The look they exchanged made him ready to throw her over his shoulder and pack her out of there. “Oh. Sorry,” she laughed, a hint of blush touching her cheeks. “Then I guess you better let Drew keep hold of it.”
Drew was utterly irate. His cheeks flushed scarlet, and his hands knotted into fists at his sides. “I hate both of you,” he bit out, apparently unamused by their antics. “And Austin isn’t going to be happy about this,” he added, yelling after them as they turned toward the door.
Henrik chose to ignore him, because it served him right. He made it a point to flip his brother the finger over his shoulder as he led Leila out of the building.
Chapter 9
LEILA’S INTERROGATION
Leila stood at the entrance to the living room, her plate of pizza in one hand and bottle of water in the other, staring at the scene in front of her. Henrik, who’d opted for just a pair of shorts when he changed out of his suit, was sprawled out in the middle of the couch, already enjoying his beer.
In a normal apartment, this wouldn’t be an issue, but Henrik and Austin’s place was the typical bachelor pad. Despite their hefty paychecks every month, they still had only one piece of furniture in the living room, and she was pretty sure that couch was the same one from their dorm room back in college. Not to mention the ping-pong table that doubled for a kitchen table. That was simply embarrassing.
“Why are you just standing there?” he asked, pointing at the TV. “Rachel is about to break up with Ross again.”
She cleared her throat, attempting not to look directly at him. “Could you, you know, choose an end of the couch?”
Henrik’s smirk made evident what she already suspected. His choice of seating had been strategic. “I don’t bite.” He grinned, patting the spot directly next to him.
She cocked a brow at him. “I’d have to disagree.”
He almost choked on his beer, covering his mouth as he coughed it down. “Yeah, I guess, technically, you’re right.”
She sauntered over and begrudgingly squeezed into the small space between him and the arm of the couch, making it a point not to come in contact with any part of his body. He was tempting enough without her reveling in the scorching thrill his touch would surely induce. He glanced over at her, displeasure apparent on his face. “What?” she inquired, leaning further into the couch.
He glanced at the bottle of water in her hand. “No beer?”
“I’d prefer if one of us keep our thought processes working appropriately.”
“Or what?” His crooked smile was unnerving, or maybe exhilarating. She couldn’t quite decide with her pulse thrumming so loudly in her head.
“Just enjoy your beer, Henrik.”
He turned back to his television show, though he continued to smirk as if he’d accomplished some unknown goal. If it was to have her crawling out of her own skin, he’d succeeded. She felt like a cat floating on a spindle. She would eventually crash and drown a very ghastly death.
She decided to just ignore him, or at least, she did her very best to ignore him. It was difficult, though, and the close proximity made it nearly impossible. Not to mention his lack of clothing, especially covering his arms. The intricate designs that laced down the one nearest her was practically calling her name. She forced her attention elsewhere. She couldn’t risk falling for Henrik’s tricks, and it wasn’t just because Drew had forbidden it.
She was tired. The game had taken more energy than she had to give, and now she was paying the price. A deep-rooted pain formed behind her eyes, a feeling that was growing all too familiar.
She set her plate of pizza on the floor by her feet and decided it would be best to just stick with the water. She leaned back into the couch and tried to pretend he hadn’t already scooted another inch in her direction.
They were halfway through their second show when he finally spoke up, breaking the lingering silence that buzzed between them. “You’re allowed to look,” he stated evenly, never taking his eyes off the TV. “You don’t need my permission, though when it comes to your eyes on my body, it’s safe to always assume you already have it.”
“What are you talking about?” she stuttered, acting as if she hadn’t been stealing glances at him out of the corner of her eye.
He merely held out his arm in her direction. “Go ahead,” he assured her. “Ask me. I see it on your face, so go ahead and say it out loud.”
She started to deny it, his audacity bringing out her natural instinct to rebel against anything he suggested, even if he was right. However, her curiosity was bound and determined to eventually win this one. “Why? I mean, I’m not one to judge. I have tattoos, too. But why—”
“So many?” he finished for her.
She nodded.
“I started with this one,” he explained, pointing to the Swedish flag on his bicep. “I got it right after college when I went back there to play the summer before the draft.”
She slid her hands underneath her thighs to fight off the urge to place her fingers on it. “That means this one must have come next,” she guessed, trying to keep her attention focused. She admired the Fighting Sioux emblem that represented their college logo. “Austin has one too.”
“We got them together the night before the draft,” he explained. “We never thought we’d be on the same team again. He was a big baby about it, though. I swear he almost cried.”
“And this?” she asked, nodding toward the spiraling text that seemed to weave through the entire design, linking it all together. “What is it?” It wasn’t English, and Leila assumed it was some form of Swedish.
“Something my mother used to say,” he confirmed, but turned his arm over, moving on with no further explanation.
Drew always did that too. He never wanted to discuss Sweden or his parents.
“I got this one after I signed with New York,” he said changing the subject as he showcased the artwork along his forearm. “And I’m not really sure what this one means. I got it the same night I decided to stop drinking bourbon.”
She was laughing when her eyes met his, but his playful smile cut it short. He was doing it again. She’d always wondered how he kept a revolving door of women with his reputation, and she was slowly starting to understand. He was smoother with his game than she’d expected. Relaxed and playful. Never trying too hard, but always offering the perfect opportunity and inspiration to make the next the move.
“You have a blank spot,” she pointed out, bringing her hand up and purposefully touching the bare skin just under his wrist to demonstrate her willpower, even if it was only to herself. “Are you saving that for when you win the Stanley cup?”
“Something like that.”
His smile was infectious, and suddenly it grew quiet as they looked at each other, her fingers still on his skin. His eyes dropped to her lips, his own parting ever so slightly in response, and if she didn’t break the silence soon, she’d fall victim just like all the others. “You never answered my question, though,” she said softly, quickly removing her hand and looking away. “Why so many?”
Henrik, appearing unaffected by the entire exchange, shrugged. “I don’t know.”
It was his typical answer. She’d heard him give it a hundred times during interviews, not that she intentionally watched his interviews, but she’d catch one or two occasionally and not turn it off. The difference between her and the media was she knew he was lying. “I’m not a reporter, Henrik. You can tell me the truth.”