The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Everly

I’m so ticked off, I’m experiencing the Max Effect. Side effects of prolonged exposure to bossy, overbearing men who think they know what’s good for you might include a rage spiral.

Except I can’t afford to rage spiral. I need to calm down before dinner with my boss and Max’s agent. I have to act like I don’t want to throat-punch the star athlete.

On the ride over, I close my eyes and try to let go of my irritation as best I can. By the time I’m a block away, I feel somewhat human, but my brain keeps playing Max’s words on a loop: Because he’s wrong for you.

I hate that he’s right.

I hate that I didn’t feel the chemistry with Lucas before Max barreled into the bar and sabotaged my evening. I already knew there wasn’t going to be a third date before he showed up, but I hate, too, that I was secretly excited when Max arrived .

What is wrong with me? I can hear my father’s voice slithering in my ear with an answer. Well, you’ve always had bad taste in men, honey .

I try to drown out the comment he made when my last romance went south a few months in. My dad’s right though. I don’t pick well. I have the track record of failed romance to show for it. I’m nearly thirty, and I’ve never had a non-toxic relationship.NôvelDrama.Org copyrighted © content.

But at least I’m good at my job, so I vow to focus on that as I arrive at Kitchen Mosaic, an upscale fusion restaurant in the Financial District. It’s the kind of place where the city’s high rollers take clients to seal deals. After I thank the driver, I hop out of the car and go inside, taking a deep, centering breath before I tell the host I’m joining the Emerson party of four.

Except it’s a party of seven, she informs me.

I roll with the change. When I arrive at the table, Max’s agent is here, and he’s brought two people from the agency. He makes quick intros to a woman named Rosario and a man named John. Zaire’s here too. I wasn’t expecting Clementine to come but the general manager’s at the table as well. I really need to stay calm.

“Good to see you both,” I say as I sit.

“I had the night free, so I decided to join,” Clementine says cooly.

Translation: this meeting was too important to miss.

And my job is too important to lose my head over because of a guy. “Glad everyone is here, except for the man of honor,” I say, and maybe I couldn’t resist taking a dig at Max for being late. But he deserves it.

A few minutes later, the troublemaking goalie breezes in, looking stylish and sexy in tailored charcoal pants that hug his strong legs and a royal blue shirt that does unfair things to his strong chest and thick arms. He’s wearing team colors. Smart move.

At the bar he was wearing jeans and a polo. He cleaned up even more for dinner with all the stakeholders, and I’m annoyingly impressed. He’s striding to the table like he owns the place, all cool confidence and with barely a smile—just his trademark intensity, wild hair, and icy eyes. That’s the way he walks through the corridor in the arena before a game, wearing his game-day suit, looking like sex and strength.

My pulse beats faster. My body is such a traitor.

When he reaches us, he says, “Thanks for waiting. I had to drop my sister at her son’s friend’s house.”

I refrain from rolling my eyes. Of course he’s angling for I-help-with-my-cute-nephew empathy points.

“That’s always lovely to hear,” Clementine says.

“Good to see you, my man,” Garrett puts in, standing and clapping his client’s back.

Max sits, snagging the empty seat across from me. The seven of us make small talk about the restaurant, the weather, and the menu until it’s time to order.

I refuse to look at Max. I can’t. I can’t afford the brand of trouble he brings to my heart and body. Once the server has left Garrett clears his throat, then looks my way. “Everly, before you arrived, we were all chatting. The social looks great. You’ve done a fantastic job in just a few weeks building it out.”

“Yes. It even looks like you’re having fun, Max,” Zaire remarks with a pleased grin. In addition to the circus, bike ride, and post-game shots, I instructed him to take a picture of the football field when he went to a Renegades game on the weekend, as well as the view of the Golden Gate Bridge from his home. He sent me both and I posted them too. They don’t show his face, but that’s fine.

Rosario sits straighter, shifting toward her client. “And we’ve run some tests and already your likability quotient is ticking up a notch or two.”

“Great,” Max says dryly. “Gotta keep that thermometer at the bank rising higher.”

John smiles. “This is a promising start.”

“It is. We adore The Real Max Lambert ,” Clementine says to Max. “You’ve done a great job.”

He’s done a great job? Are you kidding me? I did all that. But as a publicist, my role is to stay in the background, to let others shine, so I do my part to praise the star too. “Max has really been helpful at being open and available. He’s made it easy.”

Lies, tell me sweet little lies.

But rather than finding a way to subtly zing me, the man getting the makeover offers me a thoughtful smile, then turns to the others. “Actually, Everly’s the one who’s done a great job. I have to give her all the credit,” he says earnestly. “She’s a delight to work with. She’s come up with every single idea. She arranges the events. She plans the photos. She writes the posts. Any increase in the LQ is entirely her doing.”

What???

Am I in a time warp? Did he just compliment me in front of the GM and my boss? I stare at him like an alien has taken over his body. “Thank you,” I say, thrown off but delighted all the same.

Zaire smiles proudly. “Everly is terrific at what she does. I’m so glad you’re working well together.”

“She’s the one who makes it easy,” Max says, then sighs, a little apologetically. “I know I’ve made a lot of this hard for all of you, but putting Everly on this project is what’s bringing it all together. She deserves all the credit.” He rubs his palms together. “So what’s next?”

Holy shit.

I want to hate him, but I want to kiss him too. What is wrong with me?

We spend the next hour of the dinner talking about the community outreach that I’ll be overseeing for him for the next month—the meat of the makeover. I’ve already planned the first event with a local animal rescue I love working with, and it’s coming up in another week, after a stretch of away games. I’m calling it Dogs on Ice because I couldn’t resist that name. I tell Max the details of the event—we’re hosting the rescue’s dogs up for adoption—and even though it’ll be fun, it’ll also be harder, busier, and more challenging for him than usual since it’s so, obviously, public.

“You’ll have to talk to the press,” I say, reminding him.

Max nods in acceptance. “I’m ready.”

What universe am I living in where Max is being agreeable? I don’t even know.

As the meal nears its end, I push back and excuse myself for the ladies’ room. After I freshen up, I touch up my lipstick in the mirror, then head back into the narrow hallway, stopping short when I spot Max. Hard to miss him. He’s leaning against the brick wall across from the ladies’ room.

Waiting for me. Looking like every sexy mistake I want to make.

“Everly,” he says, like this is important, whatever he’s about to say. “I’m sorry you’re pissed at me, but I’m not sorry I crashed your date. ”

I groan. Here he goes again, being infuriating. “Why do you do this?”

“Do what?”

I flap my hand toward the end of the hallway, indicating the table around the corner where we just met with everyone who matters to our jobs. “Do something nice like what you said at the table, then return to saying this stuff? This I know what’s good for you crap.”

“Because it’s true. You and Lucas weren’t even into each other.”

“That’s not really for you to decide,” I say.

He steps closer, his gaze narrowed. “He invited my sister and me to join your date.”

“He was being nice! Ever heard of it?”

Max crowds me, his heated eyes holding mine, his body so dangerously close I catch a hint of the bold and spicy Midnight Flame. Chili pepper and cedar and wild nights. I didn’t smell that at The Spotted Zebra. Did he splash it on while driving over? Did he do it for me? Change for me to look even more tempting? I don’t understand him. I don’t understand myself either and why my body reacts to him. The way he looks at me is unfairly alluring.

I’m aching.

And he’s shaking his head, like he can’t believe I said Lucas was nice. Max lifts a hand, reaches for the collar of my black blouse, and runs a finger gently along the silk, barely touching my skin but lighting me up all at the same time. “For the record, if I took you out, I’d never invite anyone to join my date with you.”

I’m thrown off by that statement, the intensity of it, the passion of it. I don’t have a comeback, but he doesn’t seem to need one since he keeps going. “Besides, drinks is a cop-out. He should take you to dinner. He should drive you home. He should walk you to your door. He should make sure you get inside safely. But before he does that, he should devastate you with a kiss like he can’t fucking breathe if he doesn’t kiss you.”

Forget aching. I’m outrageously aroused. My breath catches. But I say nothing still as he lets go of my shirt, finishing with, “I would never share you.”

I’m so off-kilter, because Max is so close to me, the hallway is so narrow, my boss is in the other room, and yet I’m not walking away from the very bad idea of him. “What if I like nice guys?” I counter.

He pins me with his gaze. “You don’t.”

“You don’t know what I like.”

He smirks. “I think I do though.”

A dish rattles from somewhere in the restaurant, breaking the heated moment. I swirl around and return to the table, putting on a fake front for the rest of the meal.

Fake because it hides this unbridled desire ricocheting through me as those words echo in my mind.

I would never share you .

When the meal ends, I say goodbye to everyone, then head outside to call a Lyft, grateful to put some distance between me and the object of this inappropriate lust.

But my phone is fading fast. The battery’s at one percent right as the car options populate. “C’mon,” I mutter as I try to grab one before the screen of death appears.

I’m too late. But seconds later, the scent of midnight wraps around me. “I’ll drive you home,” Max says, striding up next to me on the street, having just left Kitchen Mosaic.

I wince, not wanting to take him up on it. Not trusting myself to. But having no choice.

I turn around and give in. “Fine.”

He sets his hand on the small of my back as he walks me to his car, like a man who’d never share me.