Tomboy

He kept his distance, but something in his stance changed, making him seem bigger than the team stats that listed him at six feet three inches and two hundred and thirty-eight pounds. “What was your name again?” he asked, his voice dropping to a lower register than before. “Felicia?”

“That’s my sister.”

Fallon couldn’t believe it: he was still trying to get her to leave. She knew the signs. She’d grown up around men who couldn’t express what they were feeling if someone tried to beat it out of them with a baseball bat. The Irish weren’t exactly known for being in touch with and wanting to talk about their emotional needs.

“Faith?” he asked.

“That’s my other sister.”

Sure, there were only a limited number of common girl’s names that started with F, but the fact that he’d nailed two of her sisters’ names while he was supposedly trying to remember hers? Yeah, she wasn’t falling for it.

He shifted. “Fiona?”

It took everything she had not to crack a smile. “That’s sister number three.”

“There are four girls in your family?”

As if he didn’t know. He must have gotten at least some background information about her before he agreed to let Lucy ask her to come over.

“Plus three brothers.” She nodded, not letting herself react outwardly to his little display. “And I’m flattered you obviously remembered my bio from Lucy.”

He glowered at her in silence, his eyes so dark they were practically black, zeroing in as if he could scare her. That wasn’t going to happen. One, she got more attitude from her pediatric patients than this. Two, Lucy trusted the guy, and Fallon trusted Lucy. Three, she was a Hartigan, and they didn’t back down from anything.

Finally, he spoke. “There are pillows and blankets in the box by the hall closet, Fallon Hartigan. Pick a room with a bed in it. I’m going to sleep.”

And without so much as a mumbled thank-you for giving up her weekend to play nursemaid, he turned and walked out of the kitchen and down a dark hallway. Most-hated man in Harbor City? Yeah, she could corroborate that. Food poisoning or not, Zach Blackburn was one prime, grade-A asshole. She glanced down at the basket of muffins and grinned. Fallon wouldn’t have been surprised if the puck bunny had tried to poison the prick on purpose—God knew she was tempted right about now.

Instead, she took out her phone.

Fallon: He’ll live, and you owe me. Big time.

Lucy: Going that well, huh?

Fallon: What did you tell him about me?

Lucy: Just that you’re my bestie, Frankie’s sister, maybe some family stuff, and that you’re an awesome nurse. The basics.

Fallon: That’s a lot.

Lucy: He doesn’t trust a lot of folks. He needed background. He has his reasons. Promise you won’t let him get to you.

Fallon: I can promise not to kill him, but that’s about as much as you’ll get from me. He’s the most obnoxious man I’ve ever met, and I work with doctors who think they’re God—not a god but the actual big guy himself.

Lucy: Just give Zach a chance. You’ll love him.

Yeah, that was so not going to happen—not even in a parallel universe.

Chapter Two

The blaring ring echoed off the bare walls of the nearly empty mansion as Fallon Hartigan marched down the hallway with murder on her mind.

As soon as she got to the source of that ringing, she was going to give Harbor City what they wanted most and kill the most-hated man in hockey. Sure, she might get arrested, but the metro area would probably throw her a parade. She turned the corner and stopped dead in her tracks outside the open double doors leading to the overpriced defenseman’s bedroom.

The man—who’d been puking his guts up less than twenty-four hours ago—was in the middle of a king-size bed, wearing nothing but a smirk and a bed sheet that was draped so low across his hips that she could see miles of those V lines south of his hard abs. Like she was a newbie nurse on her first set of rounds, her breath caught, and a blush she most definitely did not want to appear started to burn her cheeks. Damn her pasty Irish skin.

Still, she had to admit, if only to herself, that the view was fucking amazing. The man was a professional athlete and had the muscular, inked-up chest to prove it. Practically against her will, her gaze traveled over the plentiful ink across his pecs and lingered a few breaths too long on his silver nipple rings.

Seemingly indifferent to her perusal, Zach swiped his thumb across his cell phone’s screen, ending the incessant ringing.