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If you're in your Hockey Romance Era and have run out of Lasairiona books to read, I've GOT YOU. If you haven't yet read a Teagan Hunter hockey romance, you should. They're cute, with great banter, have relatable awkwardness (oh that second hand embarrassment, y'all...) and the hockey isn't just window dressing. Teagan is a real, honest to goodness hockey fan who weaves the sport into her books - which you know gets me all hot and bothered as a 20-year hockey fan myself. Give it a read!

Top Shelf by Teagan Hunter

I have two goals this season:

1. Prove to the Seattle Serpents I’m more than just the old guy.

2. Don’t fall for my captain’s stepsister.

Read Top Shelf Now

If you're in your hockey romance era and haven't exhausted my backlist - I've got you!! I know there are a bunch of new additions to my mailing list, and, well, if you haven't read Tate and Penelope... you're missing out. I love these two - their prank war was one of my favorite things I've ever written...

“Nice taco.” Amusement coats the deep voice of the guy somewhere behind me. Like I haven’t heard a million variations of ‘I like your taco’ all evening. But of course, this dude thinks he’s the one guy that’s original.

I don’t snort and tell him to eat shit and die like I did to the other guy who told me he wanted to eat my taco, but I’m not throwing myself at his feet right now, either.

Dressing like Taco Belle for the freshman Halloween party—a combination between Taco Bell and Belle from Beauty and the Beast—was a great idea at the time. But I didn’t give thought to the countless innuendos and come-ons I’d be subjected to all night.

I’m standing in the study of the parents-are-gone-for-the-weekend house this Halloween party’s going down in. I needed some quiet, but as it turns out, I wasn’t the only one who wandered from the main part of the building. I didn’t see anyone when I walked in, which tells me he was either hiding because he heard someone approach, the oversized brown leather couch swallowed him, or I skimmed the room so fast I missed him.

But I’m most definitely not alone in this room.

“I said nice taco.” His voice is louder, closer, and still laced with amusement that tells me he’s confident enough that he’s onto something, like a fisherman who has cast his line and is waiting for a nibble.

Why is he so insistent on getting a response from me with an uninspired line? Is this how low the bar is these days?

Unfortunately for this guy, I don’t nibble. I bite.

“Thanks, I made it myself.” I keep my voice flat and my gaze fixed on the family portraits hanging on the dark wooden walls. I’m not turning around. In part, because I’m afraid the giant, papier-mâché taco strapped to my head will launch off, a projectile missile sailing through the air at some unsuspecting fucker destined for concussion.

He probably won’t think my taco’s so nice if it hits him in his face.

And the other part is because I’m tired of rejecting men who think because I’m fat I don’t have standards.

“If you were a seagull, who would you shit on first?” He’s not giving up.

Huh. Interesting. Points for trying to be creative I guess.

I can’t say that’s a question I’ve been asked before, and it gives me pause. Which, undoubtedly, was his plan, to make me hang around in his orbit for just a little longer. I tip my head, tapping my bottom lip with a well-manicured finger.

He falls silent. Perhaps he’s giving me space and time to think of an answer, or perhaps he’s picking out his next taco to compliment, either way, the silence is filled with someone strumming a chord on an acoustic guitar. If I’m not mistaken, it’s D-major.

I know the sound, right down to the chord, because every day of my childhood, my dad played guitar. And from the moment I watched Schitt’s Creek for the first time and saw Patrick serenading David with his acoustic guitar, I wanted that for myself.

Actually, that’s a lie. I’ve wanted it my whole fucking life.

I trail my finger along one of the silver frames on the wall in front of me. The smiling faces staring back at me makes my chest hurt. How long has it been since I talked to my twin brother, Oliver?

I swallow that thought down as the stranger strums another note, and my gaze flickers to a sepia-toned wedding picture in a rusting frame.

Music is actually how my parents met. My Dad played open mic nights for fun, and Mom worked behind the bar. He sang to her every night he was there until he wore her down, and she agreed to go on a date with him.

Then he promised to sing to her every day for the rest of their lives.

Ugh. When I think about my parents’ train-wreck of a marriage I have an instinctive urge to curl in on myself.

An all-too-familiar lump swells in the back of my throat, threatening to cut off my oxygen supply, and I bite my lip to stop the welling tears to spill down my cheeks.

“Who you got for me, Taco Belle?” There’s a smile in his words now. “I’m a seagull, ready to shit on the enemy of your choosing. You get one shot, who’s it going to be?”

Another strum of the strings. G-major this time, one of, if not the most popular guitar chord.

I close my eyes, tipping my head back just enough to be standing up straight again. I turn my head to the side so whoever he is can see my profile. “The man who ruined my father’s career.”

“Ooooh. Juicy. I’ll make it a big one.”

I snort again, it’s not at all attractive. “That’s what they all say.” I’m already halfway turned toward him, so I finish the circle, standing so I’m facing him square-on. It’s him for sure, because as far as I can tell, he’s the only other person here.

Sitting on the couch, curled around a beautiful acoustic guitar, is an even more beautiful man who looks like the guitar was made for him, or he for it, or they were both sculpted together as one. And he’s dressed like a fucking ghost from the old arcade game, Pac-Man, his head poking out the top of a blue fabric ghost costume.

I suck my cheek into my mouth to keep from swooning. Yes, swooning. I’m a strong, independent, badass bitch, and I don’t fucking swoon. Not even for delicious men who can play my favorite instrument. Especially when he’s dressed like a goddamn video game character.

But sweet, holy mother of music, if he can sing, I’m stripping naked right here, right now. I don’t give a shit who might see.

Mr. Yum looks up at me, giving me a perfect line of sight to his dreamy green eyes. But are they really green? Maybe gray? The temptation to close the distance to figure out what color they actually are is strong. But I’m half afraid if I get too close, I’ll do something I regret. Like flash my tits at him or stick my tongue down his throat.

He smiles at me in a way that suggests he might not mind if that’s exactly what I did. It’s not a perfect smile, either. He’s missing a front tooth, his lips aren’t all-the-way straight, nor are they shaped like the perfect Cupid’s bow. He’s got a small scar along his jaw that makes me itch with an urge to trace my finger over the silvery white jagged line. Or my tongue.

Or my pussy. Whatever. I’m not picky.

“Sit.” He jerks his head at the couch facing the one he’s sitting on.

My body bristles because who doesn’t love being told what to do? I eye the couch, then the brown-haired, broad-shouldered Pac-Man ghost, then the couch again.

“I don’t bite.” He winks. “I mean.” He shrugs a shoulder. “Not unless you want me to, of course.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about.”

His eyes widen then his brows scrunch together in confusion.

“I dunno who has done... what... there.” I gesture at the couch with both hands before perching my ass on the arm, which, given my plus size, the fact I’m in a giant, bright yellow, off-the-shoulder ballgown and the fact I have an enormous cardboard taco on my head, is a feat in itself.

“Oh. Right.” He moves his fingers on the strings, enough to make the slightest plunking noise, but not enough for it to be considered melodic. “Well, when I came in here there were two guys fucking right there on that armrest where you’re sitting.”

Guy’s a joker.

Unfortunately, that’s my kink.

I need to find his flaws. And fast.

Because if I stay here much longer, staring at all the good stuff, I might act on it.

He licks his lips.

Strike the ‘might.’

That’s a definite, absolute affirmative.

Quick. Think of turn offs.

After a beat, I purse my lips and fold my arms. Like some kind of Wonder Woman shield will help deflect the come-fuck-me vibes he’s putting out into the room. “What do you drive?”

He smirks. “A Rivian R1T.”

There it is. “So, a big dick energy Tesla with an exhaust pipe?”

“A safe big dick at least.” He stops strumming and points at me. “And don’t forget the slide-out kitchen.”

My eyes hurt once I’m done giving him an eye roll. “Of course you pimped it out.”

He winks at me, and it sends some kind of signal to my crotch that makes me clench. “Just say the word, I can show you my bed-mounted roof top tent right now.” The pride in his voice makes me smile.

Boys and their fucking toys.

Neither of us mention the fact I’d probably break the bed of his truck with my fat ass, and I don’t plan to shatter his fantasy.

“Favorite food.” I jerk my chin at him, tightening my arms around me just a fraction.

“Avocado.”

Another swing and a miss. What kind of person prefers avocados out of all the other foods in the entire universe? Hasn’t the man ever had perfectly crisp French fries? Or still-warm bread with salty Irish butter? I’d even accept a perfectly made chicken Caesar salad—juicy chicken, crispy bacon, crunchy croutons, fresh lettuce and a dressing that strikes the right balance of tart and creamy.

But avocado? What the actual fuck?

He points at my face. “I can see you agree with me.”

Still rooted to the arm of the couch, I can’t seem to let the flaws drive me away. In fact, I only want to know more.

“What are you studying?”

“Math.”

“Ew.” I definitely can’t stop my face from recoiling in horror at that particular proclamation.

He chuckles, and I have to admit, it’s a sound I wouldn’t mind hearing more of. It’s warm, the timbre low and rumbly in his chest. “I’m not studying math, but I wanted to see your face when I said it.”

I arch an eyebrow.

“Computer science.” His fingers move on the strings.

A STEM degree? Curious. This guy has jock shoulders, and a jock neck, but a nerd brain. And he’s about to start playing a guitar.

E

A

D

G

B

E

It’s an iconic opening sequence of chords, and part of me wants him to burst into singing The House of the Rising Sun by The Animals, but it might also make me cry. It’s one of Dad’s favorites, a song I heard frequently as a kid. I haven’t been able to listen to it since the divorce.

“And what do you plan to do with your life if you grow up...?” I leave my question hanging, not knowing his name and wanting him to fill in the gap.

He flashes a panty-melting grin that may have actually melted my panties. Fuck. He’s stunning. The sharpness of his cheekbones, nose, and jaw is softened by the warmth in his eyes and the slight wave of his hair.

“Why would I ever want to do that?” He tips his head like he’s contemplating a legit answer. “Tate. And I want to be a spy.”

“Like James Bond?”

He snickers. “Right. That dude wishes he was me.”

“Why the spy route?”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

I sit in silence, watching his fingers pluck at the strings, waiting for the real answer.

“My favorite Aunt, Susan—on my mom’s side—worked for a company that was brought to its knees by a cyber threat. The world is getting scarier by the day. Technology developments, AI, and more prevalent and dangerous cyber threats than we’ve ever faced before. Computer scientists are in high demand.” He shrugs again like I probably should have figured it out by myself.

“What about you?”

I’m too busy staring at his hands—as he continues to pluck at his guitar like it’s an extension of his body—to remember what he’s asking. “What about me, what?”

“What do you want to do when you grow up...?”

“Penelope.” I give him my name since I have his. “And I’m studying speech pathology.”

“Why?”

“Because I needed a speech pathologist for a speech delay when I was little, and I want to help people—like me—learn to communicate with the world.”

His fingers stop gliding across the strings. “That’s fucking beautiful.” He pauses, his eyes twinkling. “Almost as beautiful as you are.”

My face heats. I’m sure we’re not the only ones in this room by now. There are probably people behind me, but I’ve tuned everything out. In the other rooms of the house, the thump of music makes even the air vibrate, the picture frames on the walls of whoever’s house this is rattle and shake to the beat.

On my way in, two kegs were being brought in by a crowd of burly, obnoxious dudes, and when I passed through the kitchen to come into this study-type-room, there was a giant dispenser of fruit punch. I’d bet a hundred bucks that it wasn’t virgin.

But sitting here in a musical bubble with Tate the blue ghost, time seems to be suspended, protected from the brash college party going on around us. He nudges my leg with his knee, sending sparks dancing through my body and making my breath catch.

He stares at my leg where his knee bumped me as though he felt something too.

When my eyes meet his, my heart skips a beat, the thump-thump stutters for just a fraction of a second, and I want to smack myself in the chest for being so dramatic.

He nudges me again, and if I’m not mistaken his breath catches at the contact.

He looks up at me with heat flickering in his eyes. “I want to kiss you.”

Read Dropping the Mitts Now!

Until next time, happy reading!!

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PREORDERS:

The Fly Half & the Fling: https://books2read.com/flyhalf

The Rival Bet: https://books2read.com/therivalbet

Stolen Rebel: https://readerlinks.com/l/4913488