Englishmen, especially when compared to the Continental charm of the Comte.
If Woody had the Comte’s flair, this campaign would be so much easier. And he’d be so much more appealing. Or would he? According to Viv, Woody’s raw masculine edge was part of his appeal. Georgia’s body—if not her mind—agreed. She was so physically aware of him, it was as though an energy charge, a sexual one, ran constantly through her body.
Forcing her mind back to the topic at hand, she said, “Okay, Woody, let’s look around the room and see if we can find a constipated Englishman.”
His laugh boomed out, hearty and very male. Heads turned. Most people smiled, then turned back to their meals, but several women, having noticed Woody, now had trouble keeping their eyes off him. One stylish young man in a business suit was also staring. He said something to his companion, another man like him, who turned to stare at Woody. The pair got up and made their way across the room.
Georgia frowned. Surely they weren’t going to complain because Woody’d laughed so loudly. He had a wonderful laugh, rich and contagious. They could use that in the campaign.
The first young man, looking eager but painfully embarrassed, reached their table. Ignoring Georgia, he spoke to Woody. “You’re Woody Hanrahan.”
Woody smiled easily. “So I’ve been told.”
“Wow! Like, in person! Just having lunch here like Tim and me. Hey, can I shake your hand?”
Still smiling, Woody held out his hand.
The other man gaped at it. “Oh shit, that’s your Stanley Cup ring.” Reverently, he shook Woody’s hand.
Georgia glanced at the knuckle-duster, heavy and gold with a sparkling diamond, as the fan rattled on. “My name’s Benjamin and this is Tim—I already said that—and we have season tickets. Haven’t missed a single home game, and we’ve seen the rest on TV. You’re awesome, man, totally awesome.”
“Thanks, Benjamin.” Woody shook with the other man as well. “Nice to meet you, Tim.”
“You deserved the Conn Smythe last year.” Fervent words poured out of Tim. “It was a crime they gave it to LaBecque.”
Woody shrugged. “I’ve had my share, and Pierre LaBecque led his team to the win. Besides, he scored more goals than I did last season.”
“Yeah, but you had way more assists,” Tim said, “and that’s what it’s really about. Any idiot can wham the puck into the goal if the other guy sets him up right.”
Woody chuckled. “Trust me, it’s not quite that easy.”
Benjamin flushed. “You know what I’m saying. You’re the next Gretzky, for Christ’s sake.”
“Thanks for your support, guys. Now, if you don’t mind, the lady and I would like to get back to our lunch.”
The two men glanced at Georgia as if she’d materialized out of thin air. “Yeah, sure.” Chattering to each other and glancing over their shoulders at Woody, they headed back to their table.
“Apparently I’m invisible,” she said dryly.
“Sorry about that.”
She glanced at him curiously. “Does it happen a lot?”
“You mean, ‘Does it occur frequently?’ ”
“Right.” She smiled, remembering her lesson in the car.
He made a self-deprecating face. “The price of fame. Sometimesit’s cool—gives me a boost if I’m feeling low, like if I’ve played a bad game.” He grimaced. “Like last night. Sometimes it’s a pain in the ass, like if I’m out with a woman.”
“You handled it well.”
His mouth twisted. “You don’t have to sound so surprised.”
She bit her lip. “Sorry. But you seemed at ease, genuine, polite.” Attractive, and too darned appealing. “It’s different from how you come across in interviews. And yes, I understand that the interviewers may catch you at a bad time, but you don’t want to come across as raw and violent.”
He scowled. “I’m not violent. But I’m not gonna come across like a wuss. Hockey players are tough, Georgia. It’s part of the sport.”
“All that
If Woody had the Comte’s flair, this campaign would be so much easier. And he’d be so much more appealing. Or would he? According to Viv, Woody’s raw masculine edge was part of his appeal. Georgia’s body—if not her mind—agreed. She was so physically aware of him, it was as though an energy charge, a sexual one, ran constantly through her body.
Forcing her mind back to the topic at hand, she said, “Okay, Woody, let’s look around the room and see if we can find a constipated Englishman.”
His laugh boomed out, hearty and very male. Heads turned. Most people smiled, then turned back to their meals, but several women, having noticed Woody, now had trouble keeping their eyes off him. One stylish young man in a business suit was also staring. He said something to his companion, another man like him, who turned to stare at Woody. The pair got up and made their way across the room.
Georgia frowned. Surely they weren’t going to complain because Woody’d laughed so loudly. He had a wonderful laugh, rich and contagious. They could use that in the campaign.
The first young man, looking eager but painfully embarrassed, reached their table. Ignoring Georgia, he spoke to Woody. “You’re Woody Hanrahan.”
Woody smiled easily. “So I’ve been told.”
“Wow! Like, in person! Just having lunch here like Tim and me. Hey, can I shake your hand?”
Still smiling, Woody held out his hand.
The other man gaped at it. “Oh shit, that’s your Stanley Cup ring.” Reverently, he shook Woody’s hand.
Georgia glanced at the knuckle-duster, heavy and gold with a sparkling diamond, as the fan rattled on. “My name’s Benjamin and this is Tim—I already said that—and we have season tickets. Haven’t missed a single home game, and we’ve seen the rest on TV. You’re awesome, man, totally awesome.”
“Thanks, Benjamin.” Woody shook with the other man as well. “Nice to meet you, Tim.”
“You deserved the Conn Smythe last year.” Fervent words poured out of Tim. “It was a crime they gave it to LaBecque.”
Woody shrugged. “I’ve had my share, and Pierre LaBecque led his team to the win. Besides, he scored more goals than I did last season.”
“Yeah, but you had way more assists,” Tim said, “and that’s what it’s really about. Any idiot can wham the puck into the goal if the other guy sets him up right.”
Woody chuckled. “Trust me, it’s not quite that easy.”
Benjamin flushed. “You know what I’m saying. You’re the next Gretzky, for Christ’s sake.”
“Thanks for your support, guys. Now, if you don’t mind, the lady and I would like to get back to our lunch.”
The two men glanced at Georgia as if she’d materialized out of thin air. “Yeah, sure.” Chattering to each other and glancing over their shoulders at Woody, they headed back to their table.
“Apparently I’m invisible,” she said dryly.
“Sorry about that.”
She glanced at him curiously. “Does it happen a lot?”
“You mean, ‘Does it occur frequently?’ ”
“Right.” She smiled, remembering her lesson in the car.
He made a self-deprecating face. “The price of fame. Sometimesit’s cool—gives me a boost if I’m feeling low, like if I’ve played a bad game.” He grimaced. “Like last night. Sometimes it’s a pain in the ass, like if I’m out with a woman.”
“You handled it well.”
His mouth twisted. “You don’t have to sound so surprised.”
She bit her lip. “Sorry. But you seemed at ease, genuine, polite.” Attractive, and too darned appealing. “It’s different from how you come across in interviews. And yes, I understand that the interviewers may catch you at a bad time, but you don’t want to come across as raw and violent.”
He scowled. “I’m not violent. But I’m not gonna come across like a wuss. Hockey players are tough, Georgia. It’s part of the sport.”
“All that
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