49 Days With My Golden Retriever Iceking

ALEXANDRA Getting handed the half-naked images of my ex in a luxury apartment, with a full-on naked blonde wrapped around his waist, was absolutely not how I visualized my first day back at work. Why did Roman Devereaux have to become my first task? And why did he still have to look so flipping hot? When I parted with my ex-boyfriend four years ago, I swore to stay off his radar and never run into him, given how much bad blood there was between us. Who knew we’d be crossing paths again like this? “Mind-f*****g gorgeous, isn’t he?” a smoky voice drawled next to my ear. “Knock it off, Mo.” My voice jumped out more pissed than intended. “Trust me, it’s just pheromones. The defenseman is actually not all that.” “You speak as if you know him,” Morgana slipped from behind me, adjusting the square glasses on the bridge of her straight nose. “But you don’t, do you?” If only she knew. Smirking, she snatched up the printed images and stared at them with that mischievous gleam in her big brown eyes. “Oh, sweet heavens. These are gold. Look at those abs.” She swiped her tongue across her bottom lip. “Look at those arms. Don’t you wish they would just wrap around your neck and—“ “I just wish for one simple task on my first day back, Mo. An exclusive interview with a hockey star? Really?” I sighed. “You know how attention-grabbing those dudes are, and I’m not exactly ready to kiss up to the fake smiles and loud charms.” My lips stretched into a thin, pleading smile. “Really not ready.” She glanced at me, quickly switching from flirty foster sister to stern editor. Morgana Andrews was the closest thing I had to ‘family’ left on this earth. Her fluffy red hair and bright smile had gotten me through the hardest days. She was the older sister who stayed when all other foster homes gave up on me. But she never went easy on me. “Well get ready on the move,” she snapped, “because the management is not letting up until they’re certain you won’t be causing any more damage to the reputation of the newsroom.” I would probably never hear the end of it. Six months ago, I’d published an unverified news article about a famous NFL star, which hacked his career to pieces. Then it backfired, and the newsroom took a heavy hit of criticism from the public. The management shifted the rage and blame on me, whereas they pressured me to publish that same story for traffic. I got suspended for six months. Got called all kinds of s**t names by the merciless social media rats. Got dragged in court by the football player, and lost all my hard-earned money paying for damages. It was a bad fall from grace, from this thriving journalist to a discredited, broke b***h. Morgana pinned a finger against the images and slid them over to me. “Chop chop. The hockey boys should be in the city any minute. Make sure you squeeze every little detail of the Vancouver scandal out of Devereaux’s sweet ass.” She breezed out of the break room, leaving me with the glaring reality of doom. I snatched up the images with a hiss and stormed out of the building, keeping my head down. Being gone for six months did not mean people forgot. My colleagues still stared holes through my jacket, their thoughts loud and judgmental. Is she just a shameless b***h or out of touch with humanity? How could she return after ruining a person’s career? I made it out of the building and got into Grumpy, the old, hand-me-down truck that’s been passed down generations—according to my dad. Then I headed for the airport, assuring myself I could do it. “I can’t do this, Dad,” I confessed under my breath as I stole a glance at the framed picture of Damon Brooks dangling from a pendant on the rear view mirror. “I can’t face him again.” He’d probably understand my aggravation, because he’d rooted for me and Roman right from the days of travel hockey, when we hit it off at one game and started as friends. Then we transitioned to lovers, and my father had been the happiest man alive. He used to adore Roman, but he wouldn’t have if he knew what the asshole did to his dear Allie. University nights I sacrificed for his hockey career, out practicing in the cold and heat. Days of going without food just so we could afford his hockey equipment. The seasons I spent in the stands, screaming his victory on the rink at the top of my voice. Then he got big and left me behind, because I was no longer enough. My fingers tightened around the wheel as I joined a long line of cars at the traffic light, glancing around for an exit. My eyes caught the large billboard hanging above the bus shelter, and my lips snagged into a frown. Speak of the devil. Roman was right there on the screen, holding a can of energy drink to his lips, his torso naked, tanned and glistening. But for the first time, he was not the center and universe of my attraction. It was the man next to him. A man even more loved than Roman could ever dream of. Mikhail Orlov, star captain of the Toronto Icekings. The man with the face of a saint and the smile of a sinner. His gaze was icy and lethal on the billboard, piercing right through my chest and tasing my n*****s. I didn’t realize how hard I was staring at the droplets of liquid caught mid-motion down his lips, until cars honked repeatedly behind me. I reluctantly tore my gaze away and drove off. The arrivals lounge of Toronto international airport was packed to the brim when I got there. I rolled my eyes as I pushed my way through the perspiring bodies, trying to get to the front. When the golden hockey boys of Toronto made their appearance, the crowd went batshit. Girls screamed. Men yelled at the top of their voices. They all wanted to capture the attention of the players. I wanted the same thing too, but I didn’t scream for it like a maniac. I just swallowed deep breaths and tried to remain calm. “You can do it,” my father’s voice echoed in my head. “Orlov! Oh my god! I love you!” someone in the crowd squealed. I kept my eyes focused on the man I was here for. As Roman waved and smiled at the crowd, I wiggled over to the front and called his name loud enough to get heard over the noise, just in the manner that would get his attention. “One word, Mr. Devereaux!” Maybe it was just my voice that made him freeze. His jaw tightened at the same moment his eyes rested on me. “I’m not married yet, Ms…?” He c****d his brows, waiting for me to fill in the gap. I swallowed my pride, wore a tight smile, and went along with the play. “Alexandra Brooks, Journalist with the Frontline Gazette—“ “I don’t care what you are.” He fixed me with a cold glare that cut right to my bones. “Can you get out of my way?” I blinked up at him, fighting the rage that thrashed through my veins. Not here, not now. Too many eyes. So I curled my fists and swallowed it down. Until a deep, gravelly voice drawled above the din, an unmistakable Russian accent dripping behind it. “That’s no way to talk to a lady, mate.”