Charging (Gold Hockey #10) - Elise Faber Page 0,1

I need,” she snapped.

A sigh. A hip resting on her desk. “Why did you pick me up, Char?”

Charlotte swallowed, zipped her bag closed—with the sixth pad of sticky notes, thank her very much—and forced herself to meet his gaze. “You were the best man for the position. We needed solid D. You brought it.”

Green eyes, such a rich emerald they almost looked black, locked on hers. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” She picked up her bag. “I’m tired, so I’m sure you’re doubly so.” She started to round the desk but stopped, knowing she needed to be professional. Not only was she the first female GM, but she’d set a standard for herself when she’d joined the organization. “You played well this season and especially during the playoffs.”

A nod. “Thanks.”

That confused her. Before, his cocky would have taken over. Today, he seemed . . . modest? Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen a lot of cocky this season, at least not when it came to his game play. But it had been eight years since they’d been alone in a room together, she supposed things had to have changed.

Not that it mattered.

Things had changed on her front, too.

She wasn’t the naïve little girl anymore.

She was strong and powerful and had a whole lot of people depending on her.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Charlotte pointed to the door. “We should be going.”

“Your feet hurt.”

Her brows drew together. “What?”

Logan nodded at her feet, clad in a lovely pair of heels that, while beautiful, were also the equivalent of bear traps—and if that wasn’t the perfect metaphor for the man in front of her, she didn’t know what was.

“Those heels hurt you.” His head tilted to the side. “Why do you wear them?”

She scoffed. “None of your fucking business, Walker.”

A smile—slow and hot and sliding like silk over her breasts, her stomach, between her legs. “I knew you’d say that.”

“I—”

He held up a box she hadn’t noticed, pushed it into her hands when she stepped back. “Open it,” he said, voice dropping and joining that silk of his smile to dip between her legs. “If you think you can handle it.”

And then he was gone, the door closing behind him, leaving her with a heavy ass bag packed with who knew what, aching feet, and a box in her hands.

A box given on a challenge.

A box he knew she’d open.

Because Charlotte Harris didn’t give in or back down. She liked that even less than she liked losing.

So, she opened the lid.

And instantly knew she was in trouble.

Two

Charlotte

Slippers. The fucking man had given her slippers.

Lavender and fuzzy with embroidered stars and moons all over.

“Fucking hell,” she muttered, and for one second, she was right back there. Lying in the bed of the pickup truck that had been his first purchase when he’d made it to the big leagues, her head pillowed on his shoulder, his body surrounding her, warming her more effectively than the blankets above and below them.

Dark skies all around. The crisp air of late fall and early winter.

When he’d still been interested in her.

Before she’d slept with him and he’d moved on to the next woman whom he’d cuddled close.

In those few glorious months, they’d spent so much time together.

She’d been an intern moving up the ranks, handpicked by the GM to learn the different facets of the team.

He’d been the new rookie, not knowing the guys well, a bit of an outcast on an established team where most of the other players had wives and families.

And she’d traveled with the team.

It was unusual for an intern, but her position, and the reason she’d gotten involved with the organization in the first place, made a lot of things about her first paying gig after college unusual.

But all that unusualness meant that she’d spent a lot of time with the players.

A lot of time with Logan.

With Logan sneaking down corridors and kissing in empty rooms.

With Logan slipping into her hotel room so they could order room service and watch bad TV.

With Logan in the back of his truck, staring up at the stars—

Her finger brushed one of the embroidered stars. It was made of sparkly gold thread, tucked neatly near a crescent moon, and it brought those memories that had once been so safely stowed away to the forefront of her mind.

Painful longing. Such painful longing after he’d broken things off.

Because, God, she had loved Logan.

She used to wish—

“No,” she hissed, shoving the slippers back into the box and slamming on the lid.