He’s head over heels in love with his fiancée Rose so I don’t take it as a reflection of my taste. It could be a supermodel in front of us and he’d react the same. Still, I push it further like I’m known to do. I’m nothing if not consistent.
“Regardez ce cul.” My eyes linger on the perfect curve of her ass under that tight skirt. “C’est manifique.”
She’s got her head tipped down and her phone up. Clearly she’s absorbed in something on the screen. We could probably talk English and she wouldn’t even notice. But I don’t. I miss talking in French. I don’t do it nearly enough.
“Jordan est correct,” Luc tells me and chuckles. “Tu n’as pas un filtre.”
I grin and shrug at his comment that Jordan is right about me not having a filter. The line shuffles forward and I check out her ass again, only to realize she’s spun around. I immediately, and probably way too abruptly not to be noticed, snap my head up. She’s just as pretty from the front as the back. The chestnut color of her hair is mimicked by her big doe eyes. Her skin is flawless and her lips are full and pouty and glossed with the perfect cherry color.
“You’re French?” she asks, her eyes darting from me to Luc.
I glance at Luc and he looks like he’s shitting his pants. I give her a relaxed smile because I’m confident that just because she recognized the language doesn’t mean she understood the words. “Yes.”
“We’re both from Quebec, originally,” Luc explains. “We play—”
“Hockey?” she finishes for him and we both nod. “Yeah, I thought so. I mean with the arena just down the block. I figure there’s a lot of French Canadian hockey players around here.”
“Are you a fan of the Barons?” I ask. She doesn’t look like a typical hockey fan and she definitely doesn’t come across as a puck bunny, but you never know. And there’s something about her that feels like déjà vu, which is odd because even if she was a Barons’ superfan, I’ve only been a Baron for forty-eight hours. That said I’ve slept with a lot of women on previous road trips to New York. But I would remember if I saw her naked.
“I’m Alex Larue,” I extend my hand. She places hers in mine, but it’s reluctant. Her hand is warm and delicate but her handshake is firm. I cock my head to the side. “This is my teammate Luc Richard.”
Luc extends his hand and I realize she’s far less hesitant giving her hand to him. “I’m Brie.”
The line shuffles forward again and it’s her turn to order. She asks for a grande sugarfree vanilla iced latte with an extra shot, soy milk and extra ice. Most high-maintenance drink I’ve ever heard and it might be a red flag to a guy looking to date her, but that’s never been what I’ve looked for. Besides, the high-maintenance ones are usually fantastic in bed. She starts to pull out her wallet to pay but I step forward and gently place a hand on her back.
It’s meant as a friendly gesture but she swiftly steps away from it. I ignore that and address the cashier. “I’ll pay for her drink. And an Americano for me, please.”
The cashier nods. Brie looks at me, a frown fighting for control of her face. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know. But I’d like to, Brie.” I give her my best, most dazzling smile. “And if you’re interested in a hockey game I’d love to give you some tickets. I would just need your phone number.”
She smiles. It’s pretty but it’s also guarded. Very. “That’s not necessary, but thank you for the offer.”
I think I know what the problem is—she must have a boyfriend so I say, “You and your boyfriend could make it a date night.”
Her smile softens. She looks amused. “This isn’t about whether I have a boyfriend. I’m just not interested…in hockey tickets.”
She’s shooting me down. I glance at Luc who looks like he thinks it’s hysterical. The barista calls out my Americano but her drink, being the Mensa project that it is, is still being made so instead of going to grab some cream at the condiment stand, I use the extra time to hit on her again. Since I’ve already been shot down, might as well add flames to the wreckage.
“Have you lived in New York long?” I ask her.
“Since I was eight years old,” she replies.
I smile again. “You must know the city well.”
“Like the back of my hand,” she replies absently as her big brown eyes look over my shoulder at the barista.
“I’m just got here last night. I would love someone to show me around,” I tell her and that finally brings her eyes back to me. “I’m betting you’d be a perfect fit.”
I say that line casually but then realize the innuendo in it. I have a bad habit of saying stuff that can be taken the wrong way. I think it’s because English is my second language and I learned it on the street, not in a classroom. I usually don’t mind it ’cause most people just think I’m that kind of guy, which makes it easier for me to be looked at as the jokester, but at the same time, I don’t want to offend people. In this case though, I let the inadvertent innuendo stand. I can tell by the way her eyes widen that she catches it. She’s as smart as she looks.
The barista calls out her drink. We both reach for it at the same time; our fingers touch. Neither one of us pulls away. She looks me straight in the eye, shoulders back. She’s not tense, she’s just confident and it lights a fire in me in places she’s made clear she’s not interested in.
“You have your teammates like Luc here to show you around,” she reminds me coolly but then she takes a step closer and the fire inside me gets hotter. She’s a few inches away and she’s even more stunning this close. Flawless skin and thick lashes and a scent like warm vanilla. “Thank you, again, for the drink.”
She steps back, gently tugging the drink and her hand away from me and she takes a few steps toward the entrance to the Starbucks. My mind is racing as I stare at that perfect ass and try to figure out one last way to get her number. I hate losing. Luc is snickering beside me because apparently me getting shutdown is entertaining.
She stops with her hand on the glass door and turns her head back toward me so quickly that long, luxurious mane of hair flies about her head. “When is your next game?”