Chapter 73
God, I hate him.
I follow.
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We finally make it to the parking lot. I’m walking behind Aaron, more like trailing after him, and trying not to stare.
But I do.
I mean, it’s not my fault his back looks like that. Broad. Strong. Like it’s been carved out of stupid marble or something. His sweatshirt clings just enough to show the muscles underneath, and I hate that I notice. I hate it even more that I keep noticing.
He presses the key fob and the car chirps. A sleek black Jeep flashes its lights. Of course he drives something cocky like that.
I try to hide the shock on my face when he pulls the car door open for me. Instead, I put a hand on my–shoulder and gasp dramatically. “Can you carry me in too? You were right about the heels, I think I sprained my ankle.”
I’m clearly messing with him. Obviously.
But he just frowns a little, eyebrows pulling together like he’s genuinely… worried? That can’t be right.
He can’t possibly bel-
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and then, oh
Before I can blink, he’s suddenly in front of me my God – he scoops me up into his arms. Bridal style.
BRIDAL. STYLE.,
I freeze. My mouth drops open. I can’t even come up with a insult or sarcastic comeback. I just stare at him.
His eyes meet mine – with that same way–too–intense look from earlier. “Do your feet hurt like this? Is this okay?”
I manage the tiniest nod.
He gently settles me into the passenger seat, like I’m made of glass. Then he buckles my seatbelt. I feel his fingers brush against my waist, and I swear I forget how to breathe.
He bites down softly on his bottom lip, like he’s trying to figure out what to say next. “If it still hurts, I’ll grab some medicine. You probably haven’t eaten anything either, right? I can pick up food. Something warm. You like that pho place, right?”
My brain short–circuits.
“Aaron,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “I- I was kidding. I‘ m fine. Really.”
He pauses.
Then blinks. Once. Twice.
And then it hits him.
“Oh,” he says,
And he blushes.
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Aaron Cobalt blushes.
And I think I forget how to be annoyed at him for a second.
Needless to say, the car ride after that is extremely
uncomfortable. Every time I look at Aaron, I swear his cheeks flush a rosy pink.
I frown a bit. What the hell is wrong with him? “You never asked for my address.”
For some reason, his flush only deepens. “I don’t need it.”
I eye him, he’s so suspicious. He’s acting completely different from the ass hat I’m used to seeing every day. Mr ‘I’m so perfect everyone look at me, I’m nothing like Tessa‘.
Okay, fine. Maybe I’m overdoing it a bit, but it’s not like he thinks any higher of me. And he’s made it very known. The first time we met, when he was traded here from LA last year.
For some reason, the memory replays in my head every two weekends, just as a reminder that Aaron Cobalt isn’t this hot, perfect man the media — which is, me, unfortunately — plays him out to be. But a complete, utter asshole.
ONE YEAR AGO
–
I’m in my cubicle, staring at a half–eaten pretzel like it personally offended me. I jab at it with my pen while scrolling through the latest headlines about the team.
Dante spotted at a gay bar.
Not shocking. Terrible for PR, though. I sigh and start drafting a press release in my head.
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Aarav and Fareedah… on a date?
I blink at the screen. That can’t be right. They hated each other last month. Didn’t she throw a drink at him?
Then, of course, there’s Lyle.
Another hook–up. Another tabloid photo.
I try to pretend it doesn’t sting. It still does.
Before I can spiral, a new email pings.
A beverage sponsorship proposal for Liam and Parker.
I let out an actual groan.
Why is a hockey club this understaffed? At this point, I don’t even know what my job title is anymore. PR manager? Crisis babysitter? Human shield?
Debbie walks by with her usual stack of doom files, and I nearly cry in relief. “Thank God, D-”
“Nope. Don’t even try it.”
She slaps the files onto my already–chaotic desk. “I’m drowning, Tess. Let me die in peace.”
We both have matching eye bags and share one brain cell.
“Why won’t HR just hire more people?” I whisper. “One more all- nighter and I’m throwing myself out the window.”
“Blame upper management,” she mutters. “They’re cutting costs for that fancy arena renovation.”
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I scowl at her like she personally designed the budget.
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