He shifted his eyes to me for only a moment. “There is nowhere I’d rather be right now.”
Heat flushed my cheeks, but I blamed the hot-flash on the bun in my oven. It had nothing to do with the sexy man with all the right words behind the wheel.
Off-season, remember? He wouldn’t be doing any of this if he had games to play.
It wasn’t fair, but I couldn’t stop the thought.
I had to be careful.
Warren’s help was temporary. We both knew it. His career was everything to him, and I couldn’t blame him for it. That is how I used to be, too, before…everything changed.
Ten minutes later, he’d parked the SUV in a giant grassy parking lot.
“A carnival?” I asked as I got out of the car. My boots squished in the grass that was half-soaked in last night’s rain. The Seattle sky was a beautiful slate-gray, but not a rain cloud in sight.
“Number six on the list. I was lucky. This is its last day before they pack up and move on.” He reached for my hand, easily intertwining our fingers as he tugged me toward the entrance.
He paid for our entry and walked us onto the grounds. Several colorful rides, including a Ferris wheel, were scattered about, kids screaming and running back and forth.
“You know I can’t ride any of these, right?” I asked as we walked through the crowds.
“Jeannine,” he said, chiding. “I may be a Shark, but I’m not dumb.”
I chuckled. “Just double checking.”
“This is on the list,” he said. “And there are more than just rides.”
“Like?”
“There are food trucks,” he said and motioned toward the left where a line of trucks sat. “And games.” He glanced to the right where row after row of game booths lined the grounds, all complete with the gaudy and brightly colored stuffed animal prizes.
He stopped in the middle of the two paths. “Which do you want to do first?”
I smiled up at him, totally out of my element. I hadn’t been on a real date since high school, and even then, I’d cut out early. Though, I supposed this wasn’t exactly real was it? It was an item off a list and a way for Warren to prove his worth for the baby.
It wasn’t for me.
“Food,” I said.
“Yes!” He tugged us to the left. “I’m starved.”
“You are?” I laughed as he stopped us in front of the first truck. “I could eat enough for two, maybe three.”
He jolted, his eyes widening as they focused on my stomach. “Is it…are they…twins?”
I laughed at his panicked expression. “No,” I finally said. “Not twins.”
The breath that released from him made his tight shoulders loosen. “I mean,” he said quickly. “That would’ve been fine. I just needed a minute to adjust.”
I gazed up at him, trying to read his eyes. There was no bullshit there. Only true panic followed by true acceptance.
Maybe Warren was being real.
Maybe he wanted this.
I focused harder on the chalkboard menu.
“Fried oreos?”
“Have you had one before?” He asked like everyone was eating them.
“Yeah, no.”
He gaped at me. “Buckle up.”
I laughed as we moved up in the line. A few minutes later, he’d ordered us two. He handed me the deep-fried circle wrapped in parchment paper, and we stepped into the next line for the next truck.
“Cheers,” he said, tapping his oreo against mine.
Timidly, I brought the dessert to my mouth and crunched. The combination of the chocolate cookie and crispy, slightly salty, outer shell was explosive.
“Oh,” I moaned, devouring the rest of the cookie. “Holy hell.”
“Right?” He finished his off, taking our empty papers and wadding them up in a ball. He tossed them in the trashcan that separated the lines for the different trucks.
“I’ve never thought of deep frying a cookie.” I laughed.
“What about that crispy brownie thing on your menu?” He asked as we waited. “Isn’t that deep fried?”
I snapped my gaze to him, shocked he knew one of the items off my menu. “You’ve had my filo-dough brownie before?”
“It’s my favorite,” he said, tilting his head. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“It’s mine too,” I said, and blinked a couple of times, replacing my shock with a genuine smile. “I didn’t realize you’d eaten at my place enough to find a favorite.”
He shrugged. “You do remember that my boys are madly in love with your two best friends…right?”
I laughed. “How could I forget that?” I glanced down. “Bailey’s celebrate-Warren-going-to-the-Olympics-party is when this happened.” I held my tummy with both hands.
He gazed down at it, a sense of wonder glazing his eyes.
“Sorry,” I said, and he blinked out of his daze.
Likely he’d traveled back to that party and put a condom on after I’d asked him not to.
The thought made a flare of grief shoot through me, and I’d never been more certain that I was always meant to have this baby than I was in that moment.
“Why?” He asked as we moved up another space in line.
I shrugged. “I didn’t know if…if it bothered you for me to bring up that night.”
“It doesn’t.” He retook my hand, squeezing it. “I promise.” He sighed. “I know it’s going to take time for you to believe that, but that’s what we’re here for.”
I smirked. “Here, at the carnival…”
He rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
I did.
That was something I’d never had trouble with before.
Reading Warren had always been easy back when we’d hang out at the numerous group functions when our friends got together. But now, I found myself floundering. Sometimes it was just as easy. Others it wasn’t.
“So,” he said, stepping up to the truck’s window. “What will it be? Crab wonton sandwich with sriracha coleslaw, or the pulled pork sandwich with the sweet potato fries?”
I raised my eyebrows. “You try one. I’ll try the other.”
“Sounds perfect,” he said and placed our orders.
Easy. Fun. No drama.
For two people not used to dates, we were doing pretty good so far.
One sandwich, a basket of fries, and half a funnel cake later, I had to throw in the towel. “Okay,” I said. “Game time.”
“What?” Warren teased. “The pregnant lady gives up first?”
I laughed, holding my stomach. “If baby-ball here decides to do somersaults, you aren’t going to like what you see. I need to quit while we’re ahead.”
He chuckled. “Noted.”
We walked to the other side of the carnival, dodging kids, pre-teens, and their parents as we made it to the line of game booths.
“You a good shot?” He asked, stopping at the first booth. It had a row of guns facing a wall of various sized targets.
“Not that I know of,” I said.
“Let’s see what you’re made of.” He paid the attendant, and I picked up the gun that was attached to the table with a chain. His muscles flexed under his shirt, and paired with the light laughter in his eyes, I had a hard time breathing.
Finally, I picked up my gun, the thing heavier than my cast iron skillet.
“Bring it,” I said, finding my voice and aiming at the first target.
A whirring sound flew through the booth, and the freaking targets started moving.
“Oh, hell,” I said, laughing as I pulled the trigger. I missed every single target.
Warren hit five, but you had to hit them all to win a prize.
“Maybe next time,” I said as we sat the guns down and moved on to the next booth.
“How’s the food settling?” He asked as we waited our turn at the dart booth.
“Good so far,” I said, glancing down at my belly like it would tell me if it had other pla
ns.
“Good,” he said, stepping up to take our turn. This game had a wall of balloons. Pop four and win. With only five darts, the odds were slim.
“Damn,” I said as all my darts stuck into the felt-covered wall behind the blown-up balloons. “I’m no good at these games.”
Warren popped three but missed the other two. He chuckled as we moved on to the next one. “Winning isn’t the point. It’s just about having fun. They’re all rigged anyway.”
I arched a brow at him. “How is it one of the most competitive Sharks is totally chill about losing?”
“Maybe it’s because I win when it matters.”
A zing of electricity bolted down my spine with the sincere look in his dark eyes.
I tilted my head, stopping at the next booth. This was the one with the hammer and the bell at the top. You had to ring the bell to get a prize.
“So,” I said, a smirk on my lips. “You’re saying if I made this important to me...you’d win?”
“Yes,” he said.
I glanced upward, my eyes on the array of colored prizes. It was like a stuffed animal rainbow. I pointed to a fluffy purple puppy. “I want that.”
He cocked a brow at me. “Seriously?”
“Yes,” I said, challenging him. “It would mean a lot to me. It’s super cute and purple is my favorite color.”
“Good to know,” he said, strutting up the booth and handing the man his money.
“Good luck, dude,” a stacked bearded guy said as he handed him the hammer. “I tried three times.”
Warren raised his eyebrows, surmising the huge man. If he couldn’t hit it…
Warren didn’t even groan as he lifted the massive hammer over his shoulders. He stared up at the bell like it was an enemy, the competitive look flashing over his eyes that I only ever saw when he was on the ice.
In one fluid swing, he brought the hammer down on the center of the weight, the tiny metal ball flying upward only to stop a centimeter before the bell. It came crashing back down, the sound almost tragic.
The look of defeat in his eyes hit straight to my chest. Perhaps I shouldn’t have picked this game to challenge him on. I knew better than anyone how strong he was. He didn’t have to prove it.
“It’s okay,” I said, smiling. “Honestly, I was just kidding.”
He shook his head and handed the attendant another five-dollar bill.
Another swing.
Another miss.
“Warren,” I said. “I swear it’s fine. It’s rigged. You said it yourself.”
He narrowed his gaze, looking from me, to my belly, to the purple puppy, and back again. He rubbed his palms together widening his stance as he took another swing.
No bell.
I crossed my arms over my chest, glancing around at the crowd that had now gathered around us—both kid and adult alike. Warren was as stubborn as me—if that was possible—because he handed the attendant another five.
Another swing. Another miss. Another five.
“Warren,” I whispered, keeping my smile plastered for the crowd which now included a few people with their cell phones aimed at him.
“Come on, Kinley!” A kid in the crowd shouted. He wore a Sharks jersey with Warren’s number on it. “You can do it!”
My heart melted as I watched that kid grin up at Warren. I’d forgotten what it was like to go out in public with a Shark.
Warren smiled at the kid, throwing him a thumbs up.
No pressure. I swallowed hard, now invested in this way beyond a silly challenge.
Warren rolled up the sleeves of his henley, his bulging forearms knotting something in my stomach. He put more distance in his stance and bent at the knees slightly. The determination on his face was enough to make my heart flip, but watching those muscles work as he hefted that hammer one more time, made my knees tremble.
He brought the hammer down, hard and straight to the weight’s center. The bell shot up and up and up.
And it rang.
The crowd erupted into loud cheers and applause as if Warren had just shot a winning goal in a shootout.
I grinned like a school-girl, clapping, too.
The attendant gave him the purple puppy, and he handed it to me. The thing was wicked soft as I cradled it to my chest.
“See?” he asked. “I win when it matters.”
I laughed. “You could’ve bought me ten purple puppies with how much money you spent to win this.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?” I asked as the kid with Warren’s jersey timidly walked up to him.
“The point is that you asked for something, and I gave it to you. Didn’t matter how hard it was or how slim my odds were…I made it happen.” He glanced from me to my tummy and back again before turning his attention to the kid.
“Mr. Kinley, will you please sign my jersey?” The kid asked, and Warren immediately fist-bumped him.
I watched as he signed his jersey, shook the kid’s father’s hand, and charmed the mother. I was awestruck, not because this beast of a man could be gentle, humble to his fans, but by his words.
He was taking this seriously. Even if he had to prove it in not-so-serious ways. Like winning an impossible purple puppy. I clutched the thing to my chest as we walked back to the car ten minutes later.
Words tangled in my throat the entire ride back to his house…my temporary home.
“Did you not have fun?” He finally broke the silence as he shut the front door.
“I did!” I answered a little too enthusiastically as we walked inside. “I really did, Warren.” I looked down at the puppy still in my arms. “I’m kind of shocked.”
“Ouch,” he said, gripping the center of his chest.
“Stop,” I said, giggling. “I meant about the date. I’m not used to dates.”
He sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Me either.”
“You wouldn’t know it,” I said. “That was really wonderful.”
“Yeah?” He asked, walking closer, stopping with only an inch between us.
He was right there.
Open. Ready. Willing.
Just like yesterday when he’d nailed me to my core—spouting that he knew me.
And from what he’d said?
He did.
The man had shown me the best time I’d had in so long, and here he was just waiting for me to take the reins. And I wanted to. So badly.
I wanted to let him in.
All the way in.
Let him take care of me, of the baby, all of it.
But that wasn’t me.
And it wasn’t him.
And we couldn’t get caught up in this fantasy.
I cracked a smirk, hoping the confident mask hid the hunger in my eyes. I wanted this man like my next meal, but I couldn’t let myself have him. Because I knew him, and the second the Shark’s season started—we would be the last thing on his mind.
“I don’t sleep with a man on the first date,” I joked.
He chuckled, glancing down at my belly.
“I would never assume,” he teased, but didn’t back up an inch.
“Here,” I said, handing him the puppy. “Sleep with this.”
He took it, grinning. “I’ll guard it with my life.”
“You do that,” I said, spinning around to head to my new room before I did something stupid like kiss him and beg him to fuck me. It had been so long, and he’d touched parts of me with that simple date that no man had ever touched before.
I wasn’t thinking straight.
“See you in the morning,” he called as I shut the door to my bedroom.
“See you!” I called back, my forehead against the door.
I locked it for good measure.
Not to keep him out, but to keep me from wandering the house in the middle of the night—a hormonal, lust-starved woman hunting for a Shark.
Chapter 6
Warren
The house smelled of fresh dough
and sugar when I returned from my late morning run. An hour on the pavement had done wonders to work off the frustration coiling my muscles like a spring.
Until I walked into my kitchen.
Jeannine was in front of the stove, sliding pancake batter onto a griddle. It sizzled on the pan, the hiss barely audible over the music blaring from the wireless speakers I had all over the house. Some female rocker voice, fierce, unyielding, and hypnotic just like the woman who danced to it.
In nothing but an oversized T-shirt.
One that stopped just below her perfect ass.
Her long, bare legs went on for miles as she walked back and forth, piling pancakes onto a glass platter.
Fuck, I wanted to stalk behind her, palm the globes of that perfect ass, kiss the seam of her neck, flick my tongue over every inch of that glorious skin.
Dripping sweat, I knew I needed to book it to the shower, but I was frozen.
Watching her.
A line pulled taut, connecting me to her, grounding me in a way I’d never felt before.
The line continued to tug with each second I spent with her—even our cheesy date had been fun. Had left me wanting more.
More of her time.
More of her laugh.
More of her.
“Smells good,” I finally announced myself before I reached creeper stalker territory.
She jumped, her bare feet smacking against the hardwood as she spun around. Quickly, she turned down the music and wielded the spatula at me like a weapon.
“Don’t do that!”
“What?” I chuckled, the wild look in her eyes shooting straight to my dick.
Fuck she was gorgeous and funny and…fuck.
“Sneak up on me!” she put her free hand over her chest, catching her breath.
Cold snaked over my skin, and I realized my mistake. I crossed the distance between us in a matter of steps. “I didn’t mean…shit, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, waving me off. “I just don’t like being snuck up on.”
“Who does?”
She laughed, returning to her pancakes. “People who pay top-dollar to see horror movies, that’s who.” She flipped over the four rounds on the griddle, their color a perfect golden brown.
“How’s the appetite?” I asked.
“Appetite is never the problem,” she said, switching off the griddle and piling the last pancakes onto the platter. “The baby wants to eat everything,” she said. “We just regret it sometimes.”
Winger Page 6