A Better Man (17 page)

“There's a place nearby. But that's not on the menu unless it's something you feel strongly ab
out.”

Eyes still closed, she shivered a little. “Still a little too early in the season for t
hat.”

“I agree.” Although if she wanted to skinny-­dip, he'd bend over backward to make it happen. He took her hand, placed it in the crook of his arm, and led her to the big double d
oors.

Jordan had never been the type to get excited over much except shooting a perfect goal, winning a game, or inching ever closer to winning the Cup. For the first time, his heart gave a funny jump as he guided Lucy inside the building and found everything exactly as he'd imagined it. When the door closed behind them, he turned her to face the
room.

“You can open your eyes
now.”

L
ucy's fingers flew to her mouth to cover her surprise. “Oh . . . my . . . what is t
his?”

An enormous teardrop chandelier shot prisms of colored light onto the walls and wood floor of a large ballroom. Beneath the chandelier sat a single table covered with black and white linens, white pillar candles, and an artfully designed stargazer lily centerpiece. On the table was a sterling ice bucket that held yet another bottle of champagne. A stage at the end of the room displayed blue castle walls with a golden carriage at the center. And twinkling fairy lights danced from behind panels of sheer white curtains. From overhead, a sound system softly played “I'll
Be.”

Jordan reached for her hand. “Hopefully the prom you never
had.”

Wonder filtered through her every pore as she turned to him. He looked unbelievably debonair in his black tuxedo with his dark hair all sleek and combed back. And although she preferred his sexy five o'clock scruff, he'd shaved his strong jaw and chiseled cheeks. “P
rom?”

“I know it might seem kind of corny. But it could have been worse the way I first imagined it,” he explained with a wary look in his eyes. “When I contacted Principal Brown on his day off, he wasn't impressed by my NHL stats and refused to give me carte blanche to use the high school gym. The best I could do was talk the drama teacher into letting me use the cardboard props from the Cinderella play they did last fall. We're in the event center at Sunshine Creek Vineya
rds.”

“You . . .” She turned to look at the room again. “I .
 . .”

“Is speechless a good sign, L
ucy?”

She inhaled a breath she hoped would calm her nerves and nodded. “It's a very good s
ign.”

“That's what I was hoping
for.”

“So . . . your note . . . wishes, dreams, and happily-­ever-­aft
ers?”

“I dug my old yearbook out of the closet to find the theme for the prom in our senior y
ear.”

“I never k
new.”

“I figured as much. Too ho
key?”

“Not at all. You went to a lot of trou
ble.”

“It was my pleasure. I liked you back in high school, Lucy. Had I not been such a stupid, self-­centered ass, I would have asked you to prom.” His broad shoulders shrugged. “I'm just trying to make up for errors and lost t
ime.”

“You really need to let that
go.”

“I will. After toni
ght.”

“I . . . really don't know what to
say.”

“Say you'll dance with me.” He held out his hand. “I probably haven't improved any since high school, but I'm willing to give it a shot if you
are.”

She placed her hand in his. “Can I tell you a sec
ret?”

“You can tell me anyth
ing.”

For maybe the first time in her life, she found she'd like to tell someone all her confidences. But she'd long ago buried them and she wouldn't let the thought of them resurfacing now put a damper on this wonderful moment. “I don't know how to dance,” she whisp
ered.

“Then we'll figure it out toget
her.”

When he swept her into his arms and across the floor, Lucy knew he was a big fat liar. The man danced like he'd taken lessons from Fred Ast
aire.

Of course he was sure-­footed and full of male grace. The man did his job and had spent most of his life on thin steel blades whooshing across slippery ice. To his credit, he made following his steps easy. Maybe it was because he held her close enough that the rich, woodsy scent of his cologne wrapped her up in a web that made it impossible to do otherwise. Or maybe it was the look he gave her that said,
Trus
t me
.

They danced for several slow, romantic songs before he led her to the table in the center of the room, pulled out her chair, then pushed it back in after she was seated. Standing next to her, he lifted the bottle from the ice bucket and uncorked the champagne with a flair that said he'd done the task before. Then he filled their glasses and they clinked cry
stal.

He moved his chair next to hers before he sat
down.

“You're very good at all this,” she
said.

“
T
his?
”

“Dancing. Pouring champagne. Making fairy tales come true.” She sipped her champagne and smiled when the bubbles tickled her nose. “If you're not careful, you'll shatter the beer-­drinking, belly-­scratching, Neanderthal image of hockey players I've been harboring all these ye
ars.”

He laughed, and the sound that came from deep in his chest called out to something at the very core of her foundation. She'd never known a man to go to such extremes without expecting something in return. At least, that had always been her past experience. Still, tonight she was determined to keep that past where it belo
nged.

“I can guarantee your image might not be far off base. There are several guys on my team who'd probably admit they're barely above knuckle dragg
ing.”

“You're kidd
ing.”

He shook his head, and that dark hair and smile gleamed beneath the chandelier light. “The Rock grunts at everything. It's his favorite form of communicat
ion.”

“The
Rock
? I thought he was a movie star who got paid for talk
ing.”

“Different guy. The one on my team got the nickname for how many times his head has hit the boards, yet he always comes up smil
ing.”

“Sounds bru
tal.”

“It can be. No one plans it. But there's so much aggression to get to the puck it sometimes ends up that way. If a guy keeps getting in your face or plays dirty, you can't help but want to check him and let your fists do the talk
ing.”

“
Check
him?”

“Slam him into the boards to stop his forward motion or try to steal the p
uck.”

“There's so much I don't know about this game.” She grimaced. “And I'm not exactly sure I'd want to le
arn.”

“Have you ever been to a hockey g
ame?”

“No.” And she didn't want to admit that she'd seen him play a few games on TV either. “But my best friend and her husband are sports nuts. I've caught a few minutes of a playoff game on TV once or tw
ice.”

“It's different when you're actually in the ar
ena.”

She finished her glass of bubbly. Interested in the conversation, she leaned in while he poured them both another glass. “Different
how?”

“You get caught up in the energy of the crowd. The fast pace of the game. You ever watch footb
all?”

“A few times.” And only when she'd been forced to because she'd been invited to a Super Bowl p
arty.

“It's a lot like when the running back has the ball and he's racing toward the goalposts and the crowd is sure he'll score. That kind of thrill happens constantly in hoc
key.”

“Did you know your eyes light up when you talk about it?” They really did. And as crazy as it seemed, that wondrous glow made him even more hand
some.

“I'm not surprised. It's all I've ever known and for a reason. I love the g
ame.”

“I feel like that about teaching.” Although they didn't need it, she smoothed the ruffles on her dress. She wasn't used to talking about herself. But she guessed talking about her job was safe enough. “Sometimes I'll get a student who not only has talent but is enthusiastic about learning. I get a crazy burst of adrenaline and I can't wait to get back to school the following day to help guide them some more. I always dream that I may have the next Ernest Hemingway or even the next generation's J.K. Rowling in my cl
ass.”

“Do you write?” he asked, refilling the glass she didn't even know she'd emp
tied.

“I dabble,” she admitted, figuring it was a safe enough answer and that he really wouldn't be interested in asking more. “But my main focus is teach
ing.”

“What do you write?” He leaned both tux-­covered forearms on the table and gave her his full atten
tion.

Okay, so she'd underestimated
him.

Lucy bit her lip—­literally—­trying to decide whether to answer him truthfully or to stretch the truth in another direction. Then again, she could always divert the conversation with 
. . .

“I love this song. Bruno Mars is my favorite.” Not that she didn't really love Bruno, but right now he was her only way out of this conversation. She stood and held out her hand. “Dance with
me?”

“Sure. And if you like it that much I'll be happy to play the song again.” He captured her hand so she couldn't escape, then gave her a little tug so she'd sit down again. “Right now I'm more interested in what you write ab
out.”

Deep breath, Lucy. You can do
this.

“I write . . . don't laugh . . . love stor
ies.”

“Rea
lly?”

She nodded. When he didn't laugh, she gathered the courage to continue. “Actually, I've written several stories about two characters who meet during an adventure. They're both after the same treasure, so throughout the books each is trying to outsmart the other. Of course, all the while they're falling in love. Sort of like Indiana Jones meets Katniss Everd
een.”

For a moment he just looked at her, like he couldn't figure out whether she was serious or had seriously lost her
mind.

“What inspired you to wr
ite?”

How did she explain that because her own life had been so miserable, the only way to find happiness was to write characters and help them find their
own.

“There's a really long explanation, but for the most part I got the idea one day while I was”—­
wrapping a bruised rib—­
“waiting for my class to hand in their work. The whole story unfolded in my head in about five minutes. Of course, it took me much longer to actually write the w
ork.”

“I'd love to read t
hem.”

“Oh. No, you wouldn't.” She scoffed and looked away, suddenly finding the castle backdrop on the stage riveting. “But it's kind of you to say
so.”

He tucked two fingers beneath her chin and turned her head so she'd look at him. “I'm not really the kind of guy who bullshits about things, Lucy. So unless you're trying to insult me by saying you don't think I'm smart enough to read because I'm a dumb j
ock—­”

“I would never say t
hat!”

“Then why is it so hard to believe that I'd want to read your stor
ies?”

The sincerity in his eyes knocked her over. How was it that this man kept surprising
her?

“Okay. It's not you. It's me. I've never let anyone read my work. To be honest, I just don't have that much . . . confide
nce.”

“You're one of the smartest people I k
now.”

Apparently not smart en
ough.

Once upon a time she'd thought being smart was her ticket out of a miserable life and into something wonderful. But even with her high IQ, she hadn't been smart enough to trust her instincts and she'd walked right into a night
mare.

“I'm sure what you've written is wonderful,” Jordan said. “But no one will ever discover that until you take a chance. That's what life is all about.” He leaned back. “Hell. I'm taking so many chances these days I can barely keep up with mys
elf.”

“You mean with your sis
ter.”

“My sister. My entire family, for that matter. My career.” He sipped his champagne, watching her over the glass. When he was done he tilted the flute in her direction. “And
you.”

“Me?” She pointed to herself like there was someone else in the room he could be referrin
g to.

A slow nod came with a smile. “In case you haven't noticed, I've been chasing you all over town. I took a chance you wouldn't shut the door in my face after the way I treated you on graduation ni
ght.”

His honesty took her aback, and only one response would do. “
Why?”

“You intrigue me. You challenge me. And to be honest, I just flat-­out like
you.”