“I thought I’d test out the rink,” I tell Hockey Hottie—who I really can’t keep calling that, even just in my head. Not unless I want to risk blurting it aloud. “I’m Zoelle Wynter. Zoe for short.”
“Wynter, eh?” He lets out a deep, throaty chuckle that I can feel right down to my toes.
Then he extends one large hand, palm up. For a second, I think he wants me to cross the distance between us to shake it. But then he looks up at the sky and watches as the snowflakes drift down onto his skin. They melt against his bare palm and suddenly, I want to melt against his palm, too. To feel his hands all over me. To see what those long fingers of his can do.
I don’t think I’ve ever had such a strong reaction to a man. Not at first sight. I’ve had one-night stands before, but I’ve never wanted to strip a man naked outdoors, in the dead of winter. Or wondered if a hockey player might want to do any other type of scoring on the ice.
“Leaf,” he calls out.
“What?” I stare up at him, wondering if I just zoned out on half of what he was saying. Why else would he be talking about leaves? Unless he means the Maple Leafs? But why even bring up a human hockey team, when as far as the NHL is concerned, supe teams—and supe players—do not exist?
“My name.” He rewards me with a throaty chuckle. “Scottish mother. Jewish father.”
“And they called you Leaf?”
“Leith, with a TH.” He grins as he spells it out for me. “It actually means wet. So nothing to do with leaves.”
“Wet,” I repeat and swallow hard.
Leith rewards me with a knowing grin. One that has my body reacting in… well… the way his name would entail.