Page 35 of The Romance Line
She huffs, then mutters a “fine” as she lifts her phone.
Ha. I won that round, wiggling out of talking to the press even when I really should. It’s a once-in-a-blue-moon hockey event after all. But instead I pose with Bryant for a pic.
As I walk off, I feel a little cocky. Okay, a lot, so I say to her, “Score one for the goalie.”
“In what, Max?” she asks sweetly, innocently.
I spin around, trying not to get distracted by her pretty pink lips and those big, brown eyes that hold thousands of stories. Right now, they’re etched with a curiosity she can’t hide.
“In the game with the publicist,” I say.
“Oh, we’re playing a game now?”
“Sunshine, we’ve always been playing and you know it,” I toss back.
Wesley points his thumb toward the locker room. “I’m heading off. You two maybe should get a room.”
Best to ignore that comment as he trudges down the hall. I turn my focus back to Everly.
“I thought we were playing a game, so that’s why I made this move.” She swipes a polished silver nail along the phone, then spins the device around, showing me—The Real Max Lambert.
The feed she set up. The fresh pic of Bryant and me is the only thing on it. I furrow my brow. “Right. That was the point,” I say, like it’s obvious.
She smiles, far too Mona Lisa-style for my taste. “Score’s tied, grump. I’ve got a pic of you on social, and I didn’t even have to take you anywhere to get one of your favorite things. Also, it’s arealfavorite thing,” she says with the most confident, winning smile I’ve seen—one that sends heat roaring through my body. It’s annoying, my attraction to her. So annoying I don’t even have a comeback.
But she does. She waves, then says, “By the way, see you at the circus in Vegas. We’re catching an early flight before the team.”
Damn her. She’s good. No, she’s better than good. “Is it Cirque du Soleil?” I ask. I haven’t seen it, but if Asher likes it, maybe I can stomach going.
She sears me with a look. “In your dreams.”
But my dreams last night involved her spreading her legs on a trapeze so she might be right.
13
SWEET TORTURE
Max
“Welcome to the Most Spectacular Little Circus in Vegas.” A short white dude sporting a twirly mustache and a top hat waves grandly to the big top he stands under.
Or, really, the little top.
Everly found a tiny shoestring circus on the outskirts of Vegas to take me to. She’s an evil genius. She is Einstein-ian in her makeover planning, since I’m sitting on the cramped metal bleachers with my knees in my eyes.
This woman lives to torture me.
“I’m your ringmaster—Victor Valenti. Prepare to be dazzled by feats of wonder and magic, where reality blurs with illusion and dreams come to life before your very eyes,” the ringmaster booms, his voice echoing throughout the tiny tent. The air is thick with the scent of popcorn and cotton candy in the early afternoon.
The crowd of maybe one hundred erupts into cheers.Everly sits beside me, a mischievous glint dancing in her eyes. She knew exactly what she was doing when she suggested we visit this circus. But as much as I want to be annoyed by her cunning ways, I’m too damn impressed. There’s no room for a six-foot-four guy here, and this was a brilliant way to make me suffer. She’s so beautifully mean, and since she expects nothing less than ire from me, I mutter, “These seats are smaller than coach.”
She arches a brow, whispering, “And you would know how?”
That’s fair. “True. I haven’t flown coach in years.”
“So you’re not really suffering much then, are you?”
I harumph. She’s got me on that too. Still, I counter with, “Define suffering.”