When Aria Monroe lands her dream job as the new photographer for Los Angeles's professional hockey team, the last thing she expects is to work with the cocky, arrogant center Connor Holden who rocked her world five years ago during a one-night stand...
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I should have known better than to think I'd be able to leave the meet and greet alone.
Connor trails me as soon as I exit the locker room, falling into step beside me. Don't get me wrong, I knew this conversation would happen at some point, I just didn't imagine it'd be now, seconds after seeing him again after five years.
"Long time no see," he teases. "One would think you followed me here."
"Excuse me?" I glance up at him, thoroughly annoyed. "Why on earth would you assume that?"
"Well..." He spins around to face me, walking backward down the hall. A flirtatious grin spreads across his lips when he adds, "We hooked up and haven't seen each other for years, and suddenly you show up in Los Angeles? Did you watch me play a game on TV or something? I wouldn't blame you if you missed me and did all this to return for seconds."
It's been a long time since I've belly-gut laughed, but he somehow manages to pull one out of me. At the sound, Connor shares a full-toothed grin, and damn him for having such a nice smile. "I've lived in Los Angeles my entire life," I explain, "and I hate hockey. I've never even watched a game."
"Then how the hell did you become our photographer?"
It bothers me that he knows where to turn, all while still walking backward. I suppose he's walked these halls enough to know this place by heart. "It's a long story..." One I don't feel like getting into. The more I tell him, the more he'll get to know me, and I'm keeping this strictly professional. The less he knows, the better.
"I've got time," he replies.
"You're a professional athlete. I find that doubtful."
"For the right person, I'll make time whenever."
We stop by the doors leading outside, and I narrow my gaze on him, waving a finger between us. "This isn't going to happen," I say.
His grin grows wider. "What isn't?"
"This. Us. My contract states that I can't have a relationship with a teammate. Unlike the other photographer you supposedly fucked, I won't be as stupid. What happened before will never happen again."
He's leaning against the door in such a sexy way that it's distracting. Even when the man isn't doing anything, he's unbearably attractive. His arms are crossed over his chest, the muscles in his biceps flexing beneath a black t-shirt he's wearing, but somehow, I manage to tear my gaze away.
"We'll see," he says.
"Not we'll see. It's never going to happen again, Connor."
His gaze meets mine, and for a second, I consider lifting my lens to capture the expression on his face. I've always loved capturing raw emotion—the person someone is beneath the mask. I don't know Connor well enough to understand the mask he wears, but it's there. I'm a photographer, after all, and given my past, I've learned to pay attention to the details.
