Chapter 1

Chapter

One

brOOKLYNN

I know I should absolutely not be doing this, and yet it's exactly what I'm doing.

This .

I've tried to stay away from the neighbors. They're all superhot and really nice, but I'm of the mindset that you don't shit where you eat. So, the fact that I'm super lusty for Forrest is a bit of a problem.

My former roommates had no issues with it, though. It worked out well for them when they dated and fell in love with the guys across the street, but nothing like that ever works out for me, so it's best if I keep admiring from afar.

As I stand at the front window in my living room, watching Forrest as he walks from his house to his car, I inwardly swoon. He's wearing athletic shorts and a skintight T-shirt. He looks absolutely amazing in every way possible. The only way he could look better would be if he had a little sweat covering his body… if he were naked… and if he were on top of me.

God .

He's sexy as shit.

He stops at the driver's door and turns his head, his eyes slowly lifting to meet mine. He knows I'm watching him, or maybe he's hoping I am. I'm not sure. But at the same time, I stare. Because he's so damn beautiful.

Then he smirks.

He must see me.

I almost lift my hand to wave but decide against it, so instead, I just stare—and I stare hard. But then he breaks eye contact first, opens his car door, and slips inside. All contact is lost, even though I don't want it to be. I continue to watch him as he starts the car, revs the engine, and then zoom … he's gone.

Shaking my head a few times, I turn away from the window, then gather my purse and keys and leave as well. Since I'm a complete creeper, I know he's going to go and work out. Meanwhile, I am heading to work. I need to forget he exists. He's my neighbor and my friend.

Nothing more, nothing less, no matter how he looks at me.

No matter how badly I want him to touch me. No matter how much I crave his taste. We are nothing more than friends because I don't shit where I eat. And that's that.

Except… why do I want him to break through my front door and slam his mouth against mine in a hard kiss? Why do I want him to carry me out of my salon midafternoon, take me home, and fuck me against the wall, An Officer and a Gentleman style?

Why do I have to press my thighs together when he's anywhere near me?

Why? Why? Why?

Gripping my steering wheel as I drive, I hear it crackle beneath my grasp. I inhale a deep breath and hold it for a moment, then let it out slowly.

I need to chill.

I need to focus on work.

I have a full day of clients ahead of me, and the last thing they need is for their stylist to be daydreaming about some guy she's never going to get with because I am never going to get with Forrest Westwood, even though he's hot as all hell.

I pull into my parking spot and shift my car into Park before I turn off the engine and grab my purse. Pushing the door open, I hitch my bag over my shoulder and move toward the back entrance of the salon.

The other girls are already here. They always are. I can't seem to make myself schedule my first appointments until eleven in the morning, which is dumb because I end up working late every single night.

But I like to stay up late and sleep in. It's a bad habit that I've gotten into, and since I'm self-employed, I've been able to facilitate my bad habits and still make money. It's stupid. I really should be keeping decent hours. But I have a few clients who like to come in after work, so it's a win-win.

"She appears," June calls out.

Rolling my eyes to the ceiling, I let out a huff of air before I move straight for my station and begin setting my things up for the day. Thankfully, June doesn't say anything else. I love her, I really do, but she's one to talk. She was late for three of her clients last week, and I didn't say shit. Not even in teasing.

Once I have my purse stowed away in the bottom cabinet, I take my apron off the hook on the wall and put it on, running my fingers down the supple leather. The full leather apron was a gift from my mother for graduating cosmetology school. She wanted to make sure I had something luxurious. It's as soft as butter, and I absolutely love it.

"Coffee?" a voice calls out.

I turn my head and look over to find Grace standing just a few feet away. She's got her phone in her hand, ready to take our orders. I really shouldn't have one, especially since I just woke up only an hour ago. But I've never turned down a coffee in my life, and I'm not about to start now.

"I'll take one," I blurt out.

I'm literally unable to control myself when it comes to iced coffee. I can't help it. I don't know why I love it so much. I love it more than cocktails and charcuterie—which is saying a lot because I seriously love charcuterie.

Grace laughs as she types my order into her phone, then starts moving from station to station. My first client walks in, and I push all thoughts of Forrest out of my mind and shift that focus to making my clients feel beautiful.

Because that is one of my loves, too—making people feel their absolute best.

FORREST

Fuck me.

No. Not fuck me because I want to fuck Brooklynn.

I'm not sure how much longer I can live across the street from her and not be inside of her. It's been fucking excruciating watching her, being around her, trying to be her friend when all I want to do is fuck her brains out.

"Get your head out of your ass, Westwood," Coach Burns shouts from across the rink.

I ignore him, mainly because my head isn't up my ass, but I wish it were in Brooklynn's. Lev glides up beside me, his face full of concern. "What the fuck is wrong?" he demands.

Letting out a grunt, I shake my head. "Just got my head up my ass," I grunt.

He snorts, gives me a smirk, and skates off. For the rest of practice, thankfully, Coach leaves me alone. But I can tell he clearly fucking thinks that my head is up my ass. Maybe it is. Maybe I just need to get laid and relieve the pressure.

Except the only person I could possibly imagine sleeping with right now, and since the moment I laid eyes on her, is Brooklynn.

"Forrest," Alexei calls out. Turning to him, I jerk my chin. "Tavern tonight?"

He can tell I need it, and I do. "Sure."

Stripping out of my clothes, I grab my towel and head for the showers. Practice was tough today, but only because I was distracted as shit. Seeing Brooklynn watching me through the window got me all fucked up.

Once I'm clean, I make my way back to my locker and throw on some clean clothes. The Tipsy Tavern is calling my name. Maybe I can get drunk enough and distracted by something… or someone else, but I doubt it.

That woman has a goddamn choke hold on me like nothing I've ever felt before. As I head out of practice, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and glance down at the screen. My feet stop moving immediately at the name that flashes on the screen.

Sliding my thumb across to answer, I hold it to my ear. "Hello?" I greet.

"Hello, my son," my father's smooth voice murmurs into the phone.

I hate it when he calls me that—my son. Drives me up the goddamn wall. Pressing my lips together, I think about telling him to fuck off, but I'm pretty sure I know why he's calling, so I don't.

"Hey, Dad."

My dad would want me to greet him formally as Father , which is the exact reason I call him Dad… just to piss him off. It's not enough that he would actually say something to me about it, but it's enough that I know it ticks him off.

"It is time for you to give up this game you're playing and come home."

I almost, almost laugh. My father truly believes that this is just something I'm doing for fun, that hockey is just a hobby, and that the North Carolina Fury isn't my whole world. Hockey has been the only thing that has brought me joy, aside from women, since I was ten years old.

My family, sure as shit, has never brought me joy, not for a single fucking moment. And if my father thinks I'm giving up the only thing I love for a life I would abhor, he's got more than a screw loose.

"I do not think I will be doing that. But thanks for thinking of me," I state, trying to keep from telling him to fuck all the way off.

"Forrest," he growls. "Think about what you're saying. You are almost twenty-five years old. It is time you stop playing games and truly think about your future. We have indulged you in your desires, but the time is nigh."

Indulged .

They have done no such thing. I took myself to practice. I tried out for teams. I did it all, and they didn't even bother showing up for a single game. So, no, they have not indulged me in shit other than to write checks for fees and equipment.

"This is my life, Dad . I enjoy this, and I'm good at it. I am a professional player."

He snorts, then clears his throat. "You don't know what you're saying." His tone is sharp, and I'm pissing him off more and more by the minute.

I almost laugh. But instead, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I'm trying to keep my cool, but just like most parents, he knows exactly how to push my fucking buttons.

"I know who I am, Dad. And I am a professional hockey player. I won't be quitting, and I won't be going to work for you in the family business or any business."

"Forrest," he snaps, his cool completely gone now as he speaks. He's getting good and pissed off, and if I gave a shit, I would probably hang up on him right now. But since I don't, I continue to let him speak. "Your money comes with certain duties."

My entire body jerks. "What?" I whisper

I have been spending my money like water, broke at the end of every damn month because I knew I was getting my inheritance deposits starting at twenty-five. I mean, sure, I own a portion of the house I live in and my car, but that's all.

What I haven't done is invest shit because I've been buying myself clothes, watches, shoes, and just spending my money on bullshit that I don't need, thinking that I would have anything and everything I wanted in a few months. That money would never be an object.

Now he's telling me it's not going to happen.

Fuck that.

"There are terms to you getting that money, and one of the terms is that you must work for the business."

The Westwood family business has never, and will repeat, never in a million years interested me. Railroads, shipping, receiving, transporting—nothing about that world appeals to me in any way.

That world isn't cold. It doesn't smell like fresh-cut ice, sweat, and blood. There is no crowd to go absolutely fucking wild for me there. It's not for me, and I want absolutely nothing to do with it.

"Since when?" I ask. "Enlighten me." I try to be as cool as possible.

He laughs softly, but I can tell he doesn't think any of this is funny. "Work for the company and get your monthly checks. Don't work, and you won't get anything until after your mother and I are dead… maybe. And since we get regular health checks, that could be a while."

Shit.