The Bad Boy Hockey Collection: A Collection Of Single Daddy Romances

It is undoubtedly the lamest flirting I’ve ever done. It’s also the only time I’ve ever replied with anything that announced a spark of interest in someone, the first time I’ve ever encouraged someone to keep chatting with me.

It’s a heady feeling, spending the evening chatting with someone I don’t know, someone who doesn’t know me, but someone I feel like I have something in common with even if I’m not exactly sure what that something is.

But we proceed to spend the entire evening messaging back and forth on the site. Until one o’clock in the morning, to be exact. I might be twenty-six, but I don’t remember the last time I stayed up until that time of night just talking with someone. Especially someone who isn’t even a friend.

The morning comes far too fast, and even now, strolling into work this morning with a hint of darkness under my eyes and a massive need for caffeine to help me survive this day, I’m grinning faintly to myself as I remember some of the comical things Mr. Blue Eyes, as I’d taken to calling him over the course of the evening, had come up with in his responses. He knew the value of a good sarcastic remark, and he paid attention to details throughout our conversation.

Not once did he suggest anything more than the easy back-and-forth banter we’d begun, and I relished in that. He’d been coerced into joining the site, too, and if last night’s conversation with him was any indication, he wasn’t looking to jump into something quickly. He also didn’t seem to be seeking out this weekend’s one-night stand, so that was saying something, too.

“So why didn’t you seek him out, Cori?” Jenn asks, following me to my desk as I unload my armful of belongings onto it. Two travel mugs of coffee, my purse, and my lunch bag with leftovers from last night’s dinner are enough to make it look like I bring luggage into work every day. “Lord knows you need a good sexy night with a man.”

I eye her warily. “I’m going to take that in jest,” I tell her, “And not as though you’ve just insinuated I need to sleep with someone in order to calm my nerves.”

“Who the hell said anything about sleeping?” She’s waggling her eyebrows, enjoying every minute of this. “You need to let loose and have a little fun. Enough of this self-imposed dry spell and misery you’ve decided you somehow deserve.”

“I am not in a dry spell,” I inform her, pushing my chair away from the desk and taking a seat. “I’m just not interested in jerks, or jocks, or—”

“Men in general,” she interjects, rolling her eyes. “You forget, Cori, I saw the way you drooled over our newest client yesterday. He might be an unwanted blast from the past, but at least his presence confirms your fun-loving side is still in there somewhere.” She pushes away from the corner of the desk, giving me a wink. “Not to mention, sexy assholes you never want to see again make great one-night stands. All that hatred and anger, all that raw passion—”

“You are delusional.” I cut her off, because if she keeps going I’ll never get her away from my desk so I can get to work. “Brody Marsh isn’t even on my radar when it comes to taking someone to bed, Jenn.”

“Fine.” She holds up her hands in surrender. “Take him to the backseat of your car, your dining room table if you have to. I’m sure he’s not picky about location.”

“Jenn! Jesus, have you no shame?”

“I’m just using my imagination,” she laughs. “You should, too. You might like it.”

What Jenn doesn’t realize is that I’ve been letting my imagination run wild since last night, wondering what the mysterious man behind the crystal blue eye image is really like, what he looks like, if he’s as funny and charming in real life as I find him online. And the scariest part is that I have liked it. A lot.

***

There’s no way for me to be fully prepared for my meeting with Brody Marsh. Not just because Mr. Barrett left me very little information to go on when it comes to the particulars of Brody’s case, with no notes from his meetup with him yesterday, but also because I have no idea what stance he’s going to take when he walks through that door.

Is he going to be a totally obnoxious prick and not take any of this seriously? If that’s the case, it’ll take me about two minutes to lose my shit and tell him he’ll be better off waiting until my boss is available to meet with him himself.

Or, is Brody going to want to discuss the things I’d rather keep buried away behind a wall of bitterness and betrayal? If he thinks we’re going to become friends because of this meeting, he’s also got another thing coming.

I don’t want to meet with Brody Marsh, but my career dictates that I must. Therefore, it’ll either be a business-only meeting, or no meeting at all. My walls of self-preservation are built high when it comes to anyone with the last name Marsh.

At least, that’s what I tell myself until the moment he walks through the door.

“Thanks for meeting with me, Corinne.” His smile is genuine and his hand shake firm.

He’s here to tend to business, too. Thank God.

I lead him into one of the meeting rooms down the hall from Mr. Barrett’s office, offering to make him a cup of coffee as I go.

“Still polite as ever, even though you hate my guts,” he says evenly. “I appreciate that.”

I turn just outside the meeting room door, my cheeks flushed. “I don’t hate anyone that I don’t have a reason to.”

“And do you have a reason to hate me?” he asks, one eyebrow arched high as he walks past me into the room.

“The jury is still out,” I remark. “Let me get you that coffee.” I shut the door, leaving him in the meeting room alone while I head back down the hall. I need a moment. I didn’t expect him to call me out like that, with no cockiness and no pretenses, just what he believes to be the truth.

Do I hate Brody? No. That doesn’t mean I have any intention of being buddy-buddy with the guy while we slog through these legal documents together. But it does bother me more than I thought it would that he immediately thought I hated him. No one deserves that, not even the older brother of the man who shattered my heart.

And I have to remind myself of that. Brody isn’t Jackson. He didn’t hurt me. But that doesn’t make it any easier to sit across the table from him and discuss things that include his brother who did.