Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
“I don’t think that will work; he needs an owner,” Josie says sweetly. “Like us.”
“It’s not going to be us,” Dane responds flatly.
Josie pouts harder.
“Since Molly and I are besties now, we can adopt him,” Hudson announces with that infuriatingly chipper tone of his.
I pivot so fast that I nearly fall over. “What?”
Has the man lost his mind? Does he ever think before he speaks?
“It’s a great idea, right?” His voice is sugary sweet, and his grin is so wide I want to smack it off his face.
Damn bet. Seeing as everyone from the team is here—and they’re all officially in on the bet—I plaster on my fakest smile, aware of the watchful eyes.
“Maybe. Seeing you with a dog would be a highlight of my life.” I move closer, lowering my voice so only he can hear. “Watching you clean up shit, that is.”
He throws his head back in a boisterous laugh. “I think it’s a done deal.”
Hudson leans in close, his voice a low murmur, sending heat prickling along my neck. “I know you want to kill me.”
“Guess I owe Mason twenty bucks. I bet you’d break before the end of the event,” Dane chimes in, smirking.
Hudson leans down so only I can hear. “Double or nothing, I make you snap before dinner?”
I open my mouth, ready to fire back, when I catch sight of the photographer stepping in front of us. The last thing I need is photographic evidence of me losing my temper.
“I need you guys closer,” the photographer says.
Hudson obeys immediately. “Perfect. Almost there.”
Before I can react, Hudson wraps me in his arms, smooshing the Maltese puppy between us.
The warmth of his chest seeps into me, and for half a second, I forget to be annoyed. The camera flashes, the puppy wiggles, and for just a moment, I feel something dangerously close to contentment.
I smile broadly, mustering the fakest one I have inside me. But for a moment, as the camera flashes and in the warmth of his arms, I almost smile for real.
Almost.
A small part of me wonders what it would be like to have a dog. The unconditional love, the companionship . . . but then reality sets in. There is a “no pets allowed” rule in my apartment. Not even a goldfish. If I want unconditional love, I’ll have to get it elsewhere.
Or in my case . . .
Never.
29
Molly
Dinner before a hockey game is always chaotic.
Dinner with the Redville Saints before game one of the eastern conference semifinals is something else.
It’s loud. It’s ridiculous. And apparently, it’s now my personal hell.
Like tonight, it’s like I’m trapped in a bad 1990s sitcom, and I’m the punchline.
When I walk into the room, I make a beeline to sit as far from Hudson as possible. I don’t even look at him, knowing his smirk is probably locked and loaded.
Of course, the whole team has different plans.
Those plans are to drive me crazy and, most likely, win the side bets they all made.
I stop dead in my tracks when Mason laughs loud enough to draw attention from the entire room. That’s never a good sign.
From the way Mason is laughing like a damn hyena, he’s up to something, and it doesn’t take me long to figure out what when he makes a sweeping gesture toward the seat beside Hudson.
The only empty seat.
I glance around, hoping for some miraculous alternative, but nope—every other chair is taken. This is a setup. A cruel, calculated setup.
My feet are weighted to the floor and refuse to move.
“Right there, Molly,” Mason announces this time. “That’s your seat.” It’s said in a way that the whole team can hear.
My face burns, but I keep it together. I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing me sweat.
“Actually, I was going to—”
“Sorry, there are no other seats unless you aren’t eating with us.” Mason, ever the troublemaker, flashes a wicked grin. “Dane said it would be okay.”
I shoot my brother a glare across the table, but Dane just shrugs, barely looking up from his phone. “It’s part of the truce,” he mutters, clearly more interested in whatever’s on his screen than my impending misery.
Traitor.
Hudson is already in the seat, leaning back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest like he owns the place.
His smirk is so wide he looks like he belongs in the movie Smile. “Don’t worry, Hex. I won’t bite,” he whispers for only me to hear.
The double meaning in his voice makes my stomach do an unwanted flip. Damn him.
“Whatever,” I mutter as I slide into the chair beside him.
The table is way too small, clearly designed for “intimate” dinners—which this is absolutely not. The second I sit, my knee bumps into Hudson’s under the table. Of course, he doesn’t move it.
I press my lips together.
Great. Just great.
He’s way too close to me. I can feel his arm and his thigh.