by Aven Ellis
I move to answer it and put my hand on the lock. I’m nervous, I’m excited, and I pray he doesn’t drop the pizza and run the second he sees my pajamas and striped socks.
Throwing caution to the wind, I open the door.
Oh God.
Matt’s still in his crisp white dress shirt and black suit pants. But now the tie is gone, and the shirt is now unbuttoned a few buttons to reveal his smooth, flawless, ivory skin. A powerful urge to know what the skin of his neck feels like hits me full on with an intensity that I’ve never known before.
I tear my eyes away from his skin and find he’s staring at me. His gorgeous pool-blue eyes flicker over me, moving down to my legs, then slowly back up, appraising my outfit as he does.
I cringe. Shit. This was a bad idea. If I wasn’t fighting off the Nate Johansson little sister label before, I am now. I probably appear to be sixteen with my knee-high socks and Harry Potter fangirl shirt.
My face grows hot.
“Holly,” Matt says, his eyes now meeting mine, “you look beautiful.”
What?
“Beautiful?” I repeat.
Matt’s expression is still serious. “You do. It’s you. This is the Holly I know.” His eyes shift back over me again, making me blush. He pauses before continuing. “And you’re beautiful.”
My brain fights through my excitement to figure out what he’s saying.
The Holly he knows?
The Holly he knows is beautiful.
My heart pounds against my ribs hearing those words. There’s something different about Matt tonight. From the way he speaks to the way his eyes are taking me in.
I nearly lose my breath. Could things be changing between us?
Marabou barks, interrupting my thoughts.
I glance down and see his tail is swishing excitedly. I guess Marabou is a fan of Matt’s too.
“Come on in,” I say.
Matt moves past me, holding two pizza boxes and a bottle of champagne in his arms. I close the door behind him. He places them down on Nate’s kitchen island and then parks his keys and cell phone beside them.
“I’ll get the plates,” I say, moving to the cabinet where they are kept.
“Are you hungry?”
“Starving,” I admit. “I didn’t eat before the party because I was so nervous.”
Matt’s expression shifts from smiling to one of concern.
“I’m sorry you have to endure that,” he says.
I force a smile on my face. “It’s okay. A lot of people deal with much worse.” I bring the plates back to the island and hand him one. Then I laugh. “And I don’t get invited to a lot of parties, so it’s all good. It’s very manageable that way.”
“Have you ever sought treatment for it?” Matt asks.
I take out some forks and move next to him. “No. I’m self-diagnosed.”
Matt’s eyes shift to my face, and I busy myself with the pizza to avoid his gaze.
“So you’ve never talked to anyone about it? Not even a psychologist or doctor?”
I take a piece of the balsamic chicken pizza with fresh spinach on top and carefully slide it on my plate. I don’t dare look at him now.
“Just you,” I admit quietly.
A silence fills the space between us. I hope I haven’t made this evening serious now because that’s not what I want. I want to hear his laugh. I want to have fun. I want this night to be magical because I know it’s the only one I’ll ever have with him.
“Holly?”
I lift my head.
“I’m honored that you shared with me. I promise your secret is safe with me.”
I feel a lump rise in my throat. I swallow to push it down.
“Thank you.”
“But you should think about talking to somebody,” Matt says as he takes a piece of meatball pizza for himself. “A therapist could confirm the diagnosis and teach you some coping techniques.”
I smile. “If my social calendar ever becomes filled with parties, I’ll think about it.”
“It would be filled if that’s what you wanted,” Matt counters.
“I can’t imagine anything worse,” I say. “I’m a true homebody.”
I gauge his reaction to that. If my socks haven’t repelled him, being a homebody is another obstacle for him to clear because Matt does like to go out. He does party. And the fact that he’s always at a bar when he’s home in Dallas has not exactly sat well with the Demons brass.
“Well, I did say you were dangerous. This hanging out at home thing? Wild. This is new for me. I never go out on the edge like this. I mean, staying at home? I’ll have to see how this plays out.”
I laugh. Matt grins, that sexy, curved-up smile, and butterflies appear in my stomach.
“What do you want to drink?” I ask. “I think we should save the champagne for later.”
“A bottle of water would be fine.”
I nod and go to the refrigerator, grabbing water for him and a Diet Coke for myself. I hand him the water and a napkin, and we head into the living room.
“We can sit on the couch,” I say.
We sit down next to each other on the sectional.
I balance the plate on my lap and reach for the remote. “Get ready to be kicked in the balls.”
“What?” Matt asks.
“Countdown shows. What did you think I meant?” I tease. I give him a side-eyed glance, and to my surprise, he looks embarrassed. “Matthew Rhinelander, you didn’t think I was going to kick you in the balls, did you?”
“God I hope not.” Matt looks sheepish. “I forgot I said that earlier.”
I can’t help it. I burst out laughing, and he laughs, too.
“Countdown shows are fun,” I declare, punching in a channel number. “Now let me get this all set up so I can flip between them.”
“You take this seriously.”
“I do,” I say. “It reminds me of being a kid. Nate and I were allowed to stay up on New Year’s Eve to watch the ball drop in Times Square. I fell in love with this holiday because of it. I would see all the people in the streets of New York, the people at the shows dancing in formal dresses, and thought ‘That’s what I want to do when I grow up!’ Of course, having social anxiety thwarts the idea of partying at a glam New Year’s Eve bash.”
I take a bite of pizza, and oh, Matt was right. It’s a glorious combo of chicken, mushrooms, and fresh spinach. I’m about to tell him how much I love it when he speaks first.
“Well, before next New Year’s Eve you should see a therapist and find out how to cope,” Matt says, pausing to take a bite of his own slice. “And then you can have the New Year’s Eve of your dreams.”
I’m already having it because you’re here, I think excitedly.
But I keep that thought to myself.
“So Matt, what were you doing tonight out on the patio at the party?” I say, changing the subject. “Why were you out there by yourself?”
Matt exhales. “It’s my turn to share something with you.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Stays between us.”
“You have my word,” I reassure him.
Matt takes a sip of his water and sets the bottle on the coffee table. “I was avoiding Peter Deveraux.”
“But why? You talked to him when we were inside and seemed fine.”
“Because you were with me,” Matt admits. “You were so brave in dealing with your panic attack, and there I was, hiding from the owner because I know he’s pissed at me. You were fighting a war with yourself. I was being a freaking baby.”
“I made you braver?” I ask, confused.
“Why are you so hard on yourself?” Matt asks. “You’re brave. You knew that would happ
en to you and you still went to that party. That’s gutsy. And it put my problem in perspective.”
I don’t even know what to say. I never viewed myself like that, but to think Matt sees me this way? As brave?
I fight back happy tears.
I clear my throat. “What are you going to do to get back on Peter’s good side?”
“Shit, I don’t know if I can. He hates that I go out. He thinks I’m damaging the team’s reputation,” Matt says.
I study him as he speaks, and then I see it. A look of defiance sets in his beautiful pool-blue eyes.
“I’m twenty-one,” Matt continues. “I finally have a life outside of hockey. I don’t like anyone telling me how to live it. I show up and score a shitload of goals, so nobody should care what I do in my free time.”
His tone is defensive. Too much so. As if he’s trying to convince himself this is the life he wants to lead and not just Peter.
“I told you what to do earlier,” I remind him.
“But you’re different.”
Ohhhhhhhhh!
“Why can I tell you what to do and Peter can’t?”
Matt glances down at my legs and back up at me. “Anybody who can be a boss in socks like that can give me their hot sports opinion. And Peter could never pull those off.”
Then that sexy smile appears on his face.
Every nerve I have jumps at his flirtation. I’m a jumble of excitement inside, but I try to project a sense of calm.
“I wasn’t wearing these socks when I gave you my so-called hot sports opinion,” I counter. “You didn’t know my sock drawers existed at that point. And yes. There’s more than one.”
“You’re dangerous,” Matt teases. Then he pauses to take another bite of pizza. “You’re a homebody with multiple sock drawers. I’m in trouble here.”
No, Matt, you aren’t in trouble. But I sure am.
“Wait, there’s more,” I say, playing along. “They are organized by theme.”
“I have to see this.”
“What, my room?”
“Yes. Multiple sock drawers? How many socks do you need?”
I smile. “I’m obsessed with socks.”
“Several drawers would be an indicator, yes.”
I shake my head.
“What?” Matt asks.
“I’m sure this is not how you ever envisioned spending a New Year’s Eve,” I say. “You’ve dealt with a panic attack. You’re eating pizza. You’re being forced to watch New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. Now I’m going on about my sock drawers. Are you sure you aren’t about to pass out from boredom?”
“I’m doing exactly what I want,” Matt says, his eyes growing intense. “And I’m happy to be here with you. In your world. And I should thank you for letting me in.”
A wave of shock washes over me, one so powerful I feel as though I would fall into the surf if I were standing on the shore.
“You mean that,” I say aloud.
“Yeah,” Matt says.
I see not only intensity in his eyes but also sincerity.
And I know my heart is in serious trouble now.
“I want to see your sock drawers.”
“You do not,” I say.
“I do.”
I get up. “Okay, fine. And if you change your mind and want to leave afterward, I understand.”
Matt stands up, his tall frame towering over me. “That’s good to know. I might be traumatized by a woman with a hundred socks.”
I laugh, and he does, too.
I lead him down the hall to the room I’m staying in, and I flip on the light. Matt follows me inside, and oh, the butterflies are dancing from his closeness.
“Brace yourself,” I say, moving over to the sleek black dresser in the room.
Matt grins. “Braced for sock-drawer impact.”
I burst out laughing and open the first drawer. “This is my floral, polka dots, and solids drawer,” I say, showing it to him. “I also have my socks for the gym in here, and I have sticky socks, too.”
“What the hell are sticky socks?” Matt asks, laughing. “Those sound very dangerous.”
“No, no, they are socks for barre class,” I explain, giggling.
“I don’t wear sticky socks on my bar outings.”
“Barre. B-a-r-r-e. As in the workout.”
“Oh.” He flashes me a grin. “I still wouldn’t wear anything called a sticky sock.”
“Well, I haven’t used them yet.”
“Why not?”
“I get a little panicky thinking about taking a class with people around me.”
“But you did that at Northwestern, right?” he asks, a confused expression on his face. “Took a lot of classes?”
“Yes, of course,” I say. “But I’m more in my comfort zone with academics. And this, well, what if I mess up? Everyone will see how terrible I am.”
“So what?” Matt asks. “Everyone has been a beginner. Or messes up. And people are there to do their own thing, not watch you.”
“I don’t know,” I say, uneasiness coming over me. “I know you’re right. I do. I bought these socks as motivation to do it. Maybe one day I will.”
“I know you will.”
“Why do you believe in me, after what you saw tonight?”
“Because I know you’ll face it when you’re ready. It’s that simple.”
A silence falls between us. What’s happening here? I feel this chemistry between us. Matt is content being with me, as I am with him. We’re sharing on a deeper level. We’re flirting.
But will it all end when the New Year is rung in?
I shut the drawer. I can’t think about it. I’m taking tonight for what it is, and if this is all I get from Matt, it’s already more than I ever dreamed I could have.
“Next drawer,” I say, opening it.
“Stripes?”
“Be patient. We are not at the epic stripe collection yet.”
“You kill me.”
“Well, I hope that’s not true because that would be a downer to ringing in the New Year.”
Matt grins at me. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
I open the next drawer. “I’m odd. I know that.”
“You’re odd, all right. But it’s a good thing.” Matt says. Then he pauses for a moment. “And you’re completely dangerous.”
Oh, I’m in so much trouble.
And now Ariana Grande is singing “Dangerous Woman” in my head.
“Well, if you wanted dangerous, you came to the right place,” I say, refocusing. “My food socks.”
“Food socks?” Matt asks, stepping closer so he’s looking over my shoulder.
I shiver from the closeness, but keep my eyes glued to my sock drawer.
“They’re fun,” I say. “I have donut socks, pizza socks, sushi socks, taco socks—”
“I need to see the taco socks.”
I turn and look up at him, and I’m practically flat against his chest, he’s standing so close.
“Um, you want to see them?”
Matt gives me that sexy smile. “I like tacos.”
I laugh and turn back around. I pluck them out of the drawer and unroll them.
“I present to you the socks with the tacos,” I say formally.
“Now these are hot,” Matt declares.
“Ha!”
“Shut up, they are,” he teases.
“I didn’t know you loved tacos so much,” I say, putting them back in the drawer.
“I didn’t until I was traded here,” Matt explains. “Then I found all these great places in Dallas to get street tacos. I get them about twice a week when I’m in town.”
“I
’ve never had street tacos,” I admit.
“We can fix that.”
I freeze. Did I hear him right?
“Sounds boring. I’m intrigued,” I tease.
“Very boring. But that’s me. I’m not dangerous like you.”
I shut the drawer and slide open the third one, trying to keep my emotions in check.
“But we could grab some one night when I don’t have a game,” Matt says. “If you can handle the tediousness of it, that is.”
He’s asking me to dinner.
I’m so happy I could burst. He wants to see me beyond tonight. It might only be for street tacos, but I don’t care.
My fairy tale has been extended to another chapter.
“Well, that depends,” I say.
“Depends?”
“On how you react to my striped sock drawer,” I say. “Now you should brace for full impact. These are my cherished striped socks, along with my special Harry Potter ones.”
“Harry Potter socks exist?” Matt asks, incredulous.
“Matt, seriously, you need a cultural education in Harry Potter,” I insist. “Not only do they exist, but there are all different kinds. I have the Hogwarts house crest ones, my Deathly Hallow ones, and my Muggle ones.”
I look back at him. Matt is staring at my collection, a look of bewilderment on his handsome face.
And yet I don’t fear him taking back his street taco invitation.
“Keep in mind, your acceptance of my love of socks goes hand in hand with my acceptance of your invitation to get street tacos.”
Matt cocks an eyebrow at me, which makes my heart flutter.
“I dig the socks.”
I burst out laughing.
“You lie.”
“I don’t lie,” Matt declares.
“You’re a terrible liar. If you were playing ‘Box of Lies’ on Jimmy Fallon right now, he’d be kicking your ass.”
Now Matt is really laughing. “You’re weird.”
“And you dig it as much as the socks.”