4. Sold

FOUR

SOLD

KRIS

S old for fifty thousand? While my ego takes the stroking for earning the highest bid of the night, my eyes do a quick double take at the woman who won from a table near the back of the ballroom. I can’t quite make her out. Most of the guests appear to be older, although I’m not opposed to taking a good-looking cougar out for a night on the town.

I follow the other men over to the side where a table has been set up and the organizers are seated behind it. Other women approach one by one to pay and to meet their bachelor. But I’m left for last, and after a few agonizing minutes, no one has claimed me yet.

Uneasy on my feet, I shift from side to side, nervous for some reason, although I smile and act cool. I’ve always been confident in taking the lead in my relationships, pursuing the woman I want with ease. This waiting is like being the sad, last kid on the playground to get picked for the team.

That is, until at long last a woman approaches. She’s younger than most here, and…takes my breath away. As if she stalls time itself, her image moves in slow motion toward me and blurs out the entire event from my vision.

She carries a numbered paddle and the number ten doesn’t escape my attention. I’m a ten. Number ten is my jersey number, always has been, and thank fuck Portland had it available for me to wear.

She’s a solid ten too, even a twelve going off first impressions. There’s only me and her, no one else matters. She tosses her silky brunette hair over one shoulder, and plump lips curve into a soft smile. When she nears, her green eyes stand out like emeralds. I stand ready to welcome her, my arms opening wide to congratulate her winning bid, thinking I might be the real winner tonight. Only to watch her side step me and lean over the table to have words with the coordinators.

I drop my arms as some discussion ensues between her and the woman in charge. Don’t even tell me she doesn’t have the money? Hell, I’d pay it for her, just for one night to find out more about her. I eavesdrop on bits of her conversation, hoping for her name for starters, so I know the name I’ll moan as I come so deep inside of her pussy someday…soon.

“The account is in my name, Bailey Scott.”

“Oh, Ms. Scott, I thought that was you…”

My eyebrows crease at her name…so familiar.

“Oh, and can I get the final total of donations received tonight, for my article about the event appearing in the Daily Post next week?” She concludes her business with the woman in charge, and I fumble for the right opening line when my brain suddenly rewinds to exactly how I know that name.

Bailey? “Bailey Scott?” I speak it with such sudden disdain and with a scowl to match that she winces. What the actual fuck is she doing here? After what happened in L.A., I hoped never to hear another thing from her again. Now she shows up and plunks down fifty thousand to win me like it’s nothing?

What the hell kind of initiation to the team is this? I have a mind to call the coach and tell him this isn’t funny anymore. I’d take a good old-fashioned prank over this crap any day, like hide my equipment in the drop ceiling of the locker room. Or put clear tape on my blades before I hit the ice. Hell, even hide a glass of water under my helmet, so when I go to grab it off my locker shelf, the liquid dumps all over.

Just don’t put this woman in front of me or anywhere near me.

Although if I’d known what a beauty she was back in L.A., if I’d met her in person, I might have thought twice about having my agent beg his connections at the Buzz to have her fired over the crap she printed about me.

She rushes out the nearest door and I stomp out after her, because I have to know what she thinks she’s doing. She dares to bid on me? Okay, maybe I don’t have control over who she decides to bid on, but if she thinks we’re going on a date, she can forget about that.

When we reach the coat closet to claim our things, we both put our claim tickets on the counter at the same time and wait for the hotel staff to approach.

“What’s going on, Bailey? ” I peer down my nose at her.

“So you know who I am?” She speaks low and stares straight ahead.

“I do. Which is why I deserve a full explanation for this. You just happen to be in Portland? Happen to be at this bachelor auction, and have thousands to blow on me for a date? I’m just supposed to believe it’s all serendipity you being here, for this particular event?”

The attendant picks up our coat tags. Bailey turns my way, covering her chest with her arms, green eyes flaming, “Do you really think that I have nothing better to do than to search you out and come right here to ruin your life once again? Get real. It’s not always about you. I came here to support a good cause. You weren’t even on the program to begin with.”

She’s right. I was a last-minute substitution, but I could still hate this woman right now with a passion. Love her snarky attitude, though. And her damn pouty lips, puckered to perfection. My mind catalogs every detail, including her creamy, clear skin with a smattering of cute, barely there freckles across her nose. This would be so much easier if she wasn’t a beauty. “Well, if you think we’re going on a Valentine’s date?—”

“Humph. Seriously? I’d rather have my hairs plucked out one by one with a tweezers. I bid to put that money to a good cause, not to have a date. So you’re off the hook. Besides, I already have plans.” The attendant hands her a cream wool coat and a light blue scarf. I yank it away from him and hold it up. She arches a brow, hesitating to put her arms in.

“What? I can be mad at you, but still be a gentleman. Believe it or not, sweetheart, I’m not that much of a douche, despite everything you wrote about me back in L.A.”

Right then, Mrs. Frasier and another woman round the corner from the lobby, making a tight fit with all of us in the coat closet.

“Hello, ladies.” I greet them with all the usual charm I can muster, while Bailey leans her arms into the coat I’m holding for her and steps a foot away from me to button up.

“Hello Kris, and what a wonderful surprise to see you here tonight,” Mrs. Frasier starts in. I enjoyed having dinner with her and her husband and hopefully made a good enough impression on the owner of the Glaciers to help solidify my position on the team. “I’d hoped to win you for a date with my daughter, but it wasn’t meant to be.” She side-eyes Bailey, who excuses herself and leaves.

“Speaking of a date, I’d better run after mine. After all, she paid a hefty price for me.” I grin, then leave them and run out the door. I catch up to Bailey at the valet stand where she plunks down her car claim ticket. “Wait up.”

“What do you want?” Her fingers fidget with her collar, putting it upright against a chilly breeze. This is nothing compared to Denver, though. I didn’t even bother with a jacket tonight, but I always run hot.

“I told you, I need an explanation. Why did you fork out good money to win me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I only made a donation because it’s a good cause. You were just an afterthought.” Ouch. Killing me with her words, like always. Out here, the evening lights of the parking lot highlight the sheen of her locks. Her rosy cheeks beg for a pair of my hands to warm them, but I resist, shoving them into my suit pants’ pockets instead. “I should be the one asking what you’re doing in Portland.”

“I got traded. Happens sometimes in my profession. Although you should know, working for the news. It’s been all over the sports programs this week.”

“There you go again, thinking I keep tabs on you. I don’t follow sports unless I have to for an article.” I watch every word coming from her lips, mesmerized by the gorgeous pair.

“Good. Then perhaps you learned a valuable lesson in L.A. and will stay out of my business here.”

“Far, far away. Now, excuse me, but I have a date to meet up with.” Her car arrives, a red late model mid-size SUV, and the valet holds the door open for her. I watch her disappear down the road while I wait for my car at the valet stand.

She has a date. I try to picture the guy who holds her attention tonight. Probably some straight-laced geek with a huge—vocabulary. If she wanted a big dick, she’d have better luck with me.

I stew about it once I arrive home, and ditch the suit, replacing it with gray sweats and a Denver Aspens jersey. I pace the floor with my stick in hand, and practice little puck drills. It’s what I do when I’m anxious or when I need to think. Damn, I could also use a shot of something stronger than a beer.

Seeing how I haven’t had time to stock up my home liquor shelf yet, within a minute I’m out the door and in my luxury sports coupe. GPS points me to the nearest liquor store. I had a great time with the tunes blasting all the way driving here from Colorado, testing the speed limits in this baby on the open road. And I wonder if Portland is ever going to grow on me like Denver did.

At the store, I walk in, and about five guys glare at me, their eyes sliding down to the Aspens mascot on my jersey. I feel like shouting, “Yep, it is I. Your new Center for the Glaciers. Don’t worry, gents, as your humble servant, I’ll do everything in my power to bring home the cup.” But I don’t need to be that cocky. I’ll show everyone on the ice what I can do for the team.

Instead, I head to the aisle with the bourbon and?—

What? There’s Bailey, only now she’s in a pair of leggings and a giant blue fuzzy jacket that covers her nice body too much. Her hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and she’s wearing glasses, too. The casual sight of her like this stops my heart for some reason.

How big is Portland? Am I going to run into her everywhere I go? Not that I mind seeing her, but the minute her eyes land on me, they’re ready to fight. Those lips of hers pucker, and her fists land on her hips, accusatory.

Before she says a word, my hands shoot up in the air. “Hey, I swear I’m not following you. This was the closest store to my building, Centennial Towers, just down the street.” I give her a wide berth as I skirt around her, then I squint. “Wait, aren’t you supposed to be on a date?”

She groans and drops her shoulders. “I, um… No date.” She sulks to the counter with a bottle of rum and a liter of cola in the crook of one arm, and grabs a jug of Bailey’s Irish Cream on the way.

She lied about having a date? My feet follow her and go against every warning I give them to stay put. Don’t get involved, and don’t fall for the pretty woman with the ability to string words together that will break you.

I snag a bottle of Macalan, and rush up right beside her, tossing a cash at the cashier to pay for her booze and mine. “Ring it all up together.”

“What the—You don’t have to do that,” she protests loudly.

“I think you spent enough money tonight, don’t you?” I nod at the cashier to go ahead.

She scoffs, and fumbles, pulling her bank card and ID out of her wallet, but the cashier rings her out and counts the change back to me with a couldn’t-give-a-fuck shrug. Before she can put away her cards, I glance at her address and it’s familiar. My building.

Seconds later, I’m following her again out the door.

She stops in front of her car, sighs, and turns to face me. “What do want, Kris?”

“Just wondering if you’re going to invite me for a drink. You have plenty.”

“Hm. Hard decision. No.” She struts to her car, and I hold back a smile. Not only because she has a nice ass, but I do enjoy a woman who is hard to get—not that I’m trying to get her. A conversation would be good. Just to put the past behind us.

“We should talk about things, don’t you think?”

She stops at her car door, a pained expression crossing her face. “Yeah. Maybe we should. But I can’t do this tonight.”

I call after her as she gets in. “We live in the same building. I noticed your address on your license. Guess you better get used to seeing me around.”

She slams her door closed and peels out of the lot. I let her go again since I figure it’s only a matter of time before our paths cross.

I drive around a little while, exploring the neighborhood around my building, finding the nearest grocery store and gas station. When I return, I find her car in our parking garage, and park mine next to hers. She’s still sitting there in her driver’s seat—and taking a sip from a bottle. The underground lighting overhead reflects off her cheek, wet like she’s been crying.

Once she sees me, though, she quickly puts the bottle away, then swipes her face with the sleeves of her sweatshirt. Her head lolls back onto the headrest, eyes closed, like she is either incredibly embarrassed and praying I don’t notice her binge-drinking-crying, or she’s passed out. Judging by her height and weight, she could be a light drinker.

This whole evening makes no sense, and I shouldn’t get involved anymore than I have. With nothing and no one else stopping me, common sense is nowhere to be found. I get out and jog over to the passenger side of her car, open the door, and settle myself into the seat.

“Oh, God. Seriously?” She glares at me, tears gone. “I could call the police, you know.”

“For what?”

“For—Invasion of privacy. Harassment. Stalking.”

“Psh. All I am is a concerned citizen seeing a woman crying alone in a car with an open container, and drinking with keys in her hand. I’m doing the public a favor keeping you safe in case you think drinking and driving is a good idea.”

I yank the keys from her and stuff them in her purse in the center console. Then I take the bottle, noticing it’s down about a third. I help myself to a healthy swig. The burn of cheap rum is good, and a great reminder that despite her female scent acting like an aphrodisiac to my groin in this confined space, I shouldn’t pursue this further. “Ah, not bad for cheap stuff.”

“Didn’t realize I’d be having company, otherwise I’d have splurged on a better brand.” Can’t miss the sarcasm in her tone, which I like way too much.

“Sweetheart, when you need to forget something, any alcohol will do. So what—or who—are you trying to leave behind?” I offer her the bottle back and she takes it, bringing it to her lips once again. My eyes go right there to her lips wrapped tightly around the opening, then to her neck on display as her head tilts back, and her eyelids half closed, looking up at the ceiling of the car, gulping down the liquid. My cock is raging for her to be on her knees in front of me like that. Only her lips would spread wider, given my girth.

“Who says there is anyone but you I’m trying to forget? I haven’t thought about you in ages, but now you burst back into my life like this?” She shakes her head.

“I’m happy to leave you alone just as soon as we talk things out.”

“Somehow I doubt you would, Heartbreaker.” She smirks and gets out of the car, but leans back in to grab the three bottles in the brown bag and her purse. I follow but remain about two yards behind her, watching her fine ass walk to the elevator.

She’s right. I’m invested now. Too bad the woman who tormented me in the news years ago turned out to be a beautiful woman I’d like to fuck.