Chapter 2

TWO

Canyon

The name flashing on the screen of my phone makes me grit my teeth.

Carly.

Nope.

Not tonight, sis.

I haven't spoken to my sister in years, and the only reason she ever calls is to ask for money.

And I'm done giving.

I send her and my niece money at Christmas, but that's the extent of it. There is way too much water under the bridge between us, and I want no part of the drama.

I stuff my phone back in my pocket and lift my beer, taking a pull as my friend and teammate Marty Nadeau nudges me. "That blonde over there has been checking you out."

"They're everywhere ," our buddy Connor Brooks stage whispers. "I mean, available ladies are freakin' everywhere." He's just turned nineteen and is playing his first season of professional hockey. Everything seems to amaze, awe, or wow him. Sometimes it's fun to watch; other times it's exhausting.

"Go get 'er, kid," I say with a grin. "We are your wingmen tonight."

Connor ambles in the direction of the blonde, and I chuckle.

"That was you not that long ago," Marty says, laughing.

I shake my head. "Nah. I was never that green. He started the season a virgin. I mean, I lost my cherry at fourteen."

"Fifteen for me," Marty says, "but we're all different. I look at my kids and wonder what their futures will look like in that regard, you know?"

"Does it freak you out?"

"A little." He looks away, his face suddenly shrouded. "Especially with Brenna and me on the outs."

"You guys start counseling?"

"Yeah." He takes a pull from his beer. "I don't know that it's helping."

"Has she said what's wrong?"

"I gotta tell you, man—I feel like she's gaslighting me sometimes. Like she twists it around and says that I'm the one that's unhappy. But I wasn't unhappy until she told me she wanted a divorce. I don't know what the hell she wants, or how to make her happy, and I'm confused."

"Reason eleventy-zillion I don't plan to get married any time soon."

"All I ever wanted was hockey and a family," Marty says thoughtfully. "Maybe that was the wrong thing to want."

"Women are trouble. Even the good ones."

"You're just a grumpy fuck who's never met a good one."

Whatever.

I'm not going to argue with him about the virtues of relationships.

Or women, for that matter.

I enjoy them—in small doses.

Small, mostly naked doses.

Beyond that, I prefer the company of men.

As we're talking, I casually scan the room, and my gaze lands on a beautiful and familiar brunette.

Now that's a woman I could take in a few small but meaningful doses.

Wait. I know her.

Saylor Bonetti.

The ex-supermodel who now owns a local art gallery.

I went to the grand opening with some of my teammates, and it had been a good time, even if art isn't really my thing.

Saylor, on the other hand, could totally be my thing.

For tonight.

Our eyes lock, and her face momentarily brightens as she gives me a little finger wave.

I lift my chin in response, wondering who she's with.

The guy looks older than her and she's way out of his league looks-wise.

That doesn't mean anything in a place like L.A., though. Women dated rich, much-older men all the time.

But for some reason it disappoints me that Saylor is one of them.

She's gorgeous and successful, so she has to have plenty of her own money.

Unless she blew it all on her gallery.

Well, either way, it's not my business.

I'm about to avert my eyes when I see her scowl.

Obviously, the date isn't going well.

Then she abruptly gets up and hurries toward the restrooms.

I should leave it well enough alone—it really isn't any of my business and I barely know her—but I can't seem to help myself. My feet propel me in the direction she's gone before I even realize what I'm doing.

Now what?

I stand in the hallway as she disappears into the ladies' room and finally just lean against the wall. In for a penny, in for a pound. Or something like that.

She's not in there long and I smile when she comes out.

"Hey, Saylor."

"Canyon. Hi." For some reason, I like hearing her say my name.

"How's the gallery?"

"Wonderful." Her eyes light up. "It's going better than I ever imagined."

"That's great. Congratulations."

"Thank you." She leans against the wall and sighs.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Don't mind me. I'm on a terrible blind date and desperately trying to figure out how to get out of it."

"Oh." A blind date? What the hell? Why does a beauty like her need to be set up on blind dates?

"A client set us up," she continues. "It's her nephew. But he's boring and self-absorbed and a bit of a misogynist. We have nothing in common and—" She abruptly cuts herself off. "Sorry. I'm sure the last thing you want to hear about is my disaster of a love life."

I chuckle. "Believe me, been there, done that. Look, if you need rescuing, I'm happy to jump in and be the jealous ex or overprotective big brother or whatever else fits the bill."

She worries her lower lip. "I really don't want to upset his aunt. She spends a fuck ton of money at the gallery."

"It's probably best not to mix business and relationships. You should be straight with her and tell her that the two of you didn't hit it off."

"I know, but I can't just invent a boyfriend that didn't exist last week so I can leave."

"No, but you can invent an ex -boyfriend." I wiggle my eyebrows lasciviously, making her laugh.

"The worst part is, I don't even have my own car. When I came out of work, I had a flat tire and didn't have time to wait for roadside assistance."

"I'll take you home," I say, throwing it out there before I can stop myself.

What's wrong with me tonight?

I'm not an overly helpful kind of guy.

Obviously, if someone falls right in front of me, I'll offer a hand, and I'm always there for my friends, but I don't owe Saylor anything.

And yet, I've just offered to drive her home.

"You don't mind?" She looks at me with so much gratitude, I can't help but smile.

"No problem at all. We just have to figure out what to do about your date."

We?!

What is this "we" bullshit?

There is no we.

This is her problem.

Except I'd somehow made it our problem.

Am I having an aneurism or something?

"I could fake an illness," she says thoughtfully.

"Why not just be straight with him?" I suggest. "Tell him you're glad you met him, but you're not really interested in going out with him again, and that you've got a ride home. Nothing more, nothing less."

She frowns but then nods. "I guess you're right. I just hate hurting anyone's feelings."

"Believe me, he'll be upset for an hour and then he'll move on with his life."

"And I could pick up the tab for dinner, so I don't seem like a jerk."

I shrug. "I mean, yeah, you could. I wouldn't, but you're probably nicer than me."

"You seem nice enough," she says.

I wobble my hand from side to side. "Eh. Sometimes. Don't get used to it, though."

She laughs again, and the soft, throaty sound makes me want to laugh with her.

What. The. Fuck.

"Okay, so I'm going to go give my credit card to our waiter and then talk to Russell. You'll wait for me?"

I nod. "Of course. Go do your thing, and I'll get my car sent around as soon as you're ready."

"Thanks, Canyon. You have no idea how much I appreciate this."

"No problem at all."

It's like aliens have taken over my brain—and my mouth—and are making me behave like some kind of Boy Scout.

I watch the sway of her ass as she heads back toward the dining room and realize I'm probably thinking with my little head instead of my big one. Maybe if we spend one night together, I'll get bored, and go back to normal.

I follow in the direction she went, watching as she hands the waiter her card and then makes her way back to the table. Russell's face changes as she speaks, and then his shoulders sag. So much so, I almost feel sorry for the guy.

Almost.

He should have known someone like Saylor would be out of his league.

I don't like to shit on my fellow brethren, because we all do the best we can when it comes to dating, but from what Saylor has told me, he doesn't do himself any favors with his personality. He had a chance with one of the most beautiful women in the world and blew it—that's on him.

No one can fault me for stepping in and taking my shot.

I never claimed to be a good guy, and I tend to go after the things I want.

And right now, what I want is Saylor.

Just one night.

Maybe two.

I could buy her dinner, maybe take her for a walk on the beach.

I don't believe in love, but romance is okay.

Again, in small doses.

She looks up and catches my eye, hers practically pleading with me to come to her rescue.

Ah, shit.

How did I go from not getting involved to being totally involved?

"Where are you going?" Marty asks, following my gaze.

"Uh, it's a long story."

"That's Chey's friend Saylor, right?" He and his wife had been at her gallery's opening as well.

"Yeah… and I kind of offered her a ride home."

"You kind of offered her a ride home?" he asks, quirking up one brow.

"She's on a bad blind date, and the words just kind of popped out. I have to go."

I don't wait for him to respond—and more than likely give me shit—as I head in her direction.

"You ready to go?" I ask.

"Yes. Thank you." She quickly gets up, giving her date an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, Russell. Take care. And please give my regards to your aunt." She practically snatches her card from the waiter, scribbles her signature on the check, and then slides her arm through mine.

I catch Marty's look of surprise, but I don't have time to worry about that.

I just want to get Saylor into my Ferrari and spend a little time with her.

I'll worry about why later.