So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(3)
Cade “Alamo” Burnett, one of the Rebels’ defensemen, had just kissed Violet on the cheek and looked like he wanted to lean into Isobel, but seemed to change his mind at the last moment. No problemo. Isobel was all about boundaries.
“Hey, take off your coat, Iz,” Vi said.
Isobel felt too warm, too cold, and mighty uncomfortable. “Not staying long.”
“Izzz . . .”
“Oh, okay. Keep your bustier on.” As she unzipped her parka, she was surprised to feel a tug. “Uh, that’s mine.”
“I know, I’m trying to—”
“Back off, lady.”
After a few seconds struggling, she discovered that the woman behind her was actually a coat check person and not a parka thief.
Isobel really should not be allowed out in public.
She hoped Vadim wasn’t watching— Oh, who cares what he thinks?
Apparently her eighteen-year-old self did, because that’s what she’d reverted to. That loser’s traitorous gaze couldn’t help itself, and when it landed on the Russian again, Isobel was surprised to find him watching her with mild amusement. This was different. When he was nineteen, humor had been about as foreign to him as a PB&J sandwich.
Some guy who had “PR clown” written all over him was taking a photo of the blonde as she inched her hand inside Vadim’s lapel, apparently needing the warmth only those muscles could provide. Two seconds later, the blonde was subbed out for a redhead, who appeared to have similar body heat problems. Santa, aka Vadim, whispered in her ear, probably inquiring if she’d been naughty or, you know, extra naughty.
The tabloids called him the Czar of Pleasure, a man as well known for his exploits in the bedroom as for those on the ice. Oh, Isobel’s tell-all about Vadim’s erotic talents would make for some really surprising reading.
Eyes bright with admiration, Cade looked around the VIP room plastered with signs for Vesna, which Isobel now recalled was a high-end Russian vodka. “Man, I want a vodka deal.”
“You’d be lucky if you got a deal fronting Budweiser Clydesdale piss, Alamo,” came a slow drawl behind them.
Remy DuPre, the Rebels’ center straight from the heart of the bayou, appeared bearing the most froufrou drink Isobel had ever seen. Blue with a big chunk of pineapple in the center.
“Is that for Harper?” Isobel asked, knowing it wasn’t, because her sister wouldn’t be caught dead in a club with the players even if her boyfriend’s presence gave her a good excuse. Banging one of them is bad enough, Harper was fond of saying. I need to at least give the illusion of labor-management boundaries.
Remy’s blue eyes crinkled. “I’m just here to make sure these boys get home by curfew.”
Isobel hid her smile. She liked how Remy had stepped up to the position of elder statesman since his arrival four months ago. She also liked how Remy was a calming influence on her older sister. He could have bailed on the Rebels when he had a shot at trading out, but didn’t because he loved Harper.
A pang of envy bit into Isobel’s heart, but she breathed it away. She wasn’t looking for the love her sister had found with Remy, but she wouldn’t say no to the obvious fireworks that lit up their bed. Not that anything like that would be happening in this godawful club.
Excusing herself, she headed over to the bar set off in an alcove, determined that this would be a one-drink-and-done kind of night. A plastic-encased menu listed the cocktail options: Vesna Driller, Vesna on the Beach, Vesna Slap ’n’ Tickle . . . you get the idea.
The bartender, who was cute in a swipe-right kind of way, caught her eye.
“Hey,” she said, pinning on her I’m-dateable-let’s-practice smile. “So what’s in the Vesna Bomber?”
“Vodka, grenadine, and passion fruit,” she heard behind her in a tone that could freeze a Cossack’s ball sac.
Here we go. She turned, the first thing that popped into her head skipping her filter and landing right on her tongue. “Sounds girly.”
Okay, so no one would ever describe Vadim Petrov as “girly.” Before her stood the most masculine streak of cells to ever grill Isobel’s retinas, and she lived in a world teeming with machismo.
“Thought you hated vodka,” she said.
“I do.” A negligent wave of his hand said this was all beyond his control. Who was he, a mere multimillion-dollar spokesman, to counteract stereotypes about Russians?
The gesture might have been casual, but his stare was anything but. “I was sorry to hear about your father.”
“Oh. Thanks.” It still gnawed, less a sharp pain now, but a constant awareness of the void. Clifford Chase had been driven, difficult, and demanding. He’d expected great things from his favorite daughter, so her failure to make a career in the pros had strained their relationship.
She missed him like crazy.
Vadim had lost his own father about eighteen months ago. She opened her mouth to offer similar condolences, but they got stuck in her throat with all the other things she longed to say. He’d had a strained relationship with the elder Petrov, a billionaire businessman with rumored ties to the Russian mob, and a man who didn’t want Vadim to play hockey in the United States. Better he expend his athletic energies for the glory of Mother Russia. Sergei Petrov got his wish—after Vadim’s visit to Chicago all those years ago, his son enjoyed a star-making turn in the Kontinental Hockey League.