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 can't remember the last time I was this nervous.
Was it right before my first championship, when I knew I had to prove myself to the entire world to live up to my father's legacy? Was it before my first kiss with Tawny Daniels in the fifth grade?
No. Neither of those events had my palms sweating this profusely or my heart racing in my fucking chest like a damn hummingbird. This isn't even a date to Aria. She agreed out of convenience so that the boys and I would help her move, so why am I acting like I'm back in high school all over again?
Because you want this to be a date.
Of course, I want this to be a date. I've never wanted something more in my entire twenty-two years of existence. Aria Monroe is back in my grasp—a woman I thought I'd never get the privilege of seeing again, and now that she's in my life once more? Nothing is going to keep me away from her. Certainly not sweaty palms and a racing heart.
Releasing a massive sigh to settle my nerves, I go to open up the driver's side door until suddenly, Aria skips towards me down the driveway, opening up the passenger side of my Mercedes Benz before I have the time to open the door up for her. "You would bring the fanciest car you own," she drawls, sliding into the leather seat beside me.
She's not going to be pleased when she sees the Bugatti in my garage. A gift courtesy of my brother last year.
I try to say something, anything, but words die in my throat from the way she looks tonight. Her black, straightened hair is piled up into a bun on top of her head with two pieces down to frame her face. It reminds me of that night we went out in Arizona. The night her little outfit nearly pushed me over the fucking edge of no return.
Dressed in tight jeans and a chunky sweater, she looks comfy and cozy and absolutely perfect for the date I have planned for us, but I can't manage to tell her that. I'm stuck on the way her skin, velvety smooth and brown resembling the richest soil of the earth—the kind that can only grow the most exotic of flowers, glistens beneath the streetlights.
Aria is exquisite. She's the lightning strike before the rain, encompassing all the power and electricity before the sky opens and comes apart. In any room she enters, she captures the attention of everyone.
"You were supposed to let me open the door for you." It's the only thing I can think of to say because Aria is the type of woman who deserves to have every door she comes across opened for her. She shouldn't have to lift a finger.
"If this was a date," she corrects. "However, this is merely a hang-out session between two coworkers."
A laugh bursts out of me uncontrollably, and all those nerves I felt only minutes ago vanish instantly. For whatever reason, this woman has the ability to make me feel comfortable no matter the circumstance. Maybe that's why I reply, "Do coworkers stick their fingers knuckle deep into other coworkers?"
