Maverick (Sin City Saints Hockey 1)

“Thanks,” I tell him softly. “Ro’s eight-year-old brother and eleven-year-old sister were all over us at her parents’ house. I’m considering drawing up a petition against Disney Channel teen sitcoms, which I’m confident every adult worldwide will sign.”

He chuckles. “You’ll be happier here. The only thing on my TV, twenty-four seven, is porn.”

“It better be hard core,” I quip. “If it’s nothing but missionary, I’m out of here.”

Maverick’s gaze locks with mine before he shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna need to take a cold shower now, thanks.”

Don’t look at his crotch, Gia. Don’t look at his crotch. Look anywhere else in this room, but not there.

“You’ll have plenty of time, because I’m going to run back to the apartment and get some of our stuff.” I force myself to look around at the room we’ve just stepped into.

Maverick’s house is open and modern. The floors are a dark, rich wood and the walls are painted a pale gray. A two-story stone fireplace is the focal point in the living room, from which I can see the kitchen, lined in white shaker cabinets and light-gray marble countertops.

“I love your house,” I say.

“Thanks. I don’t think I’ll ever fully furnish it, but I’ve got enough for me and a couple guests.”

“We really appreciate you letting us stay, Maverick,” Ro says, easing herself into a chair in the living room.

“No problem at all. You guys just make yourselves at home. Ro, your room’s through that doorway over there.” He points. “And Gia, I’m afraid you’ll have to take the room upstairs next to mine.”

“I can sleep on the couch,” I say, sitting down to try it out. “It’s super comfy. And then I’ll be close by if Ro needs anything.”

“I’m not going to need anything.” Ro waves a hand. “And you won’t be able to sleep in here during the day because of all the sunlight.”

I give her a pointed look, and she gives me one right back.

“We can work it out later,” I say, getting up. “I’m going back to our place to get our stuff.”

“Don’t forget to get the thing we talked about,” Ro says.

I shake my head. “No way. I’ll get your clothes and toothbrush and maybe your deodorant, but that’s it.”

“Gia!”

“I’ll come with you and help,” Maverick offers. “Just let me grab a shirt.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep. We can take my truck; it’ll be easier.”

I arch a brow, surprised. “You have a truck?”

He shrugs and grins. “You can take the boy out of Iowa, but you can’t take the Iowa out of the boy.”

Maverick walks upstairs to get a shirt and I approach Ro.

“Please don’t play matchmaker,” I say.

“Um, the match is already made. You just aren’t ready to admit it yet.”

“How does one pair of underwear for the next six to eight weeks sound?” I stroke my chin and narrow my eyes, pretending to be deep in thought.

She sighs heavily. “Fine. I won’t say anything else. But get my you know what and do not say a word to Maverick about it.”

“I’m not touching it,” I whisper. “No way.”

“Gia.” Her tone is pleading. “I need Bob.”

Ro claims she can’t go more than one day without her battery-operated boyfriend, but I told her retrieving that from her bedside drawer is too much to ask. I’ve never owned a vibrator, but her commitment to Bob makes me wonder if maybe I need to try one.

“I’m ready,” Maverick says, jogging down the open staircase.

“Do you need anything before we go?” I ask Ro.

She shakes her head. “Text me when you’re on the way and I’ll have food delivered for all of us.”

“You’re sure you’re good?” I ask her. “Do you want a drink?”

“Nope.” She moves her cast onto the ottoman at the end of the chair she’s sitting in. “I’ll just be sitting here watching myself get rescued until you guys get back.”

Maverick laughs and meets my gaze. “The video of her and Pike?”

“It’s almost up to a million views, and I guarantee more than 100,000 of those views are her.”

He tilts his head toward the kitchen and I follow him in there, where he opens a door and puts his hand on the small of my back, sending a shiver down my spine, as I walk through first.

“Careful, there’s a step down there,” he says.

He pushes a button on the wall and a garage door opens. The garage is immaculately clean, with almost nothing in it besides his Range Rover, a shiny black pickup truck and a motorcycle.

“Which one’s your favorite?” I ask him as I walk around to the passenger side of the truck.

“Probably the Rover.”

“I’m leaving in the morning for a road trip,” he says as he looks over his shoulder and backs out of the garage. “I’ll be back Friday. I’ve got a key and a garage door opener for you to use to get in and out.”