MY HEART HAMMERS while I stand outside Jamie Streicher’s apartment building.
The last time I saw him in person, I had just spilled a blue Slurpee all over my white t-shirt in the high school cafeteria. His cold look of disinterest replays in my head, his green eyes flicking over me before turning back to his conversation with the rest of the hot, popular jocks.
Now I’m going to be his assistant.
He was always an asshole, but god, he was so gorgeous, even then. Thick dark hair, always just a little messy from playing hockey. Sharp jawline, strong nose. Broad, strong shoulders, and tall. So tall. Unfairly dark lashes. He never hit that awkward teenager phase that seemed to span my entire teens. His silent, intimidating, grumpy thing both unnerved and fascinated me, along with every other girl and half the guys in school.
Oh god. I drag in a deep breath and enter the number on the keypad outside. He buzzes me up without answering. In the elevator, my stomach wobbles on the way to the penthouse.
I’m not that dorky band girl anymore. I’m a grown woman. It’s been eight years. I don’t have a teenage crush on the guy anymore.
I need this job. I’m broke and crashing on my sister’s couch. I quit my terrible job at Barry’s Hot Dog Hut with zero notice after a week. Even if I wanted to go back—which I don’t, I only took that job as an emergency way to pay bills and help Hazel out with rent—they’d never rehire me.
Besides, there’s no way he remembers me. Our high school was huge. I was the dorky music girl, always hanging with the band kids, and he was a hot hockey player. I’m two years younger, so we didn’t even have classes
together or friends in common. He’s one of the best goalies in the NHL, with the looks of a freaking god. The fact that he’s known for not doing relationships seems to make people even more feral. Last year, someone threw panties on the ice for him—it was all over the sports highlights.
He isn’t going to remember me.
I watch the number climb higher as I approach his floor. He’ll be busy with practices and training. I won’t see him.
And I really, really need this job. I’m done with the music industry and its famous assholes. I went to school for marketing, and it’s time to pursue that path. The only Vancouver job postings in marketing require at least five years’ experience, so I wouldn’t even be considered. According to my sister Hazel, who works as a physiotherapist for the Vancouver Storm, a marketing job with the team is opening up soon. They prefer internal hires, she said.
This assistant job is my way in. It’s temporary. If I prove myself in that job, that’s my foot in the door to the marketing job with the team.
The elevator opens on the top floor, and I walk to his door, taking a deep, calming breath. It doesn’t work, and my heart pounds against the front wall of my chest.
Need this job, I remind myself.
I knock, the door swings open, and my pulse stumbles like it’s drunk on cheap cider.
He’s so much hotter grown up. And in person? It’s actually unfair.
His frame fills the doorway. He’s a foot taller than me, and even under his long-sleeved workout shirt, his body is perfection. The thin fabric stretches over his broad shoulders. I’m vaguely aware of a dog barking and racing around the apartment behind him, but my gaze follows his movement as he props a hand on the doorframe. His sleeves are pushed up, and my gaze lingers on his forearm.
Jamie Streicher’s forearms could get a woman pregnant. I’m staring. I jerk my gaze up to his face.
Ugh. My stomach sinks. That teen crush I had years ago bursts back into my life like a comet, thrilling through me. His eyes are still the deepest, richest green, like all the shades of an old-growth forest. My stomach tumbles.
“Hi,” I breathe before clearing my throat. My face burns. “Hi.” My voice is stronger this time, and I fake a bright smile. “I’m Pippa, your new assistant.” I smooth a hand over my ponytail.
There’s a beat where his features are blank before his eyes sharpen and his expression slides to a glower.
My thoughts scatter in the air like confetti. Words? I don’t know them. Couldn’t even tell you one. His hair is thick, short, and curling a little. Damp, like he just got out of the shower, and I want to run my fingers through it.
His gaze lingers on me, turning more hostile by the second, before he sighs like I’m inconveniencing him. This is how he seemed in high school
—surly, irritated, grouchy. Not that we ever interacted.
“Great.” He says the word like a curse, like I’m the last person he wants to see. He turns and walks into the apartment.
I knew he wouldn’t remember me.
I hold back a humorless laugh of embarrassment and disbelief. I don’t know why I’m surprised by his attitude. If I’ve learned one thing from my ex, Zach, and his crew, it’s that gorgeous, famous people are allowed to be complete assholes. The world lets them get away with it.
Jamie Streicher is no different.
I take the open door as a sign to follow him. The dog sprints to my feet and jumps on me. She’s wearing a pink collar, and I love her immediately.
“Down,” he commands in a stern voice that makes the back of my neck prickle. The dog ignores him, hopping onto my legs and wagging her tail hard.
“Hi, doggy.” I crouch down and laugh as she tries to give me kisses.
She’s full of goofy, wild energy, doing these little tippy-taps with her paws on the floor as her tail wags so hard it might fall off. Her butt wiggles in the cutest way as I scratch the spot above her tail.
I’m in love.
Jamie clears his throat with disapproval. Embarrassment flickers in my chest but I shove it away. I’m here to help him with his dog; what’s his problem? When I straighten up, my face feels warm.
Also, his apartment? It’s one of the nicest places I’ve ever been inside. It’s one of the nicest places I’ve ever seen. Floor-to-ceiling windows span two stories and overlook the water and North Shore Mountains, filling the
open-concept living room and kitchen with light. The kitchen is sparkling and spacious, and even though the living room is cluttered with moving boxes and dog toys, the enormous sectional sofa looks so comfy and welcoming. There are stairs, which I assume lead to the bedrooms. Through the windows, I can see North Vancouver and the mountains. Even on a stormy day in the worst of the rainy, bleak Vancouver winter, the view will be spectacular.
I bet this place has a huge bathtub.
“What’s her name?” I ask Jamie as I pet the dog. She’s leaning against me, clearly loving all this attention.
His jaw ticks and the way he stares at me makes my stomach dip. His green eyes are so sharp and piercing, and I wonder if this guy has ever smiled. “I don’t know.”
On the floor near the couch, there’s a giant fluffy dog bed, and about a hundred colorful toys are scattered throughout the living room. A water bowl and empty food bowl sit on the floor in the kitchen, and on the counter, there’s a giant bag of treats, half-empty. The dog runs over to one of the toys before bringing it to Jamie’s feet and looking up at him, wagging her tail.
“I have to go to the arena, so let’s get this over with,” Jamie says, like I’m wasting his time. He stalks past me, and as he passes, his scent whooshes up my nose.
My eyes practically cross. He smells incredible. It’s that un-pin- downable scent of men’s deodorant—sharp, spicy, bold, fresh, and clean, all at the same time. The scent is probably called Avalanche or Hurricane or something powerful and unstoppable. I want to put my face in his shirt and huff. I’d probably pass out.
As he moves around the kitchen, showing me where the dog’s food is, I’m struck by the way he moves with power and grace. His back muscles ripple under his shirt. His shoulders are so broad. He’s so, so freaking tall.
I realize he still hasn’t even introduced himself. This is something famous people did on Zach’s tour when they came backstage, like they expect you to know who they are.
“All our communication will be through email or text,” Jamie says. “Walk the dog, feed the dog, keep her out of trouble. I’ve already taken her to the vet and for grooming.” He glances at her again.
I offer him a reassuring smile. “I can handle all of that.” “Good.” His tone is sharp.
Wow. Mr. Personality, right here. I swallow with difficulty. He’s so bossy. A shiver rolls over me, and my skin tingles. I bet he’s bossy in bed, too.
“Because it’s your job,” he adds.
A sick feeling moves up my throat but I shove it down. I’m not sixteen anymore. I know better, and I know his type. After Zach, I know not to fall for guys like this—famous guys. Guys with an ego. Guys who think they can do whatever they want without consequences.
Guys who will just get tired of me and cast me aside.
“On game days, I have a nap after lunch,” he says over his shoulder as I follow him upstairs. “I need total silence.”
It takes all of my willpower not to salute him and say, sir, yes, sir! Something tells me he wouldn’t laugh. “I’ll take her out on a long walk during that time.”
He grunts. That’s probably his version of crying tears of joy.
In the upstairs hallway, he stops at an open doorway. The room is empty except for a handful of large boxes and a mattress wrapped in plastic.
“This will be my room?” I ask.
He frowns, and my stomach squirms.
“I mean, this will be the room where I sleep when you’re away?” I clarify so he doesn’t think I’m trying to move in full time or something. “When I’m taking care of the dog.”
He folds his arms. “Yes.”
The way he stares at me, it’s making my stomach do tippy-taps like the dog’s paws on the floor. My nervous reaction is to smile again, and his frown lines deepen.
“Great.” My voice is practically a chirp.
He tilts his chin to the bathroom down the hall. “You can use that bathroom. I have my own en suite.”
His eyes linger on me, and I try not to shift under the weight of his gaze. This guy does not like me, but I’m going to turn that around once he realizes how much easier I can make his life. Besides, he’ll never even see me.
Losing this job is not an option.
