by Ellis, Aven
So that’s why he’s perceptive when it comes to women, I realize. Nate is close to his sister.
“Well, something good came out of it,” I say honestly. “It gave me the strength to quit. I’d been living at home, saving my paychecks to move out, but instead I took that money, and a loan from my parents, and I decided to pursue the one thing that made me happy. Chocolate.”
“Yeah, I’m curious about that,” Nate says. “Tell me how this love affair with chocolate began.”
As we eat, I tell Nate all about my lifelong love of chocolate. How I was drawn to how many shapes it could be, different flavors, used in so many vast ways, and the joy it seemed to bring to so many people. How I loved science in high school and read about the science and chemistry of creating chocolate through any book I could find.
“So I decided I needed a new beginning,” I say, “and I was going to pursue something that brought me joy. So I moved to Europe to attend the Culinary Arts Academy in Lucerne, Switzerland.”
“Yeah, I saw that on your website,” Nate says. “That must have been incredible.”
“It was amazing,” I say, dipping another sweet potato fry into ketchup. “I felt like I had found where I needed to be. I did a 22-week course in Swiss Pastry and the Chocolate Arts. Then I did a six-month internship in Belgium. And when I was off, I traveled all over Europe to experience all different kinds of chocolates. I went to Italy, France, and Spain to visit chocolate museums and famous chocolatiers.”
“You threw yourself into it,” he says, taking another bite of his burger.
“I did,” I say.
Nate grins at me. “And you say I’m a badass. I beg to differ because going to Europe at 22 and doing all this alone takes serious guts.”
I laugh. “I don’t know, I think taking a puck to the face is more badass than visiting Oriol Balaguer’s shop in Barcelona.”
We continue to talk long after we finish eating, and the sun is ever so slowly sinking into the Dallas skyline. Finally, we move to a corner of the rooftop that is a bit more isolated, and we’re sitting next to each other now. I’m facing him, and Nate has his arm resting across the back of the bench, with the city of Dallas providing the backdrop.
Nate then tells me his story—about how he grew up in Minnesota with his parents and younger sister, and hockey was a given sport to play. How he excelled at it, was pushed to move away to train, but he wasn’t interested in going professional when he was eighteen.
“The idea of playing junior league hockey in some small town when I was a kid didn’t seem like a good fit for me,” Nate says. “So I decided to go to the University of Minnesota. Best decision I could have made.”
“How so?” I ask. “I mean, other than the obvious of being a teenager thrown into a professional world at eighteen.”
“I had the best experience at the U,” Nate explains. “I made lifelong friends, grew up, got a lot of that crap out of my system in regards to the partying and stuff. You know, before I was a professional and everyone could record every idiot thing I did and put it up on social media.”
I groan. “You’re so right about that.”
“I got to be a kid, yet still get better at hockey. It helped me evolve to the next level,” Nate explains, taking a sip of water. He puts his glass down. “I was taken fourth in the draft the year I graduated. By the team I grew up cheering for, the Minneapolis Black Bears. I was living a dream at that moment.”
I hesitate. Nate had everything he could have wanted in Minnesota, and from what Lexi told me, he was an extremely popular and gifted player, and then it all blew up when he was traded to Dallas.
I feel comfortable enough with Nate to ask him his story.
“Nate, what happened in Minnesota? How did this trade happen?”
Nate hesitates for a moment. He rubs his hand back and forth over his jaw, and maybe I’ve reached too far.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say quickly. I instinctively reach for his hand once he puts it down and rest mine over the top of his. “You don’t.”
Nate glances down at my hand. Then he slowly intertwines his fingers with mine, and it feels beyond right. That Nate’s strong hand was meant to be the hand I hold.
“I’ll tell you,” Nate says, lowering his voice so only I can hear him. “But I need someplace more private. There are too many people here, and I can’t take a chance of anyone hearing this.”
I feel like Nate has given me a piece of carré chocolate. A small sampling of what he’s holding back. It’s obviously a bombshell, and something that he wants to keep private.
And once we get to our next destination, I’ll find out exactly what it is.
Chapter 10
Deke: Faking an opposing player out of position — Nate
“Nice,” Nate exclaims as we sink into a sofa for two at a quiet restaurant with a rooftop bar on Greenville Avenue. Then he cocks an eyebrow at me. “How come this place isn’t crowded tonight?”
I smile. There’s only one other couple here, and they are seated on the opposite side of the patio.
“I consulted with the pastry chef to source local artisan chocolate, and they told me the plan was for a soft opening this week with the grand opening to follow later. So while they’re tweaking service and menu items, people only know of it by word of mouth.”
“And you obviously have a thing for rooftops, don’t you?”
I laugh and turn toward him. “Well, I figured there wouldn’t be many people here,” I say. “And yes, I enjoy being able to see the city, so I do like rooftops.”
We’re facing the railing, with white lights strung overhead and the activity of the city below us. The rooftop is quiet, and with the restaurant being undiscovered at this point, I felt this would be a good place to talk to Nate.
But I’m hardly aware of the view right now, or how deserted the bar is. All I’m aware of is Nate, whose hand has pretty much been wrapped around mine since we were at Stackhouse.
A server stops by to take our orders, and we each go with another glass of wine. Nate begins speaking once she disappears.
“So I guess it’s my turn,” he says softly. “You were right, Kenley. I did have my heart broken.”
I see emotion in his dark-brown eyes, the pain of the past coming back to the surface.
“Last year I met Megan,” Nate begins, “at a Black Bear charity golf tournament that summer. She was an organizer for the golf course, and we hit it off. I began seeing her, and I was crazy about her.”
I nod, listening to him speak.
“I thought she was it,” he continues. “We moved in together in January. And I thought, ‘Man, my life is exactly where I want it to be. I have the perfect woman, I’m with the team I grew up cheering for, I’m playing great hockey, and I’m in Minnesota. My life is a dream.’”
“It sounds like it was,” I say, wondering where he’s going with this.
Nate hesitates for a moment, and I see in his eyes he’s back in Minnesota, at the moment when it all went wrong.
The server returns with our glasses of cab and then we’re alone again. Nate takes a sip and continues.
“It all went to hell in April,” he admits. “I had made plans to go fishing with my dad on an off day, but the weather got bad, so I came home early. Apparently way too early. Because I found Megan in bed with another guy.”
Megan cheated on him. I can’t even imagine the level of betrayal he must have felt.
“Oh, Nate, I’m so sorry,” I say, squeezing his hand.
“Oh, wait, it gets better. Not just any guy. But the guy who I thought was my best friend on the team. She was fucking my line mate, Kenley. The guy who I went to war with every game, the guy whose back I always had, the guy I told everything to—was screwing Megan.”
“
No,” I gasp in disbelief, my hand flying to my mouth. “Your best friend?”
We’re silent for a moment, that bombshell hanging in the air between us.
“Yeah. So you can imagine what happened after that,” Nate says, reaching for my hand again. “All hell broke loose. I punched Patrick, kicked Megan out, and then had to go to the locker room with this guy who had betrayed me in the worst possible way. The team cratered as a result, and we went out of the playoffs in the first round. At the end of the season, I told the Black Bears one of us had to go. I just never dreamed it was going to be me.”
“Why was it you?” I ask, confused. “You were the star.”
“I was the idiot who didn’t have a ‘no-trade’ clause in his contract,” Nate explains. “Patrick did. So I ended up in that blockbuster trade here, and he’s now living with Megan.”
My heart squeezes tight inside my chest. Nate had been violated in the worst way possible. His trust was broken by the two people closest to him, and the Black Bears dealing him away was the final insult.
“So here I am,” he continues. “I was shipped to Dallas, a city I knew nothing about other than the hotel I stayed at when we’d have a game against the Demons. It seemed foreign and strange and hotter than hell when I arrived in July.”
“You must have been furious when you came here,” I say.
“Oh, I was pissed,” Nate admits, taking another sip of his wine. “This was the last fucking place I wanted to be. But what choice did I have? None. So I thought, ‘Okay, this is it. You’re going to go to Texas, deal with living there and make hockey your only priority to get through the season until summer.’”
“So you could go home,” I finish for him. “Back to Minnesota.”
“Yeah.”
We’re silent for a moment, and I turn and gaze out at the lights of Dallas, hating how miserable Nate must be here, how badly his heart must still be hurting—
“But all of a sudden I’m deked out of position,” Nate says, breaking the silence.
I glance at him, confused.
“Faked out of position,” Nate explains without waiting for me to ask. “But here I am, determined to be business only, focus on hockey and being a good player, and then I meet this girl.”
Nate smiles at me, and I feel my heart begin to pound inside my chest.
“She’s beautiful, but so much more than that. She’s strong. And when I watched her take on these morons at Dallas Details trying to make her use her sexiness to sell her product, I watched her fight back with everything she had. This girl didn’t need me to rescue her. Not by a long shot. But it totally faked me out of my position of no involvement, and I had to help her.”
I swallow hard, listening to Nate see things in me no man ever has before.
“And I swore I wasn’t going to like Texas,” Nate continues, “but I find that Harrison Flynn is not only a good hockey player, but a good guy. With a positive locker room and great team atmosphere. So I’m thinking it’s going to be okay for me professionally. But now there’s this girl, too. And the second I turned her down, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
“And as I thought about this Texas woman and her love of chocolate and her strong sense of what was right,” Nate says, “Dallas suddenly seemed a whole lot better to me.”
I still can’t speak. I don’t even know where to start. But I don’t have to, as Nate isn’t finished yet.
“So I read her website and saw how intelligent and passionate she was about her business, and I thought, ‘How did I let this girl walk away? This woman asked you out, and because you were afraid of her you said no. You’re an idiot, Nate.’ But then I got to see her again. And she said she wanted to be friends, and I misunderstood.”
I groan and smack myself on the forehead. “Now it’s my turn to be an idiot. Because that was me saving face.”
Nate laughs. “That’s okay, I did the same thing.”
We smile at each other, thinking of how badly we both could have screwed this up, but somehow, we’re still here. Sitting under the Dallas sky and opening up with our stories to only each other.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for anything but one step at a time,” Nate admits, his eyes searching mine, to see if I can agree to this. “But I know this is where I want to be right now.”
“I think one step at a time is a good place to start,” I say quietly.
A hot breeze comes up and blows across us. Nate’s sexy, woodsy scent drifts toward me and oh, he smells so good. I wish he would draw me closer so I could simply inhale his scent.
“So one step at a time?” Nate asks, making sure I can deal with this. Of simply seeing where this might go, but with no guarantees or promises beyond each simple step.
“One step at a time,” I say.
Another silence falls between us, and I’m pretty sure if one of us doesn’t start talking Nate will hear my heart slamming inside my chest.
“You have an interesting article on your website,” he says, breaking the moment. “About tasting chocolate.”
Where is he going with this?
“Yes, the steps to a perfect tasting,” I say.
“You talk about how you have to look at the chocolate, smell it, hear it. Allow the chocolate to melt slowly on your tongue to savor it. Once it melts, you see how the flavor evolves, right?”
“Right,” I say, mesmerized by him.
“And you do a tasting in the dark class so people can focus on the senses.”
Oh nothing on this earth would be sexier than having a private chocolate in the dark tasting session with Nate.
Suddenly Nate moves in closer to me. He lowers his head closer to mine, and I breathe the delicious scent on his skin.
“I can go through each of these steps with you,” Nate murmurs against my ear. “First, I see how beautiful you are, this stunning blond with the piercing blue eyes, dressed in this peach silk tank top that shows off your golden skin.”
Oh God.
“Your perfume smells like summer,” Nate says, sliding his hand up underneath my hair, gently cradling the back of my head in his hand. “Like suntan lotion and the sea. I get a drift of it when you move, and it’s driving me crazy.”
I bite my lip. Nate is being so sexy and gentle at the same time I really don’t think I can handle much more of this deadly combo.
“I hear your voice, and I hear Texas,” he continues, his fingers slowly dancing through my hair. “And I can hear your Southern accent in my thoughts all the time.”
“Nate,” I whisper, almost pleading with him to kiss me.
“But I don’t know what your lips taste like,” he whispers in my ear. “I need to know that.”
Nate lifts his head. I study him, his gorgeous face with the sexy stubble and the long eyelashes and oh, I want this kiss like I’ve never wanted anything in my life.
His hand slowly moves from the back of my head to the side of my neck, stroking it gently. Now his strong hand is moving up to my face, caressing it in a way that is bringing me to my knees.
Nate’s fingertips dance across my cheekbone, down to my lips. The second he touches them, every nerve I have singes with desire.
He carefully runs his finger across my lower lip, grazing it gently with the lightest of touches.
“Tell me you want me to kiss you, Kenley,” Nate whispers sexily.
I slide my hands up to his face, feeling his stubble graze my skin, and all my senses are alive with need for this kiss, right now, right here.
“Tell me you want to kiss me, Nate.”
I see nothing but desire flicker in his expressive eyes from my request.
“Not only do I want to kiss you, but I have to kiss you. Now.”
And then Nate’s mouth is on mine.
Chapt
er 11
Tempering: Chocolate that goes through a process of being heated and cooled — Kenley
Nate’s lips press against mine, his hand resting against the side of my face in a protective, shielding manner. His lips are warm and soft, and it’s the gentlest kiss I’ve ever received. His lips simply linger on mine, making heat surge through me, making me desperate to really kiss him.
“Nice,” Nate whispers, softly pressing his lips against mine again. And again, in a series of sweet, innocent, lingering kisses.
Now my whole body is raging with want. If Nate is this sexy with a simple kiss, what will he do to me with a real kiss?
Nate lifts his head, his eyes shining at me. “Your lips taste like vanilla,” he says, his hand now stroking my face as he gazes into my eyes. “I like that.”
I feel like he’s tempering me. Like chocolate. Heating me up and then cooling me down. And in the process, making me want to kiss him until neither one of us can breathe.
“Vanilla-flavored lip-gloss,” I confess.
“Keep using it,” Nate says.
“So does that mean you intend to kiss me again?”
A slow smile passes over his face. “Hmmm, I might just be fixin’ to kiss you again.”
I burst out laughing at his Texas slang, and so does Nate.
Then he slides me next to him, so I’m snuggled into his chest. It’s massive and rock solid, and good lord, I’ve never felt a chest like this in my life.