Page 4 of Two days, One Pucking Night
I’m not sure whether to laugh or walk away. There’s no way there’s anything of value in that thing. This guy clearly isn’t the smartest thief out there.
The guy takes a few steps back, fists still raised. The hood over his head makes it hard to get a full glimpse of his face. However, his green eyes are sharp, assessive, and defiant. This isn’t someone new to stealing.
“Ha. I know what this is. A set up …” he says.
I struggle to pick up on the last part of the sentence. His Irish accent is thick. I briefly turn to face the woman now standing beside me. One half of her face is cloaked in darkness. The other side is defined by high cheekbones and thick lashes.
She makes no effort to look my way. Her attention is solely focused on the guy before us.
The hooded guy’s eyes widen as he stares between us. Assessing his next steps.
I clench my fists and step forward.
“Whatever the fuck you two have going on, I want no part of it.” He takes tentative steps back and rushes out of the play area without even looking back.
“Are you okay?” I ask, turning to take in the spitfire beside me.
Her hair is pulled back in a slick ponytail. The ends curled outward. She turns to face me, her expression blank. A heart-shaped face, a button nose, and deep green eyes stare back at me. I inhale a sharp breath, taken aback by the smooth contour of her countenance. Her olive skin glimmered under the moonlight like she’d been dusted with powdered gold.
There is something ethereal and otherworldly about the soft lines, delicate strokes, and carefully sculpted edges of her face. Or maybe it is her curved, petite body and the way her clothes hug her like a second skin. One thing is for sure; there is nothing ethereal about how my body reacts to her.
I can’t keep my eyes off her, and I make no effort to hide that I’m seriously eye-fucking her. And as much as she tries to mask her face, I can tell she’s doing the same, taking in my statue with unmistakable interest.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I say.
A frown appears on her face, drawing attention to her cupid’s bow. My fingers itch with the urge to trace the outline of those perfectly sculpted dick-sucking lips.
“Nope, I’m not answering to anyone,” she states so quietly I would have missed it if I wasn’t paying close attention. She pulls on the suitcase behind her and strolls forward.
I stand there, lost for words. I’m used to women fawning and throwing themselves at me. Being ignored is something I’m not used to.
“A thank you will do.” I follow her steps, my eyes locked on the sway of her hips in those damn white pants.
Ms. Hot White Pants snorts. “A thank you for what?”
“For saving you?”
She continues ahead, pulling the suitcase without even glancing at me. “As you can see, I had everything under control. I’m more than capable of looking after myself.” She raises her hand in the air in a dismissive manner.
It’s been a long time since anyone has dismissed me. And something about the move unsettles and intrigues me at the same time. I’m all for a good challenge. I’ve been looking for one since I got to my home city. Ideally, something that will keep my mind occupied from the shit storm my life is about to embark on in the next three days.
Maybe, just maybe, Ms. Hot White Pants is the challenge I need. I can spare a few minutes to get her number before I get back to why I came here in the first place.
“What did you say your name was again?” I call, picking up pace and eliminating the space between us.
“I didn’t.”
“Well, you can call me—”
She stops and turns to face me with a questioning scowl. “Why are you in the kid’s area at night with a hoodie on?” Her tone is accusatory.
“Relax, I’m not a threat.” I raise my hand to pull my hood back and hope she recognizes me. I mean, who doesn’t?
“No, you aren’t.” She drops her suitcase. And with the tiny bag still clasped in her hand, she kicks me directly in the balls.
I groan, stumble, and fall to my knees, completely caught off guard. “What. The. Fuck,” I barely get the words out. Pain, as I’ve never known, shoots through me. And that says a lot since I’ve been battered and bruised in the ice rink more times than I can count. No one, not even the opposing hockey teams, has ever knocked me down as she has. “My dick.”
I’m not sure whether to be impressed or turned on. Right now, the possibility of the latter might lead me to the hospital. I finally understand what the hooded guy meant by crazy. I’ve tried my brand of women—bimbos, models, students, stalkers. Crazy isn’t a brand I’m familiar with. But my body’s reaction right now tells me crazy is just what I might be into.
