whatever they were trying to do?
* * *
“I DID NOT go behind your back,” Max stated, putting down the heavy chair with a thunk. Adam had called both his supposed buddies to help him move the furniture out of his living room so he could refinish the floors. In truth, he hadn’t planned to sand the floors for a couple of months, but he had a mad-on and experience told him that physical exertion mixed with concentration was the best combination for getting rid of the mad.
Besides, making his sandbox pals come move furniture gave him an opportunity to berate them at the same time as he got free labor out of them.
“You hired a performance coach without telling me.”
“Technically, I didn’t hire her. She’s working for free. And I told you I was going to do it.”
“You didn’t tell me she was coming to hockey practice this morning.” He scowled at the memory of how she’d blindsided him with her cool sexiness and that uncomfortable resemblance to Madame D. His skin prickled with the attraction he was determined to ignore. “I wasn’t ready.”
“Most people would be pretty happy to have a professional performance coach helping them improve their game.”
He felt twitchy and irritable. Unlike himself. Usually if he had a problem, he understood its cause and dealt with the issue, but he’d never been in a position like this before, where he couldn’t control his behavior on the ice. The fact that he didn’t feel in control around the sexy Serena Long only compounded his frustration. “Why is she doing you this favor?”
“So that’s what’s got up your butt,” Dylan commented, flopping onto the couch they were supposed to be moving.
Max gazed at Adam for a long moment. “What did she say?”
“She said she’d do anything for you.”
Max looked inscrutable. But then, Max worked hard at looking inscrutable. “That was nice of her.”
“You’re not answering his question, dude,” Dylan said from his sprawled position on the couch. “He wants to know if you’ve had sex with the woman he’s got the hots for.”
“Is that what you want to know?” Max seemed to find this whole thing highly amusing, which only aggravated Adam more.
“No.” He grabbed his end of the couch and motioned Dylan off it so he could lift the other end. “Okay, yes,” he grunted as they hoisted the thing into the air.
“I didn’t set you two up on a blind date. You’re supposed to focus on improving your game. So why do you care?”
“I just want to know.”
Max carefully placed his chair in the corner of the spare bedroom. Dylan and Adam humped the couch in after him and pushed it against the back wall. “I don’t think I want to tell you.”
Dylan swore. “There’s a cold beer in the fridge with my name on it. I don’t care who slept with who—I just want to get this stuff moved so I can relax.”
They continued moving tables, the TV and a couple of lamps. When they were done, they had nowhere to sit but the old oak kitchen table Adam had refinished himself. He pulled out three cold ones, thumped them down on the table. Regarded Max, who wiped off the top of his bottle before he drank.
“What do you think?” he asked Dylan. “Did he?”
“Sleep with Serena Long? Hard to tell. He’s doing his inscrutable thing. You’re the detective. What do you think?”
“I think he’s playing with me.” He slumped into a chair and grabbed his own beer.
“Yeah,” Dylan said. “Why would sexy Serena sleep with him, anyway? What’s he got to offer a woman like that? A genius brain? Billions in the bank? Those big brown eyes?” Dylan shook his head. “She wouldn’t touch him.” He touched his bottle to Adam’s in a toast. “Not that you care.”
“I don’t.” He tipped the bottle against his lips and hoped the cool liquid would dampen his irritation.
“What are you using on the floors?” Dylan motioned to the now-cleared fir floor. It was original to the old cottage Adam had bought the year before and was slowly fixing up. It was a simple place, rustic and solidly built on a couple of acres of land. He’d known the minute he’d seen the run-down home that this was the renovation project he’d been looking for.
Since it had been rented for years and then left empty for a half a year after that, the place was a little dilapidated. And full of mice. But the old fir floors he’d revealed when he ripped up the filthy threadbare brown shag rug would come back with some work. The walls needed only patching and paint. The kitchen he could live with for a while since he rarely cooked. His first project had been the bathroom, most of which he’d done himself, with the help of a professional plumber. He’d patched and painted all the walls before he moved in, and he lived with the scuffed, scarred flooring.
But now he had a mad-on, and Max had done nothing to dissipate it. The floors were going to be sanded. And hard.
“I’ll rent a commercial sander. See how they come up, then decide. Might do a stain, might just slap on some Varathane to protect them.”
Dylan nodded. He was also a handy type. Unlike Max, who hired everything out and was currently checking email on his smartphone while they talked flooring.
As they finished their beer, the talk veered to people they knew, hockey, the upcoming play-offs.
“That performance coach sure is hot,” Dylan said, seemingly out of the blue. “She single?”
“As far as I know,” Max said. “Why? Are you interested?”
“Hell, no. I’m interested in winning the bet. I figure you’re both so competitive that if you two are going to fight over a woman, one of you will end up with her. Leaving me closer to winning the bet.” He grinned. “All those seasons of watching Survivor are paying off.” He raised his beer bottle in the air. “To the last bachelor standing. Me!”
Max still hadn’t volunteered the information Adam wanted by the time the guys were leaving. As they headed out the door, Adam turned to Dylan. “Why are we still friends with this guy?” he asked.
Dylan regarded Max. “He’s short and a weenie. Makes us look good.”
4
AFTER HE WATCHED the news, Adam was too restless to turn in. He flipped on his computer to check his email. Nothing of much interest. Ever since his old buddy had arranged a performance coach for him, hints of his play-off panic had begun to return. Today, in the presence of the sexy coach, Adam had felt his discomfort like an itch.
On a whim, he did a Google search of Serena Long. Of course she had a website. He should have known she would. All slick and professional, the site looked and felt expensive. The woman staring at him from his screen also seemed slick and professional—and expensive—with that hint of danger he’d detected.
Dylan was right, of course. He did want Serena Long. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had struck him like that, like a walking fantasy.
Some effusive comments about how wonderful she was, written by people he’d actually heard of, peppered the main page of her site. She’d authored a book that you could click to and buy right from the front page, naturally. The click of another button would give you details on inviting her to be a keynote speaker at your next big event.
And then she offered words of wisdom on her blog.
He rolled his eyes. Who didn’t have a blog these days?
He clicked through to it. And found a post dated today. “Negative Thinking.”
It was what she’d been talking to him about earlier. And she’d posted only a couple of hours ago. He settled back and