Caged (Gold Hockey Book 11)

by Elise Faber

A shrug. “I was going to walk home for them.”

  Her mouth formed the word walk, but even though the sound didn’t cross her lips, he still saw or heard it or maybe the man who made her nipples tingle, her thighs quiver, maybe he just had fucking superpowers.

  That seemed the more likely scenario when he said, “I live around the corner.”

  “Oh,” she whispered.

  “Want to come home with me, so I can grab some and not be wasteful?”

  She swallowed. Hard. Hated that she felt like she was trapped inside a washing machine, being jerked this way and that during the conversation, not able to feel like she was in the least bit of control, not even for a moment.

  She knew she could kick him out, could continue to feel stuck and whirling every time she had a conversation with him. Or—

  Or she could just embrace this conversation, the time with a man who was funny and a little pushy and who’d also saved her books from hitting the ground. She could accept that out-of-control feeling and just live for one fucking moment.

  By grocery shopping.

  Yup.

  Even when she was pushing her boundaries, she was living a huge, exciting life.

  Paper or plastic.

  The proverbial question.

  Chapter Six

  Ethan

  He could freely admit that he was shocked she’d said yes.

  Completely and utterly shocked.

  But instead of wasting his opportunity, he used his hockey player skills to think quick on his feet and give her directions to his place.

  It was a little over a mile, tucked on the edge of town, up against a creek. With neighbors on just one side, it afforded him the quiet and privacy he craved, but it wasn’t so far from the small downtown area that he couldn’t walk to the restaurants and shops a few streets over.

  For him, it was the perfect fit.

  Also, because he was south of the city, real estate prices weren’t so bad, and for a player who’d been shuffled around quite a few teams before he’d found his fit (thus contract offerings hadn’t been filled with outrageous professional athlete money), less expensive housing prices were right in his wheelhouse.

  She pulled into the driveway, completing the short trip in a way that was much what he would have expected—competent, careful, with no extraneous movements.

  He waited until she put the car in park, until she’d gotten out, before he grabbed his books, popped the door, and led the way up to his front porch, watching her as she took in his little house. It was a neat Craftsman two-story home, sitting on a decent-sized lot. The front yard was small with a tiny patch of grass and some planters on one side of the driveway, a curved path leading up to the door. The back yard was nice, though. Good sized and shaded, plus as a bonus, the previous owners had left behind their hot tub.

  Immediately, thoughts of coaxing her into that steaming water, her curvy body clad in a skimpy swimsuit, had him distracted and way too ahead of himself.

  But that was him with Dani, wasn’t it?

  She paused on the porch, and he waited for a moment for her to go inside before he remembered she couldn’t go inside.

  Because he had the only key.

  Dumbass.

  Stifling a sigh, he unlocked the door and held it for her to walk through.

  Her quiet studying continued as she stepped into the hallway, as she glanced at the pictures he had lining the wall on either side. He saw her lips curve, her hand lift to point at one of his mom’s favorite photos—him amongst a giant stack of books.

  “It’s come to you naturally then,” she said softly.

  He chuckled. “That it does. Both of my parents are giant nerds.”

  “You saw my stack of books. What does that make me?”

  “A nerd.” He tugged a lock of her hair. “But an adorable one with obscenely sexy toes.”

  She froze. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he said, “that your toes are sexy.”

  Dani spun for the door.

  “What are you doing?” He placed his hand on the panel before she could open it.

  “You’ve apparently got a foot fetish,” she said, “and sorry, but that’s a step too far for me.”

  “I don’t have a foot fetish,” he said, stepping close. “What I do have is a Dani fetish, and that includes sexy dresses and toes and turquoise glasses.”

  Her brows dragged together. “You like my glasses?”

  “And your feet.” He leaned against the door, his shoulder against the wood, his chest facing her side. It was convenient because he was able to study her and prevent her escape. Muhahaha. “Though, not in a creepy way. Now, going back to the glasses. I haven’t seen you wear them before.”

  A blip of something—no, of pain—in her eyes. “No, I . . . um . . . wear contacts at work.” A shrug. “After the game last night—” She shook her head, stopped talking, and he waited a few moments for her to finish the thought. When she didn’t, he pushed away from the door, took her hand.

  “What happened after the game last night?” he asked, drawing her down the hall.

  “Nothing,” she said, dropping her chin to her chest and studying the woodgrain of the floor. “I fell asleep with my contacts in. That’s bad, and my eyes hurt this morning, so I wore my glasses today.”

  He studied her face, the tendrils of pain clinging to the edges of her expression. “No,” he said. “No, that’s not it.”

  Her brows raised. Her hand slipped from his.

  He amended. “Or, at least, that’s not only it.”

  “I thought we were getting to know each other over food shopping,” she said, turning back, her eyes drifting over the pictures again before she reached the opening to his kitchen. “This isn’t the grocery store. Your bags in here?”

  “No.”

  She spun to face him, lifted a brow.

  “Want to elaborate?” he asked. “A pregame to the getting-to-know-you grocery talk?”

  Her throat worked, panic in the depths of her amber and russet eyes.

  “Or how about I just grab the bags?”

  There.

  He saw the exact moment she relaxed, her shoulders settling, her lips curving just the slightest bit. “You snoop,” he told her, “I’ll go out back and grab the bags.”

  “Out back . . .” he heard her say, but the words disappeared off into space when he slipped through the back door. His garage was detached and abutted the yard. Having been built later than the original house, it was plunked into the back corner of the lot. He didn’t mind the short walk most days, though it sucked hauling shit into the house in the rain.

  Luckily, this was California, and rain wasn’t a common problem.

  Still, at that moment, he quickly strolled across the yard, certain that she wouldn’t just abandon him and his apparent foot fetish.

  Why, one might ask?

  He grinned.

  Because he held her purse in his hand. Which conveniently held her car keys.

  Another muahaha.

  He strode to his car, grabbed the reusable bags from the trunk, and strolled back in time to peek through the back windows and witness Dani snooping, or maybe not something quite so obvious. Rather, she seemed to be slowly studying each corner of the space, as though it were an art exhibit and she needed to take in every inch.

  He waited for her to make a circle, to return to facing the back door, and her reaction when she completed that turn, when she was staring at him through the glass, did not disappoint. Her lips parted, and he’d bet this cute little house that her cheeks would be hot. Behind those turquoise frames, her eyes widened, and she clamped a hand over her chest.

  Ethan tugged open the door. “Whatcha doing?”

  To her credit, she got over her surprise in a flash. Shrugging, her tone completely even and without a hint of embarrassment, she said, “Snooping.”

  “That usually involves opening and closing things,” he said, moving to a bank of drawers and tugging out the
top one. “Like that.” He nodded at it. “This exhibit is my junk drawer, and there are many interesting things in here that tell you about the various parts of my psyche.”

  Her lips twitched, probably because he sounded like a dumbass.

  But whatever, she wasn’t running from the house, so that was a win in his book.

  “Like what?” she asked, peering down into the drawer.

  Okay, that he wasn’t really sure of. It was his junk drawer, a place to dump his receipts, old keys, etc. His gaze drifted down, and also apparently a place to dump several candy bars and a manual for his car. He reached in, picked up one of the bars. “I like Snickers?” he asked.

  More twitching of those lips. “That is not on Rebecca’s meal plan.”

  Probably why they were shoved in the drawer in the first place. “How about receipts?” He snagged one at random. “Look, this says I spent twenty-two dollars and ninety-six cents on gas.”

  She giggled. “That is actually more telling than you probably suspect.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She snagged it, pointed at the total. “It means you’re one of them.”

  “What do you mean by them?”

  “Them being,” she said, lips twitching, “one of those weirdos who fills up their car when it’s only halfway empty.”

  He tilted his head to the side, and he studied her closely. “As opposed to what?”

  She set the receipt down, closed the drawer. “As opposed to us normal folks who drive until we’re on fumes and then begrudgingly hit up the gas station.”

  “That sounds stressful.”

  Amusement in those amber eyes. “I like to live dangerously.” She laughed. “Okay, not so much. The truth is that I hate going to gas stations.”

  “Why?”

  A shrug. “It just always seems like such a waste of time. The cheap places always have long lines, and then it takes forever to fill up your tank, but not long enough to be able to do anything productive like reading.”

  “Bookworm,” he teased.

  “Takes one to know one.”

  He laughed. “Also, not sure if you’re aware, but you’re obsessed with this concept of wasting.”

  She smiled up at him. “I like to be as frugal with my time as possible, is all.”

  Curiosity threaded through him like fibers weaving into a basket, coiling, wrapping around each, pulling taut. “And what does being frugal with your time consist of?”

  Her gaze drifted to the ceiling as she considered the question. Then she glanced back down, her eyes meeting his, and it was as though he’d been struck by a cattle prod. Electricity flowed through his nerves, his muscles tightening, his body going stiff—okay, maybe that was just his cock.

  “Keystrokes are the most important frugal use of my time,” she said, “followed by doing my best to never drive during peak hours, thus wasting my free moments in traffic.” She ticked off the items on her fingers. “Also, I never spend more than eight hours in bed, even if I can’t sleep.”

  He’d circle back to that later—because there were many reasons to spend more than eight hours in bed, especially with a woman like Dani. Right now, he had to bite on something else she said. Lifting a brow, he asked, “Key . . . strokes?”

  A chuckle bubbled up in her throat, and she sighed. “Seriously?”

  He took her hand in his again, lacing their fingers together, tracing light patterns on the inside of her wrist. She shivered as he touched that sensitive skin, but she didn’t pull away. In fact, she shifted a little closer. He sidled closer himself, until his body was a hairsbreadth from hers. Her skin smelled like strawberries, and he found himself drifting closer, wanting to taste it on his tongue.

  Patience.

  “So, you never laze in bed?”

  She swallowed, and he traced the lines of her throat with his gaze. “No,” she said. “I don’t have any patience for it. Too much to do. Too many things in my brain that . . .” She trailed off.

  “That what?”

  “Too many things that only seem to come to the forefront of my mind when it’s too quiet, when dark has taken over the world.” She shook her head. “That sounds ridiculous, I know.” A smile that didn’t look right in the least. “Come on,” she said, turning for the front door, “let’s go get food.”

  “Sure,” he said, keeping his tone deliberately light, wanting to tug her out of whatever had made her sad. He could tell she didn’t trust him enough yet to share what had wounded her so deeply. Instead, he teased, “I’d be happy to go on a date with you.”

  She sputtered, spun back. “I—uh—”

  “What’s the matter? I’ll be a cheap date when you’re paying, I promise.” His lips curved. “Most of the time, I’m only allowed to eat vegetables.”

  Dani shook her head, eyes wide, and arms stuck straight out at her sides.

  He walked to her, not stopping until his toes were millimeters from hers. “Dani?”

  There was a bead of perspiration on her throat, sliding down beneath the neckline of her dress, down between a pair of some of the most gorgeous breasts he’d ever laid eyes on. He could see her pulse thrumming, just above her collarbone, a tiny fluttering of butterfly wings.

  “I wasn’t asking you out,” she whispered.

  “I know.” He took a chance, bypassing the miniscule touches, the barely there brushes, and cupped her cheek. “I am,” he said. “Asking you out. At some point in the future, when you’re guaranteed to say, yes,” he added when he saw the protest begin to gather on her face.

  Her sigh coated his skin, and for a moment, she leaned into his hand, her body drifting close enough that the tips of her breasts whispered across his chest. “I don’t know that I will,” she breathed.

  His hand flexed on her cheek. “I do,” he said.

  There was something between them. He felt it. She felt it.

  The same thing that had prompted him to invade her car and go grocery shopping together. The same that had her lingering near him, her body leaning toward his. It was an invisible thread, slender and reedy, but it was the promise of something different than he’d ever experienced.

  Something that had him pushing forward when he would have normally backed off.

  Because Dani was different.

  She drifted a little closer, her chest brushing his, those glorious breasts barely making contact. It was a fucking tease, that light contact, and the urge to yank her close was intense.

  But instead of giving in to her, he shoved that down, stepped back, and asked, “Groceries?”

  Her chest rose and fell, her cheek slipped from his hand, and . . . a trickle of ice slid down his spine.

  Because eclipsing that thread was the refusal he saw in her eyes.

  Fuck.

  “Or if not groceries,” he said quickly. “Then maybe—”

  He froze when she touched him, her fingers combing lightly through his beard, sending prickles of sensation down his throat, his torso, unseen fingers wrapping around his cock and squeezing tight.

  “It’s soft,” she whispered. “I expected it to be rough.”

  Ethan didn’t dare move, not when she was touching him with such feather-like strokes, not when it felt so fucking good. Not when—

  She stepped back.

  “Groceries,” she murmured.

  He wanted to wind his fingers into those sleek brown curls, to haul her flush against him, and to kiss her until they were both reduced to ashes. To forget all about the need for oxygen and food and . . . whatever other things humans needed to survive.

  But . . . groceries.

  So, he stuck the bags under his arms and let Dani lead the way out the front door.

  Chapter Seven

  Dani

  She stared at the bags of groceries on Ethan’s arms, one after another hooked on his big arms like giant bracelets hanging from wrist to elbow.

  “Mandy”—one of the Gold’s trainers—“is going to kill me if you get hurt because you were c
arrying my groceries,” she murmured.

  “Mandy,” he said, smiling up at her with that fucking gorgeous grin that never failed to turn her insides to jelly, “will understand that sometimes a man needs to take care of a woman—”

  “How incredibly sexist of you,” she said dryly.

  And who knew that she could be dry? Well, not in the non-wet sense, because she spent the majority of her time in that non-wet manner (aside from Ethan’s effects on her pussy . . . ha), but rather in a witty, sarcastic way. She was usually so worried about all the jumbled thoughts in her head getting mixed up and tangled, those lame, mismatched bits trying to escape and rendering her unable to form a sentence, let alone any banter or a droll comeback.

  But with Ethan, it was different.

  Somehow, all the voices in her head expounding on everything wrong with her, all the mistakes she’d made, the stupid things she’d said, the embarrassing stuff she’d done . . . quieted when she was with Ethan.

  “—he cares about,” he said, continuing his silliness about a man needing to take care of a woman he apparently cared about, “no matter if she’s strong and capable enough to carry in her own groceries.”

  She crossed her arms. “And your groceries? Should I carry those in turn?”

  “My groceries will survive my walk back to my place.”

  “You’re going to what?”

  “Walk,” he said, pausing by the door to her condo and waiting while she unlocked the door and held it for him, after shifting the single paltry bag he’d “allowed” her to carry after she’d pitched a fit, in order to stick the key in the lock and open it.

  Also, that was new.

  The fit part.

  That she somehow felt comfortable enough with Ethan that she could argue with him. Aside from her mom and dad and two sisters, she didn’t argue with anyone. She kept her head down, tried not to draw attention to herself, and lived her life to the best of her ability.

  No.

  The last part was a lie.

  She lived her life to the best of her ability to keep herself safe.

  That was to say, she hid.

  From nearly everyone and everything.