𝅘𝅥𝅮 𝄠 She Moves In Her Own Way – The Kooks
MUCH AS I expected when I made the offer, Gracie does rattle some cages once she’s instated as my PA.
I don’t know if it’s the Pole in her, the fact that she’s been raised with more testosterone than can be healthy for an impressionable girl, or that she had to deal with Kow for eighteen years solid—regardless, she gets shit done.
My bare apartment suddenly has furniture in it—within the week.
She gets me a bed and a TV, some sofas and armchairs, as well as a dining table and stools within a day of starting to work with me so I can leave my hotel room and set myself up in my new home.
By Sunday, she’s put rugs down, has flowers in vases, and there’s a housekeeper who comes in four times a week with the proviso that she’ll bring food and will prepare something to eat on the days she works.
Gracie’s to-do lists—always legendary—take up notepads.
Plural.
Just to get my apartment to her satisfaction.
Within two weeks, it’s painted in the rooms that we discussed I wanted some color, there’s carpet everywhere, the living spaces have drapes, the cinema is good to go, and I’ve got my man cave set up too. I even have an office arranged how I like it—all without an interior decorator muscling into my home with her opinions.
More than that, she is everywhere.
In my apartment, my car, my rooms, my gym, my kitchen.
To me, she’s the white noise a city slicker needs to get to sleep after he heads to the country—I haven’t felt this relaxed in months despite the fact she’s about as restful as an overdose of Adderall…
“Ready for tomorrow?”
As I spin my office chair a full 180 degrees to face the woman who’s unaware she just killed my buzz with talk of hockey, I mutter, “As I’ll ever be. I’m not looking forward to being Captain again.”
When she leans against the doorjamb, folding her arms across her chest, what she does to her tits is criminal.
Ostie, qu’elle est belle.
Those pouty lips—
“Why not? You coped with the Mounties.”
“I didn’t. Remember Poirier?”
“Yup. The goalie.”
“He managed things behind the scenes. I just wore the patch.”
She straightens. “Seriously?”
I scoff. “You really think I was in my right mind to deal with a bunch of egos when I could barely sleep two hours a night?”
“True.” Concern creeps into her expression. “How are you gonna cope here, then?”
“Million dollar question… probably gonna be a dumpster fire.”
Her lips purse. “You never did tell me why you came to the Stars.”
“I’m still not sure if you’ll believe me,” I mumble, tone sullen, “and if you do believe me, then you’ll give me shit over it.”
I don’t ask for trouble. Not where Gracie’s concerned anyway.
She’s quiet for a moment, then she moves closer to my chair and snags a hold of it to keep me in place.
I’ve had PAs in the past—they either simper or swoon or are afraid of my temper.
Gracie’s none of those things.
I’m not sure why I haven’t hired her before. My life has never been this organized, and it’s nice not having to tiptoe around her.
Not one of my previous PAs would have dared stop my chair.
Yesterday, she told me I stank after my workout and she made me get into the shower before she agreed to eat breakfast with me. Last week, she canceled a blind date Noah had set me up on before I had the chance to because there was no time for ‘me to get boned’ when we had so much to do prior to my first practice with the Stars.
Gracie’s balls, I swear, are bigger than her brothers’ combined, and fuck if it isn’t a breath of fresh air.
A twister of it, in fact.
I need that in my life.
“Why are you playing with the number 35 when you’ve always been 14 before?”
“What is this? Twenty questions?”
“Just lubing you up for this conversation,” is her pleasant retort.
Pleasant?
Walk carefully, Liam, the path ahead is treacherous.
And sexy.
Rubbing my thumb along my bottom lip to hide my smile, I murmur, “14’s been retired with the Stars.”
“How can it be retired when they didn’t exist until recently?” she scoffs. “That’s moronic that they wouldn’t let you play under your number.”
“I’m fine with it.” Put in the request myself.
Her eyes narrow with suspicion. “You’re being weird.”
“I am weird. Perks of being a pro athlete,” I inform her, knowing that will annoy her.
“Don’t get Mr. Bighead Bigshot with me,” she immediately snarks, huffing like Puff, the Magic Dragon.
“You’re the one who just said the Stars should unretire a number for me!”
“Yeah, well, I’m allowed to say that. You’re not.”
I snort. “Your logic… I swear.”
“It makes sense.”
“If you say so.”
She taps my sneaker with her Converse. “Anyway, spill.”
I squint at her—not to be difficult but to try to remember what she’s talking about.
Then it hits me.
The why of my relocation to New York when I’d helped win the Stanley Cup for Montréal six out of the ten seasons I’d been playing for them.
“It’s not important,” I dismiss.
“Sure it is. I have to confer with that crazy bitch you introduced to me yesterday—”
My lips twitch.
Kara Kingsley is a little crazy, damn good at her job, though—she’s my new publicist.
“—and if you expect me to keep you ahead of the gossip, then I need to know what the potential for gossip is.”
“Why didn’t you go into PR?”
“Does that matter?”
“I’m interested.”
“No, you’re procrastinating.”
I study her. “Those new jeans?”
“Yes. You pay better than Chuck’s,” she drawls, slamming her hands on her hips.
Sure, I’m trying to stay off-topic, but those jeans look too good on her. Hell, all of her is looking too good right now. The jeans are black, high-waisted, and she’s wearing a kind of navy-blue sweater that is doing phenomenal things to the tits I can’t stop wanting to drool over. Her Converse sneakers—All-Star Lifts—match the sweater. It’s not PA attire, but I find I don’t care.
I prefer her to be comfortable.
If she’s comfortable, she won’t leave me.
“Concentrate, Liam. Jeez.”
I grin at her when she pinches the bridge of her nose. “This drama queen thing you’ve got going down is new.”
“You bring out the best in me,” she retorts. “Okay, it has to be bad if you’re avoiding answering as much as you are.” She plunks her ass on the edge of my glass desk. “Hit me with it. I’m not moving from this spot until you tell me what’s going on.”
“I could move instead,” I point out.
Right between those legs of yours, Gracie.
“Yeah, but you won’t,” she grouses.
She thinks of you like a brother, Liam. Stop being a fucking pervert.
“You’ve been wanting to talk about this since you first walked into Chuck’s.” As always, she’s unaware of the direction of my thoughts. “Now’s your time before you have to report for training camp tomorrow.”
I hate that she’s not wrong. I also hate that I’m no longer thinking about what’s between her legs and we’re onto this shitty topic of conversation.
“Padraig isn’t who we thought he was.”
I have no idea why that’s the first thing I think of to say, but think of it I do.
“Who is he? I’m not sure I thought much about him other than the fact that he was a crappy dad.”
“You got that right,” I mumble.
She nudges my leg with her toe. “Stay on track.”
“He’s the son of a mobster. The brother and the uncle of one, well, several, too.” I’m not surprised when she starts to chuckle. “I wish I were lying, Gracie.”
Her laughter fades, but she sits up straighter. “Is he the reason you were kidnapped?”
“No.”
“You sure?” she demands.
“Yeah. That was just for money. The usual.” My jaw works. The usual. Like it’s normal to be kidnapped.
“You promise?”
“I’ve no reason to lie. It wasn’t mob-related. But he is why I got traded.”
“The mafia owns the New York Stars?” she sputters. “Wait, that’s not possible—”
I shrug. “Padraig’s an O’Donnelly. Of The Five Points’ Mob O’Donnellys.”
Though her eyes widen, she shakes her head. “No, he’s a Donnghal.”
“He bastardized the name. Anyway, he was a better uncle than he was a dad because he pulled some ‘favors’ recently and their front, Acuig, bought the Stars because he wanted me to move nearer to him.
“He said that being alone in Montréal wasn’t, ‘What I needed to heal,’” I mock, though my agent had been the one to say the words, not Paddy.
My father’s smart enough to know that I don’t respond well to requests from him.
Of course, I would never have gone ahead with any of this if she didn’t live here.
I’d been happy to wait for her, content to let her lead her life, to watch her attain her goals and fulfill her dreams while I bided my time in Québec.
The parameters have shifted now that we’re in the same city.
I’ll still be patient, but I’ll make my move the second I can.
She blinks then her grin slowly forms again. “You’re joking, aren’t you? Good one, Liam. You almost had me with that prank.”
Rocking back in my chair, I heave an impatient sigh. “Why do you think I’ve put off telling you this, Gracie? I knew you’d think I was either crazy or joking. I wish I were but I’m neither. I found all this out when the contract was dropped in front of me.”
Her expression turns serious. “This is…”
“A lot? Trust me, I know.”
“Do they expect you to fix matches?”
“If they do, they’re in for a goddamn disappointment. My wins are fairly fucking earned. Apart from the first Stanley Cup with the Mounties,” I concede. “You dosed me with some magic when you turned Kow and me green. How did you do that, anyway?”
She snorts. “Like you said—magic. But I think that win has more to do with finally convincing you to—”
“We don’t talk about that!” I blurt out.
Gracie’s grin is wicked. “I signed an NDA.”
“Only because you suggested it and insisted upon it.” As if she’d ever betray me.
“Yeah, so that I could talk smack about you to your face! What’s the point of knowing all this crap about you if I can’t bring it up? And the fact that you guys started—”
“Don’t say it.”
She chuckles. “I saw the barre in the gym.”
“Shut up.”
“No. It was my suggestion. It worked, too, didn’t it? As well as the yin yoga and pregame hot tub soaks. Your jackass Neanderthal coach insisted I was trying to turn you all gay—” That triggers an eye roll. “—but instead, I perfected your skating and improved your healing times.”
Not a single word of that was a lie.
Nor was it smug.
Just amused as hell.
She deserved to be smug, though. We’d given her shit for her suggestions until we realized how beneficial ballet, yoga, and the soaks could be.
“No one knows about the ballet.”
“Like it matters. This isn’t 1988, Liam,” she retorts.
“I have sponsorship deals with Mega XY,” I counter. “Their demographic would prefer to think I pump up with steroids than with pliés.”
“That’s because they’re idiots. Those energy drinks are liquid sugar. And that’s me saying that, the lover of cream freakin’ soda.”
“Capitalism pays the bills.”
And I’ll be retiring in a couple years.
My choice of sponsorships hasn’t been as discerning as it was back in the early days of my stardom, I’ll admit.
My agent loves me though—his commission is going through the roof.
“Capitalism can suck my dick,” she snipes.
“You grew one?”
“It’s bigger than yours.”
“Didn’t know you’d looked, Gracie.”
She freezes at that. Then swallows. Ever so faintly, her throat bobs, and she licks her lips.
All the while, I’m left wondering what the hell I was thinking saying that.
All the while, I’m waiting, hoping, fucking dying to know if she’ll glance at my cock.
She doesn’t.
Just stares at me in bewilderment.
Inwardly sighing, I tug on a strand of her hair. “This is different.”
She blinks.
“The tips—weren’t they red?”
“They were,” she croaks.
They’re definitely not anymore.
“Navy…” I smirk at her. Then, a thought hits. “The Mounties play in red.”
She sniffs.
Ha!
I fucking knew it.
“You represented my team, huh?”
Her scowl tells me I’m playing with fire. “I can be supportive from afar.”
Afar?
I’d prefer her to support me, oh, from nine inches away with six inches of that tucked inside her.
“You look good in my colors,” I rasp.
She swallows.
“How come you didn’t represent your brothers?” I inquire, trying to sound innocent.
“Because I like you and I don’t like them,” she grumbles with a sniff, flicking my hand away.
Am I surprised when she walks out of the room?
No.
Still, when she goes, it’s not her back I’m studying.
Just her ass.
That’s probably why I don’t catch her peeping a look at me.
Maybe if I had, shit would be different…
