The Hockey Player and the Angel
Book One of Calendar Men of King Court
Romantic Comedy
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Date Published: July 22, 2019
Top chef Katrina Sherrer should have left hockey pro Marc Johansen out in the cold. That's where she’s headed if she can't change his mind. The all-star defenceman is determined to buy the family-owned Acadia Restaurant and Inn and tear it down. But the gods of blizzards and power outages have other ideas—they want to have fun. They strand Marc at the inn and Katrina in his room. Cognac, fireplaces, cold showers, wrong medication, and scones need to work their magic to prove that Marc can be more than Katrina's arch-enemy and business is not all about money.
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Excerpt
Katrina added the last log
to the fire. The power was still out but she checked the door anyway. If it
didn’t come back soon, she wouldn’t have any more logs to keep the room warm.
Katrina added the last log
to the fire. The power was still out but she checked the door anyway. If it
didn’t come back soon, she wouldn’t have any more logs to keep the room warm.
Her sisters and the guys laughed
and talked. Their voices carried all the way from the lobby and over the salsa
music they played.
“They’re having a good
time,” Marc said, his voice slurring.
He looked groggy. “Are you,
all right?”
“I
feel. I feel light. Airy.”
“Shouldn’t
pain killers make you feel that way?”
“Never
before.”
Katrina
picked up the orange bottle. “I gave you two as you asked.” She looked closer.
“Holy shit. I gave you Tyler’s meds—Tylenol three and he only takes one.”
Marc
laughed. “That’s why I’m feeling so—pain free. And happy. But drowsy. One is
enough to knock out an elephant. Like Tyler. Tyler the elephant.” He laughed,
amused at his own inane joke.
She
picked up another orange bottle and saw Marc’s name on it. “Your medication has
a tangerine lid. You should have said tangerine, not orange.”
“Too late for oranges and tangerines. You’ve
killed me for real, Katrina. Katrina Sherrerrrrrr. Goodbye, my angry angel, my
honey, my sweetie…,” he sang.
Katrina
dropped the pills and raced to him. “Oh my God. This isn’t good. I didn’t mean
it, really. I’ve over drugged you.” She raced to the door and banged on it.
“Help!” She banged but the music was so loud, no one heard. She took out her
phone, remembered it was drained, and threw it at the door. “I need your
phone.”
He
put it under his leg, stretched out his arms, and puckered his lips.
Was
he for real? Had the painkillers transported him back to teenage-hood?
As
much as she wanted to give him a big smooch and more, she had to save him
first. Otherwise, the lawsuit would be bigger than before. “Give me the damn
phone now.”
“Nope.
You’re yelling.”
“I’m
yelling because I have to call for help.”
He
pushed it higher, almost under his buttocks.
“You’ve
got to be kidding me.” She marched to him and stuck her hand under his seat.
Marc threw her onto the bed and tickled her.
“There’s
no time for this, Marc.” She rolled off the bed, landing on the carpet but with
the prize in her hand.
Marc peered
over the side at her. “You’re no fun at all.”
She
jumped up. “I need to save you first.” She moved as far away from him as
possible and called Eric. He picked up after a very long time. “Eric, it’s
Katrina. You have to help me. I gave Marc the wrong medication and double the
dose, too. I gave him Tyler’s Tylenol three. Ask Tyler. What the hell am I
supposed to do? He’s really—happy.”
Eric spoke to Tyler and they
laughed.
“Katrina,
it’s Tyler.”
“Help,
I’ve over drugged him.”
Tyler couldn’t stop
laughing. “Get him into a shower and make him move around.”
“But
the shower will be cold.”
“Even
better.”
“What
about side effects or repercussions?”
“Extreme
and utter nirvana.” The phone went dead.
“Shit.”
“You’re swearing quite a
bit, Katrina Sherrerrrrr.” Marc wagged a finger and sang her name.
Gone was the charming king
of the castle. In his place was an annoying adolescent prankster.
“I’ve only just begun.” She
threw the cell on the bed, grabbed two candles, and put them in the bathroom.
“I have to get you into a shower.”
“Will
you join me?”
“No.”
Was he for real? “Now get up.” With her arms around him, she helped him to the
bathroom. She put down the toilet lid, pushed him onto it, and opened the
shower head. It was lukewarm but soon it would be cold. “Okay, let’s get you
in.”
“Only
if you come in with me.”
“I’ll
join you once you’re in.”
“You’re
lying.”
“I
promise.”
“I’m
holding you to it.” He stood, swayed, and pulled his tie off. He was about to undo the buttons on his shirt
but stopped. A sly smile curled his lips. He stretched out his arms and swayed
toward her. “Help.”
Katrina rolled her eyes. If
she hadn’t done this to him and she wasn’t stuck in his room, she would have
charged out.
She began to unbutton his
shirt, but the feel of his warm skin and the sight of his chest made her
fumble. He was the picture of a weightlifting, muscle crunching, cardio sweating-god
only a professional athlete could be. The dusting of hair on his chest that
crawled down his abs, into his pants and, presumably, all the way down yonder where
the puck and hockey stick had strategically been placed for the photo, gave him
away as a mere mortal.
Marc drew closer. “Are you
afraid of me?” His voice was a sensuous whisper.
“Don’t make me laugh.”
“Then why are you going so
slow?” More of the silky tone. “Rip my shirt off just like the movies.”
She focused on the job or
risk losing herself in his allure. “I can’t afford to buy you another.”
“I’ve got plenty. Come on.
Rip it off. I work out. I have a good chest. Me Tarzan. You Jane. Rip.”
“This is not the jungle.”
She undid another button.
His eyes narrowed but
glinted with slyness. “You are afraid
of me.”
Katrina pulled his shirt
apart, the buttons flying everywhere. “Satisfied?”
The shirt was stuck over the
ripples of his shoulder muscles. “You haven’t finished.”
Katrina dragged it off,
ripped it in half, and threw both pieces in his face. “Ripped.”
Laughing, he batted them
away.
She put her hands on her
hips. “Any requests for the pants?”
His eyes lit up. “With your
teeth.”
She charged out of the
bathroom.
He pulled her back. “Just
joking.”
She undid his buckle and
pulled his belt off.
Marc drew closer, his lips
touching hers. “Unless you’re up for it.”
“I’m not.”
He shrugged like a dejected
little boy. “Another time, okay?”
“Absolutely not.” She put
her hands on his zipper but threw them right off.
“Alas, as you’ve so rightly
noticed, it’s a little crowded down there.”
“Alas, I have rightly
noticed.” He was hard. He was aroused.
“All complements, of course.”
“I’m flattered.”
He waited and so did she.
“You’re up at bat, Honey.”
About the Author
Under the pseudonym of Kirsten Paul, Franca Pelaccia has written two romantic comedies, The Hockey Player and the Angel and The Detective and the Burglar. She has also written a woman’s adventure entitled Moses & Mac, the first book of the Vatican Archaeological Service series.
Writing as Francesca Pelaccia, Franca self-published The Witch’s Salvation, a historical paranormal novel that won the Beck Valley Reviewers’ Choice Award for 2013. An avid reader, Franca reviews novels for the Historical Novels Society.
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