“Dinner?” she said stupidly, as though she’d never heard the word.
“With me. Tonight.”
She thought about refusing. For a nanosecond. There was something about him, some confidence that suggested he might be one of those guys who was simply out of her league.
Then she thought of the way she’d spent the last hour. If she’d learned anything it was that sometimes when you fell it didn’t hurt.
“I’d love to.”
ONCE SHE GOT HOME, Sierra was determined to find something more flattering to wear than her brother’s too-big hockey padding. She still couldn’t believe that cute coach had asked her out. Or that she’d said yes.
She’d never been a spontaneous woman, and yet here she was—going out with a virtual stranger. In fact, she realized in horror, she didn’t even know his last name.
But then she wasn’t a complete fool. He didn’t have hers either. They were meeting at the restaurant he’d named. One of the best restaurants in Vancouver, a west-coast seafood bistro in Yaletown that she only knew about because it had been written up so much. Not that she’d ever been there.
Of course, a restaurant like that demanded a certain amount of primping. If she’d had time she’d have bought a new dress, but she didn’t have time for that, or a makeover. Or a six-week boot camp to get her body into peak shape. No, make that a fifty-six-week boot camp.
What she did have was a favorite little black dress, a new bottle of nail varnish in a hot designer color and a pair of Jimmy Choos she’d bought on sale because they were irresistible, though they were pricey even at fifty-percent off. Never had she been so happy that she hadn’t listened to her sensible, frugal self on the day she’d spotted the green-and-black stilettos.
While she painted her nails, she flipped on the television. She was channel surfing when she saw Jarrad. On her TV screen. For a second she thought she’d conjured him simply from thinking about him, but no, that really was Jarrad grinning out at her from her flat screen, with shaving cream all over his face.
She watched the entire commercial, a sick feeling spreading through her. The final image was of Jarrad with a woman who looked like a young Catherine Zeta Jones—all sex appeal and attitude—heading out on the town. She was as different from Sierra as Saks is from Wal-Mart. Nothing on that woman’s body had come from the sales rack.
With a low moan of horror, Sierra realized that Jarrad was some kind of fancy hockey star. A couple of minutes on Google confirmed her worst fears.
This guy was so far out of her league they weren’t even on the same planet.
An NHL superstar, he’d helped lead his team to Stanley Cup triumph three years ago. He’d taken a body blow to the head in an early-season game that had left him with some vision problems that meant he couldn’t play professionally any more.
But far harder for her to stomach were the endless photographs of him with a stunning swimsuit model.
A swimsuit model, for heaven’s sake. The kind of woman put on this earth to make Sierra forever feel like the forgettable girl next door.
What had she been thinking?
An aura of success had clung to him, she now realized. Everything from his tan to his easy charm to his uber-trendy jeans had screamed money. And look at the way they’d knocked themselves out at the skate-rental place.
How blind she’d been. How foolish. And why did she keep setting herself up for failure with these men who were altogether too much for her?
But she hadn’t done anything except cling to the boards like a motherless chimp to a tree. Why had he asked her out?
If only she had some way to get hold of him, she’d cancel their date.
Only she didn’t.
So she simply wouldn’t show up for their date. She’d call the restaurant and leave a message telling him she wasn’t coming. Big deal. A superstar like that? He’d have a dinner companion five minutes after he sat himself down at the bar.
She looked up the restaurant’s phone number. Picked up the phone. Put it down. Picked it up, put it down. A third time she picked the receiver up and then slammed the thing down. Sometimes Sierra cursed her mother for the manners she’d instilled in her daughter. No matter that Jarrad was way, way out of her league and was no doubt taking out a very ordinary primary-school teacher for obscure reasons of his own, she could not stand the man up on their first date.
It simply wasn’t in her too-polite nature.
So, she tortured herself for a few more minutes by gazing at the perfect bikini-clad body of his professional-model former wife.
Not even her sexiest dress and the high heels could disguise the fact that Sierra’s curves were modest at best, and her height no more than average.
She could argue that her face and body were entirely natural and kept in shape with regular yoga practice and sporadic jogging rather than discreet visits to a plastic surgeon, but pictures didn’t lie. The former Mrs. McBride’s nips and tucks and the vats of collagen Sierra suspected were responsible for that amazingly sexy pout were definitely doing their job.
Sierra picked up her evening bag and paused to glance in the mirror. One thing she was certain of—Jarrad McBride wouldn’t be seeing her naked.
4
WHY DID HE KEEP picturing her naked? Jarrad could not figure it out. He wasn’t the kind of guy to perv around a woman he barely knew. Besides, compared to the curvy babes in his regular world, Sierra wouldn’t stand out.
And yet, he realized with most of the women he knew, it didn’t take a lot of imagination to picture them naked. Sure a lot of them were gorgeous, some even that lucky by nature, but there was a kind of sameness to the big-breasted, long-limbed, long-haired, Chiclet-toothed, tanned females he’d been surrounded by in L.A.
Sierra was so different. Her curves were discreet. He doubted she even filled a B cup. Her hips weren’t extravagantly full or boyishly slim, but somewhere in the middle. She wasn’t tall or short, but average. And because the obvious places didn’t grab all his attention, he found himself noticing how delicate her wrists were. How slim and elegant her neck. How much he liked the slight imperfection of her teeth when she smiled. One of her side teeth overlapped another, giving her a charming smile. Everything was so real with this woman.
Including her intelligence. Not that he wanted to put down his ex, but her idea of news was to check Perez Hilton daily and pass on the bitchiest tidbits to him.
He’d asked for a private room in a restaurant he used to frequent, partly because of the upstairs space. Until he was no longer news, he really didn’t want to be seen publicly. Not that the media in Vancouver were anything like the L.A. bunch, but he didn’t want any problems. Besides, he didn’t imagine Sierra wanted her photo on some gossip blog. She seemed to be a woman who liked her privacy. And who could blame her?
So, when the maître d” had escorted them upstairs to a private room, her eyes had widened for a moment but she hadn’t commented.
Which
