CHAPTER 2 (PIPPA)

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-pindownable

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.

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