Winger (Seattle Sharks 3)

Warren didn’t even groan as he lifted the massive hammer over his shoulders. He stared up at the bell like it was an enemy, the competitive look flashing over his eyes that I only ever saw when he was on the ice.

In one fluid swing, he brought the hammer down on the center of the weight, the tiny metal ball flying upward only to stop a centimeter before the bell. It came crashing back down, the sound almost tragic.

The look of defeat in his eyes hit straight to my chest. Perhaps I shouldn’t have picked this game to challenge him on. I knew better than anyone how strong he was. He didn’t have to prove it.

“It’s okay,” I said, smiling. “Honestly, I was just kidding.”

He shook his head and handed the attendant another five-dollar bill.

Another swing.

Another miss.

“Warren,” I said. “I swear it’s fine. It’s rigged. You said it yourself.”

He narrowed his gaze, looking from me, to my belly, to the purple puppy, and back again. He rubbed his palms together widening his stance as he took another swing.

No bell.

I crossed my arms over my chest, glancing around at the crowd that had now gathered around us—both kid and adult alike. Warren was as stubborn as me—if that was possible—because he handed the attendant another five.

Another swing. Another miss. Another five.

“Warren,” I whispered, keeping my smile plastered for the crowd which now included a few people with their cell phones aimed at him.

“Come on, Kinley!” A kid in the crowd shouted. He wore a Sharks jersey with Warren’s number on it. “You can do it!”

My heart melted as I watched that kid grin up at Warren. I’d forgotten what it was like to go out in public with a Shark.

Warren smiled at the kid, throwing him a thumbs up.

No pressure. I swallowed hard, now invested in this way beyond a silly challenge.

Warren rolled up the sleeves of his henley, his bulging forearms knotting something in my stomach. He put more distance in his stance and bent at the knees slightly. The determination on his face was enough to make my heart flip, but watching those muscles work as he hefted that hammer one more time, made my knees tremble.

He brought the hammer down, hard and straight to the weight’s center. The bell shot up and up and up.

And it rang.

The crowd erupted into loud cheers and applause as if Warren had just shot a winning goal in a shootout.

I grinned like a school-girl, clapping, too.

The attendant gave him the purple puppy, and he handed it to me. The thing was wicked soft as I cradled it to my chest.

“See?” he asked. “I win when it matters.”

I laughed. “You could’ve bought me ten purple puppies with how much money you spent to win this.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” I asked as the kid with Warren’s jersey timidly walked up to him.

“The point is that you asked for something, and I gave it to you. Didn’t matter how hard it was or how slim my odds were…I made it happen.” He glanced from me to my tummy and back again before turning his attention to the kid.

“Mr. Kinley, will you please sign my jersey?” The kid asked, and Warren immediately fist-bumped him.

I watched as he signed his jersey, shook the kid’s father’s hand, and charmed the mother. I was awestruck, not because this beast of a man could be gentle, humble to his fans, but by his words.

He was taking this seriously. Even if he had to prove it in not-so-serious ways. Like winning an impossible purple puppy. I clutched the thing to my chest as we walked back to the car ten minutes later.

Words tangled in my throat the entire ride back to his house…my temporary home.

“Did you not have fun?” He finally broke the silence as he shut the front door.

“I did!” I answered a little too enthusiastically as we walked inside. “I really did, Warren.” I looked down at the puppy still in my arms. “I’m kind of shocked.”

“Ouch,” he said, gripping the center of his chest.

“Stop,” I said, giggling. “I meant about the date. I’m not used to dates.”

He sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Me either.”

“You wouldn’t know it,” I said. “That was really wonderful.”

“Yeah?” He asked, walking closer, stopping with only an inch between us.

He was right there.

Open. Ready. Willing.

Just like yesterday when he’d nailed me to my core—spouting that he knew me.

And from what he’d said?

He did.

The man had shown me the best time I’d had in so long, and here he was just waiting for me to take the reins. And I wanted to. So badly.

I wanted to let him in.

All the way in.

Let him take care of me, of the baby, all of it.

But that wasn’t me.

And it wasn’t him.

And we couldn’t get caught up in this fantasy.

I cracked a smirk, hoping the confident mask hid the hunger in my eyes. I wanted this man like my next meal, but I couldn’t let myself have him. Because I knew him, and the second the Shark’s season started—we would be the last thing on his mind.

“I don’t sleep with a man on the first date,” I joked.

He chuckled, glancing down at my belly.

“I would never assume,” he teased, but didn’t back up an inch.

“Here,” I said, handing him the puppy. “Sleep with this.”

He took it, grinning. “I’ll guard it with my life.”

“You do that,” I said, spinning around to head to my new room before I did something stupid like kiss him and beg him to fuck me. It had been so long, and he’d touched parts of me with that simple date that no man had ever touched before.

I wasn’t thinking straight.

“See you in the morning,” he called as I shut the door to my bedroom.

“See you!” I called back, my forehead against the door.

I locked it for good measure.

Not to keep him out, but to keep me from wandering the house in the middle of the night—a hormonal, lust-starved woman hunting for a Shark.

Chapter 6

Warren

The house smelled of fresh dough

and sugar when I returned from my late morning run. An hour on the pavement had done wonders to work off the frustration coiling my muscles like a spring.

Until I walked into my kitchen.

Jeannine was in front of the stove, sliding pancake batter onto a griddle. It sizzled on the pan, the hiss barely audible over the music blaring from the wireless speakers I had all over the house. Some female rocker voice, fierce, unyielding, and hypnotic just like the woman who danced to it.

In nothing but an oversized T-shirt.

One that stopped just below her perfect ass.

Her long, bare legs went on for miles as she walked back and forth, piling pancakes onto a glass platter.

Fuck, I wanted to stalk behind her, palm the globes of that perfect ass, kiss the seam of her neck, flick my tongue over every inch of that glorious skin.

Dripping sweat, I knew I needed to book it to the shower, but I was frozen.

Watching her.

A line pulled taut, connecting me to her, grounding me in a way I’d never felt before.

The line continued to tug with each second I spent with her—even our cheesy date had been fun. Had left me wanting more.

More of her time.

More of her laugh.

More of her.

“Smells good,” I finally announced myself before I reached creeper stalker territory.

She jumped, her bare feet smacking against the hardwood as she spun around. Quickly, she turned down the music and wielded the spatula at me like a weapon.

“Don’t do that!”

“What?” I chuckled, the wild look in her eyes shooting straight to my dick.

Fuck she was gorgeous and funny and…fuck.

“Sneak up on me!” she put her free hand over her chest, catching her breath.

Cold snaked over my skin, and I realized my mistake. I crossed the distance between us in a matter of steps. “I didn’t mean…shit, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, waving me off. “I just don’t like being snuck up on.”

“Who does?”

She laughed, returning to her pancakes. “People who pay top-dollar to see horror movies, that’s who.” She flipped over the four rounds on the griddle, their color a perfect golden brown.

“How’s the appetite?” I asked.

“Appetite is never the problem,” she said, switching off the griddle and piling the last pancakes onto the platter. “The baby wants to eat everything,” she said. “We just regret it sometimes.”