Kit (Chicago Blaze 8)

“I said strictly professional,” she repeats, licking her lips.

“Until the story is done.”

Her eyes widen, making my cock harden.

She shakes her head and lowers her brows. “Kit, this bar is full of women you can take home right now.”

“But there’s only one I want to take home.”

Molly’s lips part and it’s all I can do not to kiss her. Her expression of disbelief is…sexy. So goddamn sexy. Just one kiss won’t hurt.

“I don’t…I don’t do this, Kit. I have to go.”

She puts her head down and pushes past me, heading for the door. I follow, the bitter-cold wind slapping me in the face as I exit the bar without my coat on.

“Molly,” I call after her. “Molly, hey.”

She’s shoving her notebook into her bag, and when she finishes and looks up at me, the hurt expression on her face is a punch in the gut.

“I don’t let men pick me up in bars for one-night stands,” she says, her tone fierce. “Not that any try, because I don’t go to bars. I’m a reporter working on a story, Kit. Don’t treat me like some groupie you can charm into doing whatever you want.”

Her words strike me speechless for a second.

“That’s not what I—”

I close my eyes and think about how what just happened must have felt for her. I’m not drunk, but the alcohol did loosen me up. Knowing what I do about Molly, hitting on her in bar full of people was not a good idea.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I got carried away, and I’m sorry, Molly.”

The anger fades from her expression as she pulls the fur-lined hood of her coat up and fastens the button.

“It’s fine. I shouldn’t have come here tonight.”

“That’s not the problem,” I argue.

“I’m going home. Go back inside and try your moves on another woman. It’ll work.”

She grins, and I suppress a flare of aggravation.

“Look, I shouldn’t have hit on you back there,” I say. “You said you wanted to keep things professional until the story comes out and I should’ve listened. But don’t act like I’m just putting the moves on every woman in sight until someone bites. I’m not that guy and you know it. What happened back there was about you and me. I’ll be going to bed alone tonight, and I think you know that, too.”

Nodding, she says, “I have to go.”

“Let me drive you.” I rethink that idea immediately. “Or…we’ll get an Uber. Let me take you home in an Uber.”

“I’ll walk.”

I shake my head. “It’s after midnight, Molly. No one should be out walking alone at this hour.”

“I’m just walking to the El station. I do it all the time. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll walk you there. Let me go get my coat.” I give her a wary look. “Will you wait for me to get my coat?”

“If you really want to go,” she says, relenting. “But hurry, because it’s cold out here when you’re not moving.”

I go back into the bar, asking Easy to cover my tab and grabbing my coat. I’m half-surprised when Molly is still standing there when I come outside.

“I don’t think we’ll make the El on time,” I tell her. “And if we do, if we run into rowdy fans partying after the game…we’re gonna get mobbed. Just let me call an Uber. Please.”

I’m surprised when she relents. I pull up the Uber app and she gives me her address. It only takes a couple minutes for one to arrive.

“What’d you think of the game?” I ask her once we’re in the car.

She smiles. “It was more fun than I thought it would be. I didn’t understand everything and it was hard to find the puck sometimes, though.”

“What questions do you have about the game?”

“Why did you get put in the penalty box?”

“Hooking. I used my stick to stop McGill from skating. But he did it to me first.”

She furrows her brow. “Why didn’t he get a penalty?”

“The ref didn’t see it.”

“Ah.” She pushes her hood back and asks, “What were you saying when you were yelling in the penalty box? And who were you talking to?”

I grin. “An obnoxious Nashville fan who deserved it.”

“And what were you saying?”

“You really want to know?”

She nods.

“He was talking shit about my hair and I told him to go fuck himself.”

“Oh. And what about when you were talking to your opponents? Was that…trash talk?”

“Yep. Just chirping at each other. That’s what we call it.”

“Are you good at it?”

I laugh. “I’m not the best or the worst. Somewhere in the middle.”

“Who’s the best at it on your team?”

I answer immediately. “Anton.”

“And who’s the worst?”

“Easy. His mother raised him to not swear, and English isn’t his first language. We’re working on it.”

Molly laughs, and our eyes stay locked in the back of the car, a moment silently passing between us.