But despite the nightmare craft pepper clinging to my shoes, the dimly lit atmosphere is filled with peppy music and brimming with boisterous laughter. Not to mention, some suits in here are catching my eye. This might be entertaining after all.
“Over here,” Blakely says as she moves us toward the back of the bar, past the drinks and appetizers being passed around, and through a throng of people. “I’m hoping some high-top tables back here are free that we can sit at.”
She weaves us through the crowd and around a corner to a much larger room where high-top tables with stools are scattered throughout the space, and the noise is a few octaves lower.
“Ooo, I see a table. Go grab us some drinks, and I’ll claim squatter’s rights.”
The bar is crowded, so I’m not surprised when I receive an elbow to the ribs and a bump to the shoulder on my way to get our drinks.
When I reach the bar, I lean on the slick black top and observe the liquor choices, debating what I should go with just as a female bartender steps up in front of me. “Killer dress,” she says.
“Aw, thank you.” I glance down at said dress and then back up at her. “It’s rolling up my thighs like that’s what it was made to do. Could not be more annoying.”
She winks at me. “My guess is, that dress will do you some favors. What can I get you, hon?”
Little does she know, I have zero interest in getting involved with anyone tonight. Maybe a little flirting, since there are some options here, but nothing serious.
“Uh, my friend always orders a Malibu Bay Breeze with a cherry, so I’ll get that for her, and I’ll have a gimlet with two lime wedges.”
“Coming right up,” the bartender says. She moves around, grabbing clean cups and plucking the correct liquor bottles while eyeing her pours. I’d never be able to bartend, trying to remember the intricacies of every drink ever mentioned while keeping the intoxicated patrons happy. Way too much for me.
“Gimlet, huh? Never would have pegged you as a gin drinker,” a husky, deep voice says, coming up to my side.
I know that voice.
I think almost everyone in Vancouver knows that voice.
Turning to my right, I come face to face with Eli Hornsby, the best defenseman in the game of hockey who just happens to play for the team I work for, the Agitators. But more importantly, he’s Mr. Prince Charming, the sexiest hockey player in the league, and the . . . horniest. He’s easily the most attractive player on the ice, a flirt, and the object of every hockey fan’s affection—even the men. He’s menacing with a stick in his hand but will captivate you with his charismatic smile—a smile that still contains all of his teeth. And of course, one of my brother’s best friends.
“Hornsby, wh-what are you doing here?” I ask, a hitch in my voice, because not a moment goes by when I’m not intimidated by this man and how insanely hot he is.
Also, I’m a little shocked to see him here. A singles bar on Valentine’s Day doesn’t really seem on brand for him. Then again, he is the biggest player on the team, so he might be out and about on his night off, trolling for someone to hook up with.
Now that seems on brand.
“Oh, you know, just celebrating the day I was born.” He leans against the bar and takes a sip of the beer in his hand. Casual, in control, and I’m sure aware of how good he looks in his navy three-piece suit.
I don’t know anyone, and I mean ANYONE, who wears a suit better than Eli Hornsby.
I’ve posted a few slow-motion videos of him walking into the arena, highlighting him as the best dressed on the team. His signature cigarette pants paired with no socks and dress shoes is what grabs everyone’s attention, not to mention the way he fills out his suit jacket, his biceps tugging on the fabric when he brings his to-go cup of coffee to his lips.
He’s a thirst trap I have no problem posting.
But now that said thirst trap is standing in front of me, staring into my eyes, I feel my nerves spike with the urge to either pet his chest or run to the toilet to throw up. Two very opposite reactions, but two very accurate ones.
As casually as possible, I place my hand on the bar and attempt to lean into the wood, mirroring his relaxed position. But where he is the quintessential poster child for how to act appropriately in social settings, I am praying to Cupid himself my dress doesn’t curl up like an old-fashioned window blind and slap me in the face while simultaneously flashing my underwear to the hot hockey player.
Oh God . . . what underwear did I put on today? Why can’t I remember such an imperative detail?