Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
"Who is that?" I ask, the words out before I can censor them.
Mick follows my line of sight and whistles low. "She’s a nurse at Seattle General. She's the one giving the keynote for the pediatric wing tonight." He pauses, his grin widening into something dangerous. “She's also Harper Coleman, your bestie’s little sister.”
The information should be a bucket of ice water. It should send me walking in the opposite direction. A Coleman. The sister of the man who spent the last three seasons trying to take my head off with slap shots. But the logic doesn't reach my mind or my heart. I find myself moving forward, drawn toward the stage as the lights dim and the master of ceremonies introduces her.
The stunning brunette steps up to the microphone. She doesn't look nervous. She looks like someone who deals with life and death every day and finds a room full of donors relatively manageable. Her voice is clear and carries a melodic strength that cuts through the remnants of the room's chatter.
"We don't just see patients in the emergency department," she says, her eyes sweeping across the crowd. "We see families at their breaking points. We see the moment hope wavers."
I'm standing near the edge of the shadows, close enough to see the way her eyes catch the light. They’re dark, intelligent, and filled with a fierce compassion that makes my own carefully constructed isolation feel suddenly, painfully small. She talks about the children, about the new wing, but all I can see is the way her hands gesture. Steady. Certain. Those are hands that heal. Hands that hold things together when they fall apart. I’d fucking give my left nut to feel those hands moving across my body.
When she finishes, the room erupts in applause. She offers a modest smile, the kind that doesn't reach for attention but earns it anyway. As she steps off the stage, our eyes meet for a fraction of a second. It’s a collision of worlds. I see the flicker of recognition in her gaze. No doubt, she knows who I am.
I want to look away first, but her stare is impossible to resist. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t do the fawning, hair-twirling thing every other woman in this damn room seems to have mastered. Harper sweeps right over me with that steady hazel gaze, sizes me up in one cold second, and moves the fuck on.
Not a single flicker of interest. Hell, it should piss me off, but I actually find it kinda… refreshing. My interest radar just went through the roof. Hell, it went up the moment I laid eyes on this gorgeous woman.
She’s halfway to the back of the ballroom when I catch her and block her path with my body.
She stops. Looks up. She’s gotta crane her neck just to meet my eyes, but she does it like she’s bored. Like I’m just another annoyance.
“Nice speech,” I manage, and fuck if my voice doesn’t sound rougher than I intend. “Jaxson Thorne.” I hold out a hand, because I do know how to play nice when the occasion requires it.
Her gaze drops to my hand and stays there for the count of ten before she slowly takes my hand. “I know who you are.” Electricity. Heat. And something else I can’t put a name to flows through me as our palms meet.
My cock turns to stone in my dress pants, and I can only hope my jacket hides it. I can already picture the headline splashed across the morning feeds: “The Ice Wall’s frozen stick on full display at charity gala.”
“And I’m pretty sure you already know who I am.” She swallows and pulls her hand back like she’s been zapped. “Have a nice evening, Mr. Thorne.” Then she steps around me. Like I’m already fucking forgotten.
Goddamn.
I stand there for a beat, watching her walk away. That emerald dress sways with every step, taunting me. Most women would be begging for a photo, an autograph, another moment of my time. But not Harper Coleman. To her, I’m an annoying gnat to be swatted away.
The rest of the night is a blur of forced handshakes and empty conversations. My mind is a repetitive loop of emerald silk and her bored, steady gaze. I leave as soon as it’s professionally acceptable, the 'Ice Wall' persona intact but feeling strangely brittle around the edges. But a little before midnight, I’m heading out without getting a chance to talk to my new obsession again.
The next night, I’m pacing my floors. The penthouse feels cavernous, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of Seattle that feels more like a prison than a kingdom.
I need a distraction. I need to do something with my hands. Something to get my mind off of the stunning brunette who’s now living rent-free in my goddamn skull.