About the Author
Kelly Jamieson is the author of over thirty-five romance novels and novellas, including the popular Heller Brothers Hockey series and the Rule of Three trilogy. She writes the kind of books she loves to readsexy romance with heat, humor, and emotionand her writing has been described as sweet and satisfying.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
Everly
They say that everything happens for a reason.
But sometimes that reason is you’re drunk and make bad decisions.
In my own defense, it was New Years Eve. Who doesn’t get drunk and make bad decisions on New Years Eve?
Right?
Not me. I never make bad decisions. Well, not anymore. Not since I was sixteen years old and broke my parents’ heart, destroyed their trust in me, and nearly wrecked a bunch of lives. Since then, it has been my life’s goal to never disappoint them again. That means never screwing up, working hard, being perfect. Easy peasy.
I’m lying in Wyatt Bell’s bed.
This is totally contrary to my life’s mission, on so many levels.
At least I’m alone, thank f***.
Wyatt Bell. Six feet two inches, two hundred twenty pounds of sex on skates. Plays defence for the California Condors.
I know we made out for a while with our clothes on. It was hot as hell and I was happily oblivious to all the reasons we shouldn’t be doing that, chiefly the fact that I hate him, as my lady parts combusted in a feverish explosion of lust. Wow.
I nearly have to wave a hand in front of my face as scorching heat rises to my cheeks.
A hockey player. On the team my dad owns.
God! How stupid could I be?
Anyway, my clothes are still on—a body con, short black dress, bra and panties. Not like I had a lot to remove, but there’s comfort in the fact I’m still clothed. And alone.
Where is he?
A headache drums at my temples and I lift my hands to rub there, closing my eyes. My mouth tastes like I licked the inside of a dumpster, and my stomach is…iffy. I think I have a hangover.
I’m not sure because it’s been that long since I had a hangover. I don’t get drunk enough to be hungover.
I’m annoyed at myself.
I crack open my eyes. Daylight brightens the edges of the window around the blinds. I have no idea what time it is, but obviously the sun is up. I lift my head, which makes it pound more, and peer at the beside table. No clock.
I go backward in my mind…pretty sure I brought my purse…which has my phone in it…it has to be here somewhere.
And where is Wyatt?
Welp. Best find out.
I throw back the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed. A sick wave washes over me, but it doesn’t last long. I think I’ll live.
I eye the room. The open door appears to be an ensuite bathroom. Excellent.
Feet bare, I pad across the big bedroom to the bathroom. I barely note the gorgeous stone tiles, a massive shower with multiple heads and the big granite vanity as I take care of business. As I wash my hands, I observe my reflection. Hair standing on end, mascara smudged beneath my eyes and…is that…whisker burn on my jaw? Dear God. I close my eyes.
Then I draw in a deep breath and tiptoe across the bedroom to the other door. I’ve never been here before and even though this condo is in the same building as my nephew’s, where I’ve been many times, it’s a completely different layout. But I find my way to the kitchen/living area, which I now vaguely remember from last night.
The place is empty.
This is good. Great. I spy my purse on the coffee table and make a beeline for it. I can grab it and get the hell out of here before I have to face Wyatt.
“Morning.”
I jump, my feet literally leaving the floor, and whirl around at the deep, gritty voice.
Oh sweet Jesus, he looks just as good the morning after. His dark gold hair is kind of long on top and right now it’s tousled all over. Dark gold beard stubble shadows his jaw. His eyes are hazel, and I know from seeing him close up they’re more green than brown, with gold flecks in them. I nearly whimper. “Morning,” I choke out.
“Want some breakfast?” He stretches and the T-shirt he’s wearing rises and reveals skin between the hem and the top of the sweatpants that are sitting so indecently low on his hips they should be illegal. Not to mention the, uh, enticing bulge at his groin that is clearly recognizable. I swallow as I avert my gaze. “Or coffee?”
“No! I’m good. I need to go. Uh…”
“Yeah?” He heads to the kitchen and the Keurig on the counter, popping in a K-cup.
“Where did you sleep?”
He turns and flashes a wicked smile. “You don’t remember?”
I trudge toward him, straightening my dress. “I don’t remember much. Ugh.”
He purses his lips and studies me. “You feel okay?”
I drop my purse on the counter and lean my elbows there. “If by okay you mean feeling like my brain is bleeding out my eyes, my stomach is full of battery acid, and I’m about to die in five minutes, then yes, I feel okay.”
He bites down on the smile that tugs his lips. “That good, huh.”
“Okay, I’m exaggerating.”
“Here.” He opens a cupboard and produces a small white bottle. He shakes out a gel cap and hands it to me, reaching next for a glass which he fills with water from the fridge dispenser.
“Thank you.” I toss the pill into my mouth and swallow it. I guzzle that delicious cold water down until the glass is empty. “God, that’s good water.”
His lips twitch again. “Sure you don’t want coffee? Some toast might help with the battery acid.”
I sink onto a stool and rest my head in my hands. I want to leave, but I also want to feel better. “Okay.”
“I slept in the spare room.” He busies himself at the Keurig again, then the toaster.
“Oh.”
“After you passed out, I figured I’d let you sleep it off alone.”
I gasp in outrage. “I did not pass out!”
He gives me a look, chin down, lips pursed. “Uh huh. Anyway, don’t worry, I didn’t take advantage of your state of inebriation.
“You weren’t inebriated?”
“Yeah, I was. I admit it.” He grins. “Not as much as you, judging from your condition this morning.”
“Ugh. I haven’t been hungover since I was a teenager. I don’t really like it.”
“No one does. By your age, you should have learned how to pace yourself.”
I frown.
He slides a mug of coffee across the counter. “Do you need milk and sugar?”
“A little milk?”
“Sure.” He opens the fridge and pulls out a carton.
I splash a tiny bit into the dark brew and stir it with the spoon he provides, then pick up the cup and sip it.
“What do you want on your toast? I have butter, peanut butter or…well, that’s it.”
“Just butter.” I don’t usually eat bread, but I need something in my stomach. “Thanks.”
While I eat mine, he makes himself toast spreading his thickly with peanut butter.
I don’t know what else to say to him. Last night we had plenty to say to each other…we argued about politics, hockey, and climate change, which he didn’t even take seriously! There’s something about him, a cocky confidence, that makes me want to poke holes in that self-assurance, disagree with everything that comes out of his mouth, and prove him wrong.
One of the first times we met, we got into an argument about men being “showers” or “growers.” Wyatt was trying to tell me there was no such thing and I concluded I needed to do some research on that, which seemed to piss him off.
I enjoy pissing him off.
