Pride Unleashed (a Wolf's Pride novel, book 2) (38 page)

Then he smiled. I felt something click inside me like the lock being opened on a safe—and the treasure inside seemed both thrilling and dangerous. His eyes were the color of a frozen lake, a deep blue-green that sparkled like the sun shining through ice. My breath caught and I bit my lip to stop the stupid grin that threatened to surface.

I swallowed and looked down at the puddle. “I’ll tell Carl about the mess. He’ll take care of it,” I said, working my eyes up to his face again, happy I hadn’t stumbled over my words.

As if my ovaries weren’t in enough of a twist, he cocked his head to the side slightly, the light catching the shades of deep red and gold in his brown hair, which was quickly drying into wild curls and waves. “If you know the cleaning crew on a first name basis, can I assume this isn’t your first collision?” He looked amused, which somehow embarrassed me more than if he’d been annoyed. He handed me back my towel, his fingers brushing against mine. I could feel his warmth and it sent goose bumps trailing up my arms.

With his skates on, he towered over me by almost a foot, his wide shoulder pads making me feel like a five-foot-two-inch shrimp in comparison. It was hard to judge his age, but he didn’t seem like a high school guy and I didn’t recognize him as a local. I held the sticky rag in my hand, not wanting to put it back in my bag. “I try to stay on my toes,” I said. He was right about the clumsiness, but I wasn’t about to admit it.

“That’s very funny. A figure skater…on your toes…I get it.” He laughed, a sound that sent an unexpected jolt to my already edgy nerves.

I glanced down at my flip flops, skating skirt and leggings, and cringed since I hadn’t really meant to be funny. But whatever it took to see him smile like that again, I wanted to do it. My face went a degree hotter and I looked at his feet. The beat up hockey skates were still splattered with a few orange drops. Like an idiot, I bent down and wiped the tops of his skates. Not knowing what else to do, I resorted to cleaning up the mess on the floor. The rag was going in the trash anyway.

“You don’t have to do that. It’s really no big deal.” He said, resting a warm hand on my shoulder. “Like you said, they have employees here that can take care of it.”

“I
am
an employee. I work here on weekends.” I stood and faced him, but my mind went blank when I looked in his eyes again. What I’d said had come out sounding stupid or arrogant or…why was my brain not working? I could usually talk to people and sound reasonably intelligent, or at least muddle my way through a normal conversation.

“Do you work the front desk?” he asked. He had a lumpy little scar on the corner of his upper lip that drew my attention to his mouth as he spoke, which totally made my brain hiccup and want to tell him every last detail of my short but sordid life.

“Huh? Oh. No. I work the snack bar…three to eleven on Friday and Saturday, sometimes Sunday mornings from six to two or a week night shift when they need me. I’m working tonight…later.”
TMI—he didn’t ask for my schedule, for God’s sake. Why was I blabbering on? I should have just said
yes
. Working the snack bar sounded lame. “I also teach some younger kids,” I said, feeling somewhat redeemed. “By the way, thanks for sticking up for Chad earlier.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. No big deal. I can’t stand bullies.”

“Me either,” I said, unable to think of anything else useful to say. An uncomfortable silence settled between us and I stared at the rubber mats on the floor.

“Well, maybe I’ll see you around,” he said.

I glanced up as a hopeful spark ignited in my heart. He smiled a lopsided smile and stepped around the residual puddle, looking back over his shoulder as he shuffled toward the locker room.

“Yeah, maybe.” I called after him, “I owe you a soda. The next one’s on me!”
Oh, God, did I actually just say that?

He laughed again and looked back one more time before disappearing into the hive of buzzing hockey players. My heart fluttered madly behind my ribs. I watched him go, wondering who he was, and wishing I had asked his name.

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