru.”

  She nodded. “Right. I—”

  “Give me your number?” he asked, holding up his phone.

  Wide, wide eyes, rosy cheeks, a kissable mouth. But she took the phone and plugged in her number. He took it back, made sure to save the contact, then followed her to the door when the knock came again. “I’ll call you tonight.”

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  “You have Marcel today, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Another touch of her cheek, brushing along the pale pink blush. “I can’t wait to hear about it.”

  Then he opened the door, ignored the surprised look of Marco, the pleased one of Pru, and watched Hazel with her wide eyes and rosy cheeks walk away from him.

  The next stage of his plotting was in play.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hazel

  She was in bed, a documentary on a special penguin island in the background and thinking that it was time to stop waiting for Oliver to call when her phone rang.

  A squee built inside her.

  Another when she saw it was a number she didn’t have programmed into her cell.

  Normally, she didn’t pick up any calls from strange numbers—she’d had way too many “We need to reach you about your car’s extended warranty” to fall for that trick—but this was Oliver, and though she wanted to pretend that she hadn’t been waiting for him to phone, there was an entire TV screen’s worth of penguins who would judge her if she tried to lie.

  She couldn’t handle their little beady eyes on her, mocking her duplicity.

  Swiping a finger across the screen as she lifted her phone to her ear, Hazel glared at the tuxedo-wearing birds. Judgy bitches.

  “Hello?”

  She was so wound up in her face-off with the birds that she hadn’t said hello.

  Great.

  “Oliver?” she pushed out, her voice squeaky.

  “You okay?” he murmured, the question rumbling through her speaker, reminding her of his touch, his kiss.