So This Is War

A year ago . . .

“I’m so excited you’re here,” Sandie, my best friend, says as she pulls me into a hug. “And I can’t believe your dad let you catch a ride on the team plane.”

“It took a lot of begging,” I say as I adjust my gold top in the hotel mirror, making sure my breasts are exactly where I want them. “But he caved when I said I wanted to visit with you. He’s always loved you.”

“Because I wasn’t the one getting us into trouble in high school.”

I shrug as I sift through my pouch of lipsticks, trying to decide what nude color I want to wear tonight. “I helped us live life. Can’t complain about that.”

“Your dad did.”

I chuckle. “Because he’s a cranky old man who got divorced nearly twenty years ago and has refused to find love again. That would make anyone cranky.”

“He’s found love,” Sandie says. “In hockey.”

I roll my eyes because ugh, hockey. Growing up with a single father infatuated with the sport, I could have gone two ways. I could have grown to love it as much as my dad or utterly despise it because it took my dad away from me for nearly half of my life.

Can you guess which one it is?

“I hope his love affair has been worth it.” I go for my honeysuckle lip color, knowing it always makes my lips look the best.

“Seems like it has. I mean, you flew here on a team plane. Which, hey, you didn’t tell me about the flight. Did you meet any of the players?”

“No,” I say glumly. “Dad forced me to board way before any of the players. He made me sit in the back with the staff, then made me wait to deplane until after all the players got off, so zero interaction.”

“Was he afraid you might try to intermingle with them?”

“You know him, he’s always worried about me.”

“Probably because he caught Sebastian in the house several times in high school when he shouldn’t have been there.”

I chuckle. “Remember the time Sebastian climbed out the window in his underwear and sprinted down the street just to avoid my father’s wrath?”

“Yes, I still recall seeing him sprint past my house, his long hair flapping in the breeze. He joined track right after that.”

“And became All-American his senior year. He should be thanking me for opening his eyes to his speed.”

Sandie laughs. “Poor Sebastian. I wonder what he’s doing now.”

“He’s in Portland, Oregon,” I answer when I finish my lipstick and sit on my bed across from Sandie’s. “I think he’s working as an assistant coach of a track team, so yeah, he owes his career to me too.”

“You’ve done him favors left and right.” Sandie chuckles.

“Just here to help.” I smirk and take in her dress. “You know, you could borrow one of my outfits. Show off a little bit more breast . . .”

“First of all, my breasts would drown in your dress. And second of all, I don’t want to show breasts like you do.” She points at the strings that crisscross over my exposed cleavage, holding the front of the shirt together. “That’s just asking for trouble. Aren’t you afraid something will slip out?”

“No.” I shake my head. “You know me, I couldn’t care less about being naked. I wear clothes because it’s the law, not because I want to.”

“Hence the top.” She brings her hands together. “Now, what did we talk about?”

I roll my eyes. “That this night is about you and me, and I’m not to go off and try to flirt with anyone. Come on, Sandie, do you really think I would do that?”

“Uh, yes.” She nods.

“I’ll have you know, I’ve matured since the last time you saw me.”

“Says the girl who is not wearing a bra tonight.”

I never wear a bra. “And this top was for you. I wanted to show you how strong fabric can really be.”

“Ah, yes, can’t wait for you to sneeze because that will be the real show.”

I laugh. “Seriously. Just you and me tonight, okay?”

“Okay.”

We both stand, Sandie in her cute red dress that hits her mid-thigh and me in my gold top and wide-leg black pants with three-inch heels.

Sandie looks up at me. “I remember when we used to be the same height.”

“Add some heels to those flats, and we will be.” I link my arm through hers and guide us out of the hotel room. Purses in hand, we make our way to the elevator.

“So where are we going?” Sandie asks.

“I thought we could hit up the bar downstairs for food and then go to a drag show I heard about.”

“Ooo, sounds like fun.” The elevator dings, and we both get on. I press the button for the ground floor as Sandie turns toward me. “What if we run into your dad at the hotel? Do you think he’s going to make you change like he did when we were in high school?”

I laugh and shake my head. “I’m a twenty-one-year-old woman in her first semester of grad school. He doesn’t have that kind of control over me anymore.”

“Says the girl who had to sit in the back with the staff on the team plane.”

“That’s different,” I say. “That was his territory, and I was doing anything to get a ride here to see you. Now that I’m here, it’s free game.”

“I like this side of you,” Sandie says. “Not so scared of your dad and living your best life.”

“Well, possibly my best life.” I lean against the elevator wall as it stops and an elderly couple gets on. “I don’t know if I’m into what I’m studying.”

“What do you mean?” Sandie asks. “You’re getting your master’s in business. I feel like at this stage, you should be really into it.”

“The only reason I applied for grad school was because of my dad. But what am I really going to do with a master’s in business? It’s so . . . broad. And then where do I go from there? Sit behind a desk all day?”

“Doesn’t he want you to do something in the Agitators front office?”

“Yes, like business-to-business sales or something like that. Not something I’m entirely into. You know, I’ve been taking these graphic art classes on the side, and they’ve been really fulfilling. I kind of want to explore that.”

“Ooo, graphic art,” Sandie says as the elevator dings, and we let the elderly couple off first. “You would be so good at that.”

“You think?”

She gives me a come on stare. “Wylie, you’ve loved art ever since I’ve known you, and you’re good at it. This is right up your alley.”

“That’s what I was thinking. And the classes I’ve been taking are all digital art, so I’m learning the techniques I need to know. And through the class, our teacher found a contest we could enter.”

“What is it?” Sandie asks as we head toward the bar.

“It’s a concert T-shirt contest for Hayes Farrow.”

“Wait.” Sandie grips my arm, stopping us in the middle of the lobby. “THE Hayes Farrow? The singer of The Black Album?”

“The one and only,” I say. “He thought he’d open the contest to his fans. I know it’s a long shot, but my whole class is applying.” I let out a deep breath. “I just feel so energized when I’m drawing and designing. When I’m in my business class, I drift off rather than pay attention. I think I want to talk to my dad about maybe leaving school to pursue this full-time.”

Sandie winces because she knows my dad well enough to understand how that talk will go. “I’m glad I won’t be around when you have that conversation.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask. “Did you really think dinner would be just you and me?” I shake my head. “I’m telling my dad about my school news during dinner, and you’re there for backup.”

“If you weren’t wearing that shirt, I’d believe you.”

I laugh as we reach the bar. It’s a seat-yourself situation with tables, high-tops, and couches scattered throughout the grand space. Deep purple and royal blue cover the seats, while gold-accented tables are scattered throughout to make the setup a less formal but usable space. The tall ceilings allow for ornate chandeliers to hang over the room, giving the space an elegant and moody feel.

“Oh, it’s so fancy,” Sandie says. “Where should we sit?”

“I was thinking⁠—”

“Sandie?” a male voice says from behind us, turning us around.

“Dale,” Sandie says in shock right before she takes off and hugs the man with all her might. “Oh my God, what are you doing here?”

“I’m in town for the night.” Dale pushes his hand through his floppy blond hair.

“You are? You should have told me so we could catch up.”

Dale’s cheeks blush. “I was afraid you might say no.”

“Are you kidding?” Sandie says, looking all starry-eyed. Who the hell is Dale? And how come she never told me about this man who seems to have captured my best friend? “I would have said yes.”

“Really?” he asks, his brows shooting up to his hairline. Tall and lanky, the man has that almost nerdy look about him but dresses with style in his tight-fitting chinos and button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled. I can see the attraction and why Sandie’s blushing with excitement.

“Yes, of course. I’ve missed you.” She runs her hand down his arm. Oh boy, if that isn’t a sign of her attraction to him, then I don’t know what is.

“I’ve missed you too,” he says.

And then they stare at each other for a solid thirty seconds without saying a word.

It would be cute if my stomach wasn’t growling, so I clear my throat and step in. “Hey, Dale,” I say. “I’m Wylie, Sandie’s best friend.”

Dale glances at me, and to his credit, he keeps his eyes on mine, never drifting any farther south where the restraints of fabric are being tested. “Wylie, it’s nice to meet you. I heard so much about you when Sandie and I were in a study group together.”

I shake his outstretched hand and look over at Sandie. “Wait. Is this D? The guy you talked about constantly?”

Sandie’s face heats with embarrassment.

“You talked about me a lot?” Dale asks, looking very pleased with that information.

“All the time,” I say, knowing Sandie would deny it. “She even told me about the night that you two stayed late⁠—”

“Okay, that’s enough from you,” Sandie says, stepping in front of me. “Anyway, are you just here for tonight?”

He nods. “I leave tomorrow.”

“Oh.” I can feel Sandie’s defeat from here.

“Well, good thing I’m here for more than one night,” I say. “Because look who just became available for dinner.” I nudge Sandie toward Dale.

“You’re available?” Dale asks, his expression morphing into utter joy.

“Uh.” Sandie glances in my direction, then holds up her finger toward Dale. “Give us a moment.” She tugs me a few feet away, and with her back toward Dale, she says, “This night was supposed to be about you and me.”

“It was, but now it’s about you and Dale.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t ditch you.”

“You’re not ditching me when I’m telling you to go. Seriously, Sandie, I’m here another night. We can catch up all day tomorrow and go to the drag show tomorrow night.”

She bites on the corner of her mouth and looks over her shoulder at Dale, who now has his hands in his pockets as he waits for us. When she turns back around, she says, “I feel guilty.”

“Don’t. I can see how excited you are to see him, and it’s been a while. You look . . . happy around him.”

“I am,” she says softly. “We sort of lost touch when he moved, but seeing him now, it almost feels like we were meant to run into each other.”

“Perfect, then go have fun, and we’ll hang out tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” She winces.

“I promise, I’m good. Go have fun.”

She gives it some thought, then reaches out and pulls me into a hug. “You’re the best friend ever.”

“HOW DOES THAT TASTE?” the bartender asks me as he leans against the edge of the bar, his arms propping him up.

I take a sip of my dry martini and let the liquid roll across my tastebuds before I swallow. Pleased, I smile up at the bartender. “Perfect.”

His eyes momentarily drop to my exposed cleavage before lifting back up to my eyes. “On the house,” he says before tapping the bar top and moving toward the end to help another customer.

I should be disgusted with his blatant perusal and offer of a free drink, but it’s a pretty good martini. If I’ve learned anything by my fourth year of college, it’s to take a free drink from the bartender when you can.

I spin around on my chair and find Sandie in the corner with Dale. They’re both laughing, and her hand is precariously perched on his thigh. I smile over the rim of my glass, excited to see the start of something new. She used to talk about Dale a lot, so her hanging out with him tonight doesn’t bother me in the slightest. It actually makes me excited about the possibilities of what tonight could be the start of.

Maybe a fragrant love affair.

Or the beginning of a lifelong coupling.

Or perhaps a rowdy night in the sheets.

Either way, I’m here for it.

“Is this seat taken?” a deep voice asks, startling me away from staring at my friend.

I glance to my right and come face to face with a gorgeous set of greenish-gold eyes framed by dark bushy brows and nearly black lashes. I lean back ever so slightly as I take in the rest of his face.

Strong, carved jaw sprinkled with a coarse five o’clock shadow. Distinctive cheekbones that are not too pronounced but high enough to offer this man some heavenly bone structure. A thick head of soft brown hair with a singular curl that falls over his forehead. And a pair of lips just full enough to entice anyone to beg for a make out session.

He . . . is . . . hot.

And I know how hot because I’ve stared at this face many times while visiting my dad in his office at the Agitators arena. This face has been in my fantasies a time or two.

It’s none other than Levi Posey, the star defenseman for my dad’s hockey team.

And because I’ve had some pretty naughty thoughts about this man, there is no reason I should be denying him the seat next to me.

None at all.

I cross one leg over the other, wishing I hadn’t gone with pants tonight but rather a mini skirt that would show off the definition in my legs from all those nights I’ve spent on a Pilates reformer. “That seat is all yours,” I say before lifting my glass to my lips and taking a soft sip while keeping my eyes on him.

He glances down at my drink, then back up to my eyes. “Dirty martini?” he asks.

“Good guess,” I reply, keeping it casual.

He gains the bartender’s attention with a concise flick of his hand. “Your finest water.”

Of course he orders a water. He might be one of the toughest players on the ice with a terrifying right hook that has knocked out quite a few opponents, and he might also be known as the biggest player on the team, but he’s also a rule follower. Therefore, as it’s the night before a game . . . he’s not drinking.

“Water, huh?” I ask, not wanting to give away that I recognize him. “Really living on the edge.”

“I am,” he says. “Severely dehydrated. If the clock strikes twelve without me replenishing my body’s fluids, I very well might turn into dust.”

“Sounds like a Cinderella knockoff story to me,” I reply.

“But instead of a glass slipper falling off, it’s a jockstrap that no one can fit in besides me.” He says that with such pride beaming from ear to ear, I nearly crack a smile, but I hold strong. Can’t give away my excitement over sitting next to him just yet.

“Jockstrap?” I ask. “That’s an interesting item to choose over something like . . . I don’t know, a dress shoe.”

“That’s because I wear jockstraps,” he says.

“For fun?” I ask, feigning confusion.

His brow draws together.

Oh dear me, is the famous hockey player not used to people not recognizing him?

Hilarious.

“No, not for fun,” he says. “I play hockey.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” I reply. “In like a middle-aged men’s league?”

“Middle-aged?” he nearly shouts as his water is set in front of him. He doesn’t even bother looking at it as he stares me down with vicious eyes. “Thirty-one is nowhere near middle-aged, thank you very much. And I play professionally.”

I’ve always heard about Levi Posey being the funniest, the most sensitive, almost like the golden retriever everyone wants in a man, but with a reputation for sleeping around and standing up for his teammates out on the ice. From the minute of conversation we’ve had, every aspect of that reputation is true.

“Oh, that’s cool. Professional hockey, is that usually your pickup line? That you play professional hockey? Bet you look for women to line up at your feet when you mention that.”

“No,” he says with a slight lift of his chin while he reaches for his water. “I have a different pickup line.”

“Uh-huh, and what would that be?”

“Why would I tell you my pickup line? I’m not even sure I want you to hear it. It’s pretty strong. I don’t need you getting all clingy on me when I’m still assessing you.”

“Assessing me?” I ask, amused by his honesty.

“Yes,” he replies. “Who’s to say that I would even want you?”

I analyze him for a moment. “From the way your gaze is straining to stay north, I’m pretty sure there’s some want coming from your end.”

“Straining seems like an intense way to put it.”

“Because your eyes are twitching. Go ahead, just take a look. I know you want to.”

“I’m better than that.”

I chuckle. “You are, are you? So if I were to, I don’t know, drag my hand down the center of my chest, you wouldn’t follow it?”

“Nope,” he says, leaning back and taking a sip of his drink. “I’m not that easy. I like a challenge, and that shirt challenged me from a mile away.”

“Is that why you came over here?”

“I came over here because I was thirsty.”

“Thirsty for what?” I ask with a smirk as I lean toward him. “Water . . . or something else?”

He casually wets his lips, and it is single-handedly one of the sexiest things I’ve ever witnessed.

“Maybe a little bit of both.” He holds his hand out to me. “I’m Levi.”

I take his hand, sliding our palms together and reveling in the feel of how large his hand is compared to mine. A hand that I know handles a hockey stick with precision and grace. A hand that so easily can switch from playing a sport to creating a bloodbath on the ice.

“Nice to meet you, Levi,” I answer, then pull away before I find myself running the tips of my fingers over his wrist. It’s a seduction technique I’ve used plenty of times.

“And you are?” he asks, dragging it out.

“Unavailable,” I say before taking another sip of my drink.

His brow falls. “Unavailable as in . . . you have a boyfriend, girlfriend, married?”

“Unavailable for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” he asks, sitting taller while pointing at his chest. I can see the spark in his eye, the feeling of being challenged once again pulsing through his veins, hence why I told him I was unavailable. Nothing like spoon-feeding a man in order to get him to fall right where I want him . . . in my bed.

Because, oh my God, a night with Levi Posey would be a dream come true.

“Yes, someone like you.”

He fully faces me now so our knees knock together. “And what is so wrong with someone like me?”

“For one, you’re drinking water at a bar, which means you’re here for one thing and one thing only, to pick up a girl. Second, you refuse to look at my cleavage even though I know you want to. If you were a more confident man, you would have stolen at least three glances by now. And third, you’re far too good-looking.”

The last reason puts a smile on his face as he leans in closer to me. “Understandable. But I think you’re judging me wrongly. Sure, I came down here to hook up. I’m not going to lie about that. I want to fuck tonight, and I see no problem in wanting to find someone compatible. Second, I’ve glanced at your delicious tits four times. Each time I’ve looked, you were looking away. To prove it, you’re not wearing a bra right now, and I know that not because of the obvious split down your shirt but because both your nipples are pebbling against the thin gold fabric barely being held together by a string.” That just made them harder. “And last, can’t help that I’m hot, babe. God was generous with this bone structure.” He flashes me a devilish smile. “Only question is, are you willing to give me a chance?”

No wonder the man is known as the player on the team. If he addresses all women like this, there’s no question they’re falling at his feet.

I mull over his proposition for a moment, wanting him to sweat it out before saying, “Maybe we can move over to one of those couches and talk some more.”

He devilishly smirks. “I love talking.” He stands from his chair and, with one hand, carries his drink. He takes my hand with the other, helping me down from the chair. Together, we weave through the dining area, eyes watching us until we reach a more private couch with a high back tucked into the corner of the room. I take a seat first, and when he sits down next to me, he leaves no room between us.

“Care to tell me your name?” he asks.

“Think you’ve earned it?”

“I think so,” he says. “I got you over here, didn’t I?”

“You did.” I lean back on one hand, and this time, I catch him giving me a full perusal, his eyes fixed on my chest for a few beats longer. That’s it, take your fill.

I’ve always been open about my sexuality. I’ve never been offended by a man’s blatant gaze. I find it empowering that I can create such desire in someone else, and I have the choice of whether I want to indulge in that desire. So having Levi give me a possessive once-over only turns me on.

“Does that grant me your name at least?”

“Maybe,” I say. “I think I need to know more about you first.”

He turns toward me, tucking one leg up against mine so there really is no room between us. “What do you want to know?”

I let my eyes linger on his lips for a beat before I ask, “Was I your first choice when you came down here?”

“Yes,” he answers.

“How do I know you’re not lying?”

“Because you’re a redhead, and redheads make my blood boil in a good, heart-racing way. You also have amazing tits. And when I got closer, I saw how light your eyes were and was captivated. No one else in this room was worth my time compared to you.”

“What a line,” I scoff as I reach for my drink and take a sip, letting his words hit my soul. Once I swallow, I say, “But it did make me all warm inside.”

“That’s a start. Tell me, what do you do?”

“Nothing,” I answer. “I’m still in school.” He pauses, and I can see the panic on his face, so I place my hand on his thigh and add, “Grad school.”

“Oh.” He nervously laughs. “Okay, that, uh . . . that sits better with my conscience.”

“Ten years older than me sits better with me too. I like them older.”

“Yeah?” He lifts a brow. “Why’s that?”

“More mature,” I answer. “I’ve seen my fair share of idiots my age, and they just don’t vibe the way I want them to.”

“And how would that be?” he asks.

“Well, I prefer when the man I’m with actually makes me come and doesn’t leave it up to me while he’s cleaning himself off.”

His brow creases together. “Did a guy actually do that to you?”

I hold up two fingers and wiggle them at him. “Twice. I also prefer for the man I’m with to have some meat on his bones, the ability to grow facial hair, and some semblance of an idea of what it means to seduce a woman.”

“No problem there,” he says as he leans his shoulder against the back of the couch but stays turned toward me. “I once grew a beard so thick that I lost a jellybean in it.”

I let out a laugh just loud enough to draw attention from other tables.

“Wow, you sure know how to turn a lady on, lost jellybeans in beards.” I shiver. “Really gets me hot.”

“I knew you’d appreciate that.” He smiles, and it’s so incredibly sexy that I find myself leaning toward him. He takes advantage of the lean by placing his hand on my leg and drags his thumb softly up and down my inner thigh. Fuck, I hate that I didn’t wear a skirt tonight. His hand on my bare skin would undoubtedly feel sublime.

“What else do you look for in a man?” he asks. “Maybe I can check off more of your boxes.”

“Hmm, well, large hands.”

He lifts his hand from my thigh and holds it up, then takes my hand and places it right up against his, comparing the size. No contest, his eclipses mine.

“That big enough?”

“It will do.” I smirk.

He returns his hand to my leg. “What else?”

“I prefer a large dick.”

His brow lifts again because a naughty smile passes over his lips. “Can’t whip out my cock for you in public, so you’re going to have to take my word for it, but you can look at my feet and make your own assessment.”

I bend at the waist and glance at one of his feet . . . one of his extremely large feet.

My mouth goes dry from the thought of how that could translate into so much more.

When I glance back up at him, he says, “Like what you see?”

To throw him a bone, I reply, “I do.” And then I twist toward him so his hand on my thigh slides over my hip. “What do you like in a woman?”

“Confidence,” he says. “No shame. Humor. And a great pair of killer eyes. Which you have.”

“Hmm, I thought you were going to say tits.”

“That’s just a bonus,” he says, wetting his lips again.

“What about in the bedroom?” I ask. “If I were to go up to your room tonight, what would you expect from me?”

“I expect nothing, but I accept everything,” he says.

“So . . .” I dance my fingers over the unbuttoned portion of his shirt. “If I were to tell you that I wanted to give you, I don’t know, a lap dance as a way to disrobe myself, would you be okay with that?”

“Baby, I would hum music for you if you needed it.”

I chuckle. “And if I were to, I don’t know . . .” I drag my fingers down the front of his chest to his stomach, where I can feel the definition of his abs against my fingertips. “Want to take you into my mouth, would you let me?”

“I would help you to your knees and offer you a pillow to kneel on.”

“Ooo, a gentleman.” I move my hand closer to his waistline. “And if I told you I wanted to come on your cock, would you try to get me to come on your tongue first?”

“Yes,” he answers, his eyes looking hazy now, so I move my hand just a bit more south until I come in contact with his hardening cock. His teeth pull over his bottom lip as he stares at me, never telling me to stop, so I dance my fingers over his length.

“But I said I wanted to come on your cock, not your tongue.”

“You act as if you’ve only come once in a night.”

“What if I have?” I ask.

“Then you need to spend the night with me, baby, because you aren’t coming just once. Guaran-fucking-tee.”

My nipples go hard from the thought.

A dull throb erupts between my legs.

And all caution is thrown to the wind as I realize there is no chance in hell I’m not getting off several times tonight. I can tell he wants this, but I know for a fact that I want this more.

My palm smooths over his cock, and he growls under his breath as he moves in close and drags his hand up my arm, to my shoulder, then right to the base of my neck, where he lightly encircles it, claiming me as his right here at this moment.

“You want this, don’t you?” he asks.

“I think you know the answer to that, Levi.”

“Then tell me your fucking name and come back to my room with me because I’m dying to show you what it’s like to be with a real man.”

I wet my lips and run my hand over the side of his cheek, feeling the scruff from the day. “Maybe you can just fuck me without knowing my name,” I answer.

“What if I fuck you and like it too damn much, then what?”

“You saying this could be more than one night for you? Because this is one night for me.”

“I’m saying it would be nice to know who the hell is making me hard as a goddamn stone right now. I think that’s only fair.”

“Perhaps,” I say as I lean in close, leading with my breasts as I drape my arm over his shoulder, looking for a small taste. I let my fingers sift through his hair as I move in until I’m only an inch from his face. My breasts press against his chest, and his hand slides up the back of my shirt as he brings me in that last inch, right before our mouths lock.

Immediately, I part my lips and get lost in the feel of his tongue sliding against mine, of the demand he has for me, of the way he pulls me in just enough that I’m almost sitting on his lap.

You can relinquish a certain amount of control when you’re kissing someone else, and right now, I surrender completely to Levi. I let him take over, loving how his tongue artfully tangles with mine. Loving how his hand slowly slides to my ribs so his thumb rests just under my breast. And loving how the scruff of his jaw scrapes against the sensitive skin on my face.

Everything about this kiss is addicting.

Everything about this kiss tells me I made the right decision.

And everything about this kiss leads me to believe this will be the best night of my entire life.

Not wanting to get too out of hand in the middle of the bar, I pull away from the kiss and watch as his eyes slowly open and make contact with mine.

He stares.

Almost unbelieving. Like he can’t quite possibly comprehend the kiss we just shared.

I’m right there with him because I can still feel the sparks shooting off between us.

“That was, uh . . . great,” he says in shock.

I smile because, yeah, that was great.

That was more than great.

That was addictive.

That was everything I wanted and so much more.

If I wasn’t already convinced I’d be spending the night with this man, I am now.

I smooth my hand up his chest, wanting another taste. So I lean in just as something catches the corner of my eye. I glance over Levi’s shoulder and spot my dad walking toward the dining room with a few people gathering around him.

Oh shit.

I quickly pull away from Levi. “Uh, I . . . uh, I need to go.”

“What?” he asks.

“Yeah, I think, oh yup, that’s my phone.” I pick up my phone, and I bring it up to my ear. “Hello. Yup, hi. Sure, be there soon. Okay. Bye.” I stand from the couch, and Levi quickly stands as well, letting his back face the dining room. “Sorry, got to head out, but it was nice chatting with you.”

“Wait, seriously?” he asks. “Is everything okay? Was it something I said?”

“Nope, great kiss.” I pat his chest. “Just need to help out a friend, so good luck with the hockey and everything.” I start to leave when he grabs my hand, stopping me.

“Wait, I don’t even know your name.”

“Oh yeah, right . . . well, see ya.” And with that, I sneak off toward the back, away from where my dad is talking to who I can only assume are a few fans. I slip behind the bar and out of sight.

I lean against the wall behind me and take a few deep breaths.

Ugh, the biggest cock block of all time. But if my dad caught us kissing, he would have not only killed me . . . but he would have murdered Levi.

Little less than a year later . . .

I KNOCK on my dad’s office door and take a bite of my bologna sandwich. Whoever’s bologna this is, it’s freaking good. It’s my third one this week.

“Come in,” my dad’s raspy voice says, so I open the door and walk right in, making sure to shut the door behind me. When he looks up at me, he sets his tablet to the side and leans back in his chair. “What the hell are you eating?” he asks in greeting.

“A sandwich. Bologna. Want to try?”

“Christ, no.”

I shrug and take a bite. His loss.

You’d think winning last season would have lightened the old man up, but according to the scowl in his brow and the distaste in his expression, nothing is ever good enough for this man. I chalk it up to the new season and the pressure on his shoulders for another win. “You beckoned?”

“Yes, I did.” He leans forward now, his chair creaking beneath his large body. His bald head is shinier than ever under these lights, and the muscles in his traps look like they’re about to explode out of his shirt from the tension set in his shoulders. “I want to know why I just got a call from your college admissions saying they’re returning the check I made out to them for your tuition this semester?”

Crap.

Freaking admissions. They couldn’t give me the weekend to figure out what to say to my father? They had to contact him right away?

“They called you, huh?” I ask, going for casual.

“Yes, they fucking called me,” Dad nearly roars. “What the fuck is going on, Wylie?”

Here’s the thing, when you have a father who has been a single dad for a better part of two decades, he tends to be very cranky, very short-tempered, and very demanding of perfection. I knew he wouldn’t take this well, but he’s already at level nine out of ten, and ten is when he blows a gasket.

Trust me when I say you don’t want to see that happen.

I’ve seen it, and the fire in his eyes will make your legs quiver with fear.

Clearing my throat, I rest my sandwich on the edge of my dad’s desk. “Well, I planned on telling you after your game tonight, but since they called, I guess I’m going to have to let you in on what’s happening.”

“Damn right, you’re going to let me in on what’s happening. Tell me what’s going on, Wylie. Now.”

Yup, he’s fuming.

Tread carefully.

Still trying to be casual because maybe my soothing voice will calm him, I say, “You see, I’ve been doing some thinking for almost a year now, ever since last semester to be precise, and well, I sort of haven’t been having much fun at school⁠—”

“School isn’t supposed to be fun, Wylie. School is supposed to be educating.”

“Yup, hear you on that one, Dad,” I say, pointing at him. “Love education, but, uh . . . well, I don’t foresee myself continuing down the road I’ve been studying.”

“The road as in business?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“And what road would you like to continue down exactly?” he asks, his nostrils flaring—a sure-fire sign that the steam inside him brewing like a tea kettle is ready to spout out of his ears.

Knowing there’s no easy way of putting this, I go with the facts. “I’m not finishing my business degree. I’m pursuing independent graphic art instead.”

“What?” Dad roars, spittle flying from his mouth as he stares me down. “No, not happening.” He shakes his head and picks up his phone. “Miranda, transfer me to the University of Vancouver’s admissions.”

“Dad.” I lean forward to grab the phone from him, but he leans back. “I’m not going back there.”

“The fuck you’re not,” he says. “You have one year left. Finish it out, take your degree, and do something worthwhile.”

“This is worthwhile, Dad.”

He hangs up the phone with a slam. “Graphic art? You think graphic art is worthwhile? What are you going to do? Dream up logos for the local shipping yard? Jesus Christ, Wylie. This is your future you’re talking about, not some random idea that came into your head one lonely night.”

Growing frustrated with my dad’s ignorance—because the man does not know me at all—I say, “It’s not a random idea that’s come to my mind. I’ve been going to classes at night for a year and am really good at it. I’ve been paid a few times.”

“Paid a few times? Well, then.” Dad wipes his hands and leans back in his chair. “Then, by all means, let me roll out the red carpet. You’ve been paid ‘a few times,’ so we might as well start looking into private jets.”

My expression falls flat as I stare at the man I hold in high regard. The man who raised me and put me first in every aspect, even over hockey. When my mom left him and said she didn’t want to take me with her, he stepped in and gave me a memorable childhood. Is he controlling? Yes. Does he think he can run my life? Yes. But do I love him . . . yes, although he’s making it hard at the moment.

“Dad, this means a lot to me, and I think if you just let me show you what I can do, you will believe that I can do something great with this.”

“I have no doubt you have talent,” he says. “You’re my daughter, after all, but that doesn’t negate the fact that you’re throwing away a stable future.”

“A master’s in business doesn’t provide a stable future. A master’s in business is like throwing a coin in a pond and hoping someone makes your wish come true. I don’t want a desk job, something that bores me day in and day out, and over the past year, I’ve come to realize that’s exactly what will happen if I continue moving forward with this degree. I don’t want to waste my time or your money.”

“You’ve already wasted my money if you cut out a year before you graduate.” He runs his hand over his smooth head. “I don’t see why you can’t just finish the year, graduate, and then pursue whatever it is you want to pursue.”

“Because it’s a waste of time, Dad. It’s a giant waste of my time, and you, out of everyone, know how time is an invaluable commodity. You never get it back. So why would I waste a year of my life to appease someone else?”

“Because I’m your father, and I’ve paid for your college until now. I’ve housed you, fed you, taken care of you.”

“And I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Dad, but I’m twenty-two, and I think I should be able to start making my own decisions, don’t you?”

“No,” he says flatly, not even considering it.

I sigh heavily. “Well, I don’t know what else to say other than I’m not going back to school, so if you want to pay for my classes, by all means, pay for them, but I won’t attend.”

He does not take too kindly to that because his jaw tenses, then works back and forth as his eyes remain fixed on me.

That look would have scared me right out of my shoes a few years ago. I would have apologized and told my dad I’d do whatever he wanted. But over the past few years, I’ve grown a thicker skin. I’ve started to realize what I want—well, at least what I don’t want. The direction of my graphic art aspirations is still a little foggy, but I do know I want to be creative.

“Fine,” he says while placing his hands on the desk. “If that’s what you want, then you can cut out of school.” Why do I feel like that’s not the end of the conversation? There’s no way he’s going to let me just quit school, not with the anger boiling inside him.

“Fine?” I ask. “I can pursue graphic art?”

“Yes, of course. If anything, I want you to be happy.”

I don’t believe that for a second. He has something up his sleeve.

“But . . .”

And there it is.

“Since I paid for your five years of college, I believe you owe me something.”

I sigh heavily, knowing it was too good to be true.

“And what do I owe you, Dad?”

He folds his hands together. “Here’s the deal. I don’t think you’re making a smart choice.”

“That much is obvious,” I say as I fold my arms across my chest.

“Therefore,” he continues, “I think you owe me one semester.”

“Of school? What’s the point⁠—”

“Of working.”

“Working?” I ask.

“Yes, working. Working a job that you might possibly have to work in order to pay the bills while you attempt to pursue this graphic art thing. I’ll call admissions, tell them you’re taking a semester off and to expect you back at the beginning of the year. Unless you can prove to me that you can hold a steady job and make headway on your graphic art desires.”

“Where’s the catch?” I ask.

“There is no catch,” he says.

“Dad, come on, there has to be a catch.”

“Well, you will have to be financially independent from me.”

Boom. Yep. The catch.

It’s not that I need my dad’s money. I could survive on my own. I have a few thousand saved from the few jobs I’ve taken. I could find a job and make a living, prove to him that I don’t need his money or a stupid master’s in business to make my life work.

I shrug. “That’s fine.”

“Cut off from me completely,” he says. “No housing. No car. No insurance. Nothing.”

No housing?

Well, when he puts it like that, I might have to get a pedicure so I can start selling feet pics. Housing in Vancouver is expensive, and I don’t have THAT much money saved.

“Dad, it’s really expensive to live here in Vancouver.”

“Not if you have a well-paying job that you earned through a solid college education.” He smiles at me with an I got you look. “Don’t worry, though,” he continues. “I’ll give you a week to get on your feet. I won’t kick you out immediately, and I’ll hook you up with a job that will resemble what you might have to do to make your dreams come true.”

“And what sort of job is that?” I ask, knowing full well he’s probably setting this up for me to fail.

“What all other struggling creatives do . . . a personal assistant.” He smiles, and I swear a gleam beams off his tooth.

I see what he’s trying to do. He’s trying to scare me. Make me think that I can’t do this. That my life will be filled with retrieving coffees and returning clothes while trying to sneak in some personal time to be creative when I get a moment, but little does he know, I’m just as stubborn as he is because if he cuts me off, makes me move out, creating a scenario where I’m bound to fail, it only makes me want to prove him wrong that much more.

So with my chin held high and my confidence brimming with I can do this, I lend out my hand and say, “Deal.” Surprised, he takes my hand in his and gives it a shake. “Now, who will I be assisting?”