Total pages in book: 13
Estimated words: 12091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 60(@200wpm)___ 48(@250wpm)___ 40(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 12091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 60(@200wpm)___ 48(@250wpm)___ 40(@300wpm)
“Are you an actor?” I inquire.
He huffs out a laugh. “Hell no.”
“A musician?” I wrack my brain trying to think of a thirty-something singer or drummer who is that drop dead gorgeous.
“What is this, twenty questions?” His tone is full of sarcasm now.
I hitch a shoulder even though he can’t see me. “I figure we have the time.”
I hear him shift, and now his voice is carrying from the floor. “I’m a goalie.”
I consider sitting as well, but I’m in my expensive tux, and the electricity is going to come back on any minute, I’m sure of it. And then not only will I be sweaty, but dirty too.
“A goalie…soccer then? Or football if you’re any other country.”
He laughs and I can feel my face flame. Not good. It’s clammy enough in here.
“What’s funny?”
“Sorry.” He clears his throat. “I guess it’s sort of refreshing that you don’t know.”
“I don’t know sports if that’s what you mean. They bore me, unless I’m checking out the pants.”
He sounds amused when he asks, “The pants?”
I really need a kill switch on my brain’s path to my mouth.
“You know—baseball pants—or football pants. And well, for soccer it would be shorts and who cares about those when you’ve got muscular legs to focus on.”
“Wow, I had no idea there was a whole fan base for sports pants.”
“Gay, remember?” I quip, then decide it’s time to get back to the subject at hand. “So, if not soccer then…what?”
“You ever hear of hockey?” he muses.
“Yeah, of course,” I scoff. “It’s very Canadian.”
He laughs again and I find I like the sound of it. It buzzes over my skin and fills my stomach with warmth.
“I play for Colorado.”
“Oh.”
My legs are getting tired so I sink to a squat, knowing my knees will be next. Jace might just have to forgive me if I end up sitting on gum…or worse.
“Even Vegas has a team.”
“I didn’t realize, but I’m not from around here…”
“Is anyone actually from Vegas, though?” he asks with a chuckle. “Where are you from?”
“Seattle,” I reply absently because I’m too busy loosening my bowtie and unbuttoning my shirt. It’s getting hot in here, and not because of the company. Obviously, the air conditioning is no longer piping through the vents.
“Seattle has a popular hockey team.”
“What is it?” I stand again to remove my coat.
“Begins with a K…?”
“Now who’s playing twenty questions?”
He chuckles.
“Stop laughing at me. If we had Wi-Fi, I’d look it up on my phone.”
“Sorry, it’s just that I’ve been around so many rabid hockey fans lately, I forget that ordinary people are just living their lives and don’t really give a rat’s ass about my sport.”
“If you have rabid fans, you must be pretty popular, which makes sense because you’re—” I slap a hand over my mouth.
“I’m what?”
“Oh, um…I’m gonna guess you’re a really good goalie and all that.”
“Uh-huh, I am. Not shy about admitting it either. I’ve trained for years to get to this level.”
“I’m sure.” I would love to be able to see him right now, to see that spark that would undoubtedly be in his eyes. I feel that same flicker when I’m filming for my audience.
“So, famous goalie, what’s your name so I can stalk you online when all this is over?”
The throaty, sexy laugh again. “Caleb Burnside.”
“Cool name. I’m Graham. Graham Adler.”
2
CALEB
Graham Adler.
No way.
Oh, the fucking irony. He doesn’t have a clue who I am, but I sure as fuck know who he is. I take a chance and switch on my flashlight under the pretense of looking for one of those elevator phones. I shine it near the door and spot the small compartment with a picture of a phone on it, and just as quickly move the beam of light over his face once again. He squints, but sure enough, I recognize those kind hazel eyes.
“Shit, sorry,” I say and lower the light. I leave it on, though, and place my cell on the ground, letting it illuminate the small space. “I wanted to see if there was one of those emergency phones.” I nod toward the panel near the door.
“Oh my God, you’re a genius,” he says and the expression on his face, that sweet excitement in his tone, I’m surprised I didn’t realize who he was as soon as he spoke in the first place.
Graham Adler is my secret addiction.
He flings open the small metal hatch, only to find it empty. Groaning, his face falls into his hands, sending a damp tumble of golden blond waves over his forehead. Sweat beads along my own hairline as I watch him sink to the floor, designer tux be damned.
“We’re so fucked.” He tugs at his open collar, popping another button. My eyes track his hand like it’s a puck flying toward the net.
Those familiar, capable hands.
I clear my throat. “It could be worse, at least the building isn’t on fire.” He shoots a weary glance in my direction, and I laugh. “I mean…”