Briggs (Carolina Reapers 7)

I arched a brow at her. “You gave me the side of the dorm room with the window.”

She laughed again, and I joined her. “Never would’ve guessed my scholarship would land me in a VIP box at an NHL game someday, let alone a ridic rich friend who says things casually like remind me to thank Asher freaking Silas.” She blew out a breath, a quick flash of uncertainty bursting behind her eyes before she tried to hide it. She tugged on her graphic T-shirt, her eyes finding the floor.

I swallowed hard, my brow furrowing. “Your scholarship landed you in design school with me in New York, sure,” I said, laying my hand over her forearm. “But it has nothing to do with you being here. You’re here because you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. Not to mention the only person on the planet who can handle my mood swings when I’m starving.”

The lightness returned to her eyes, and she shifted in her seat, her long curls—dark blue this month—falling over her shoulders. “Speaking of,” she said, nodding toward our waiter. “Steve, can you please grab us something to snack on? I don’t want this CEO over her to have a meltdown.”

I snorted, waving off the confused glance from the waiter. “Whenever you have a chance,” I added…I mean, I could eat.

Grace snorted, then focused back on the ice. “He is something to look at, isn’t he?”

I blew out a breath. “You should see him with his shirt off.” She gaped at me, but I quickly shook my head. “The last fitting we did. I had to take some measurements…” Heat raced to my cheeks at the memory of how close our bodies had been, how he’d looked at me for the briefest of seconds when I’d been on my knees taking his waist measurement. Need pulsed low in my belly, a force of want I’d only ever experienced around him before. And I kind of hated him for it—unjustly so. I mean, how could he make me so fucking mad I wanted to punch him but at the same time make me want to stay on my knees and see what he tasted like in my mouth?

God, I was losing it.

“I’m sure you took measurements,” Grace said, waggling her eyebrows.

“Stop,” I said, laughing. “It was strictly professional.” As would be all our encounters. Well, professional was too friendly a term—Cormac treated me like a scammer who’d ensnared him with snake oil. The tightness in my chest cinched in another degree. My grand plans of making amends were even more far-fetched now than they were four years ago. Somehow, I’d managed to infuriate the man by merely breathing.

“I believe you,” Grace said, smiling up at our waiter as he sat a plate of sweet potato fries on the little table before us. “That doesn’t mean I can’t or you can’t admire from afar,” she said after we thanked the waiter and he returned to his post.

“I’m not saying I don’t…admire him,” I admitted. “Of course, I do. I mean, look at him.” I flung my arm toward the wall of glass ahead of us, motioning to Cormac as he skated across the ice like a hoard of zombies chased him. Damn, he was fast. “There was a reason I hadn’t been able to keep my hands off him that night.”

Grace snorted, popping a fry into her mouth. “I can’t believe you didn’t know who he was.”

I chewed on a fry, trying like hell to shove down the embarrassment and guilt of that night. “I made it a point not to follow hockey.” My brother and I hadn’t been on the best of terms back then—suddenly losing both our parents put a strain on us. Him, because he felt he had to become my mother and father overnight, and me because I wanted him to treat me like an adult. We’d grown so much in our relationship over the last four years—thanks to his effort and some much-needed therapy—but back then? I pretended like hockey was the dumbest sport in the world just to spite him.

“That didn’t last,” Grace said, munching on another fry.

“No, it didn’t.” Not after that night. Not after I’d found out who he was.

I’d followed his career and the NHL in general after that. Became a true fan, something my brother never stopped appreciating.

“You know,” I said, my lips turning up at the corners as I glanced at Grace. “We’re heading to Scythe after this.”

“Am I supposed to know what that is?” she asked, looking at me with raised eyebrows.

“It’s basically the Reapers’ unofficial bar,” I answered, shrugging. “London invited us.” She’d become a fast friend during my frequent trips, and since I couldn’t always force Grace onto a plane with me from New York, it was nice to have a girlfriend here. “Silas said all his players go there.”