Wheeler (Seattle Sharks 8)

He hung the shirt on the rack, glancing over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised.

“All you’re missing is the crown.” I crossed my arms over my chest, like some protective instinct deep within me was angry at my being so vulnerable with my honesty.

“Royalty?” He turned, slowly, his slacks hanging on his hips half unbuttoned. He’d had no qualms stripping down to his sleek black boxer briefs in front of me with each new outfit—hence, me assuming the man had a confidence nothing could shake.

I nodded, hating that my pulse skyrocketed as he took another step closer to me.

“Regal. An other-worldly dark prince and all of that,” I said, my voice almost a whisper.

A smile, one I hadn’t seen before—more genuine than mischief this time—shaped his lips. “Not a king?”

I laughed. “There’s the Lukas I know.”

He shifted, placing his hands in his pants pockets. “You think you know me?”

I nodded, but my eyes screamed the truth—that he was making my head spin with everything I didn’t understand about him. With each layer I wanted to peel back and get to the heart of.

“Because of a week on the job?” he asked. “Or because of that night?” he continued before I could answer.

That night.

Five months ago.

His hands on my skin.

Under my dress.

His mouth on my body.

His intoxicating scent…everywhere.

Like now—the smell of him—it screamed long hot baths in soothing oils in the deepest of tubs.

“What night?” I tried to play the fool. It wasn’t too hard.

He flashed that wolfish grin. “You’ve forgotten already? Perhaps I am merely…good.”

“Good isn’t a bad word,” I said, breathless from his nearness, his scent. I almost felt faint. When was the last time I’d eaten?

Oh, that’s right. I skipped breakfast because I was haggling over private plane costs, and now it was well past lunch.

“I strive for better than good in all things. As you should know,” he said.

“You work hard,” I said, nodding. “I never realized how much you worked beyond hockey.”

“Most people don’t,” he said. “Though, Eric’s injury has spurred me to push a little harder.”

“You’re smart. I’ve seen your investments. Even if, God forbid, you were seriously injured, you’d have enough for a more than comfortable retirement.”

He winced at the word but shook his head. “Not the money I’m concerned with.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t want to lose my citizenship.”

The thought had never occurred to me, and something sour twisted in my stomach. Beyond his accent and his slip in our phrases, he seemed to belong here.

A Shark. Always.

“Would you miss me?” he asked, turning back to the rack and slipping out of his slacks. My eyes bulged for the hundredth time that day, the sight of him never losing its shock factor. Those sculpted muscles. The long, lean look of him that gave him this elegant fluidness that flourished with his signature confident gait.

Damn, the man was gorgeous.

He hurried into some athletic pants and laughed before I could answer. “No, you wouldn’t,” he said. “Especially if you have already forgotten about that night.”

I glared at the sensual way his eyes met mine, the playfulness there—a tiger toying with his prey.

“I’m too hungry to remember my own phone number, let alone a party months ago.” I ran my fingers through my curls, groaning. “Can we eat before we have another fashion show? I’m likely to devour the next thing I see if you keep me starved much longer.”

His eyes flickered, those lips twitching.

My mouth dropped, and I pointed at him. “Don’t even think about saying what you were just thinking.”

He laughed, the sound full and hearty as he came to me and slipped one bare arm around my shoulders. He muttered some words in Swedish, leading me from the room.

I didn’t notice how right his guidance felt, or how warm his body was next to mine.

“I said don’t say it.” I slipped out from under his arm once we returned to the kitchen, heading for the drawer that held all his favorite takeout menus. I drew one at random, my phone already in hand. He eyed me as I dialed, ordered enough food for four people instead of two, and then pocketed my phone.

“You don’t speak Swedish,” he said.

“I don’t,” I said, dropping the menu back in the drawer and closing it. I was trying to learn as much as I could, though. “But I’m learning how to speak Lukas at a rapid pace.”

He almost looked scared by that statement.

I crossed the kitchen, pulling down plates and glasses to prepare for our meal. “How many more boxes do we have?” I asked without looking at him.

“Two,” he said, his voice soft.

“Yes, I’ll definitely need food.”

“It must be torture,” he said as I set everything on the island and sat on a barstool, prepared to wait for the food to be delivered.

I chuckled as he leaned his elbows on the island.

“Positively boring,” I said, trailing my gaze over the sculpted muscles of his bare chest.

He didn’t look like he believed me for one second.

“You might want to put a shirt on,” I said.

“Are you uncomfortable?” he asked, standing straight and glancing down at his bare torso. “I thought you wanted me without my clothes on,” he continued. “Or was that only because I’d been wearing a mask.”

Heat flared on my cheeks, and I swallowed hard. I shifted on the barstool, never losing his eyes. He was back to flirting, to taunting, trying to get a rise out of me. But I’d seen him moments ago, the man beneath the persona, beneath the charm and confidence, and I wouldn’t forget it. So instead of telling him how much I had wanted him…that night…I said, “You should put a shirt on before the delivery person takes one look at you and falls under your spell.”

He laughed and headed out of the kitchen, toward the hall that would lead to his bedroom.

And just because I could, I called, “The light blue.”

He paused and glanced over his shoulder.

“That was my favorite,” I said, answering his question from before. “It brings out your eyes.”

Something flashed across his features—appreciation or surprise or concern? I wasn’t sure, but it was gone as quick as it came. He gave me a deep bow, mocking my royalty comments from before, and disappeared down the hall.

&nb

sp; Chapter 5

Lukas

The boards raced by in my periphery as I flew down the ice, the puck dancing along the edge of my stick as I faked out a forward and a defenseman. Picking up speed, I faced McPherson, the lone barrier between me and the net.

He came at me, and I assessed his speed and the shifts in his stride as he came closer. Waiting until the last possible second, I shot the puck between his skates and twisted my body around his. While he stumbled to regain his footing, I caught up to the puck, soaring toward Davis in goal.

Bentley’s stick reached toward mine as he nearly caught me, but I fired off my backhand, and the puck sailed just over Davis’s right shoulder and hit the back of the net.

Supreme satisfaction coursed through me as Davis cursed.

“Damn, you’re getting faster,” Gage commented, his chest heaving as we called the pickup game.

I ripped off my helmet, letting the chill of the rink cool my heated skin as sweat dripped from my hairline. “Or you’re getting slower,” I teased.

“Fuck you,” he laughed. “But seriously, I think it’s both.”

It was Gage’s last season. We all knew it. He was content with his choice, and I respected him for honoring the limitations of his body and time. I was going to miss his leadership, which meant I had to learn as much as I could from him in the next year.

“You’re definitely slower,” Rory called out, which earned him a middle finger from Gage.

We made our way into the locker room as the Zamboni drove onto the ice, the routine familiar for those of us who hung around Seattle in our offseason. There were no official practices, but we had weekly ice reserved for pickup games and daily ice for those of us who “happened” to stop by the rink to hone our skills. I didn’t need the daily ice anymore, not with the rink I’d built at the house, but the pickup games were something I looked forward to every week.

“That’s an insane leap of faith, if you ask me,” Gentry commented, earning my attention.