by Avery Flynn
Stupid, stupid, stupid blushing. She got up, hoping walking around her studio apartment would cool her off. “There are some message boards.” She gulped, remembering some of the posts about his ass. “And some news reports.” Truth? It had been more like watching gifs of snippets of locker room interviews where his shirt was off and he ran his fingers through his wet hair, which really showed off his biceps. “And a few Tumblr fan pages.” Those? Oh God, those she couldn’t even think about right now.
He raised an eyebrow, no doubt giving her his best The Rock impression. “Is it wrong of me to ask if you liked what you saw?”
“More like it’s irrelevant,” she said, looking around and realizing she had walked past the bookcase dividers that blocked off her bedroom from the rest of the apartment.
Paging Dr. Freud.
She would have turned right around but Anchovy, who’d been trailing behind her the whole time, did his favorite trick and turned out the lights.
“Is Anchovy telling you to go to bed again?” Caleb asked.
The involuntary thrill of hearing him say the word “bed” should have been negated by the fact that he was talking about her dog. It wasn’t. Damn. She seriously needed to get off this call.
“Yeah, he’s a pain that way,” she said as she scratched Anchovy behind the ears to say thank you.
Caleb, still perfectly lit in his bedroom, sat down on his bed that she could lay down on spread-eagle and not touch the edges. Not that she was thinking about doing that. Not. At. All.
“It’ll be crazy over the next few days. We have our first road trip,” he said. “But I’ll see you for date number three when I get back into town next week. Have a good night’s sleep, Zara.”
“Night, Caleb.”
She ended the call, let her head fall back, and released a half moan/half groan of OMG-what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-me. A good night’s sleep? Yeah, she’d be lucky to get any shut-eye tonight.
And the third date? Oh God, she definitely wouldn’t be sleeping if she tried to imagine what it would be.
Chapter Nine
Six days and three games later, Caleb finished the short walk from the subway station and looked down at the Bramble app on his phone to confirm he was at the right location. Yep. Fifty-eight Forty-two Rockaway Avenue. This was it. He glanced up at the sign hanging above the opaque glass doors that read Hot Thang Review with a kitty cat strutting above the word “thang.” Everything about the place, from the neon sign to the no-neck guy standing with his arms crossed over his massive chest outside the doors, screamed strip club.
What in the hell had Zara been thinking? Her official third date message had come through while he’d been at the morning skate. Just the address, the time, and the note that their parents had sweet-talked the Bramble folks into letting them pick out where date three would take place. That was, without a doubt, the scariest bit of news he’d had since he’d sat down for his ass-chewing in Lucy’s office.
He hadn’t done any Google searches, just showered, got on the subway, and traveled across Harbor City to make it on time. Now he didn’t know what to do. His position with the team was better than before the Bramble stuff started, but getting photographed coming out of a strip club covered in glitter was not going to keep him in Coach Peppers’s good graces.
Just when he was about to text Zara, the front door opened and she strolled out. She was in a pair of heels that added at least four inches to her height, a pair of tight jeans, and a low-cut blue T-shirt tied just under her tits. Her skin glowed with a heated flush, as if she’d been running sprints, but there wasn’t a sparkle of glitter on her.
This isn’t a real date, numbnuts.
Well, it was but it wasn’t and it couldn’t, so whatever dirty thoughts were screaming through his brain and bad ideas had his cock thickening against his thigh didn’t mean anything.
There were rules.
It took a second for the sudden rush of blood from his brain to his dick to even out before he understood. Realization crackled like thunder, loud and ominous. This was not good. Not at all. He’d heard about this from one of the guys on the team who’d gone with his girlfriend.
His mom and her dad had set them up on a learn-to-pole-dance date. Britany, no doubt, was somewhere laughing her ass off.
“Are you going to stand outside all day or come in for your lesson?” Zara asked, opening the door farther.
The guy next to the doorway shot a dirty look her way and then ambled off down the block.
Caleb hustled over to the door, holding it for her but not going inside. “I’m not stripping.”
She crossed her arms and exhaled a sigh that perfectly telegraphed how disappointed she was in him. “Well, you know how to suck all the fun out of things.”
Shaking her head, she looked away and down. It started small—just an up-down bobbing of her shoulders—before the first giggles broke free and she looked back up at him, a huge smile on her face.
“Oh my God, you are too easy, Caleb. This isn’t a strip club. It’s a restaurant, and the chef, John Thang, is giving us cooking lessons. Do I look like I’m about to go strip?”
No matter how hot she looked right now, he knew better than to answer that question. Instead, he followed her inside the Hot Thang Review, which turned out to be a pop-up restaurant/cooking school. There were about fifteen people in the dining room, which was decorated with small shadow boxes showing the same family in different domestic scenes. Walking along the back wall, he could follow the progression from scene to scene as the baby in the first one grew up until, in the final shadow box, he wore a chef’s toque as his parents and grandparents looked on with proud smiles.
The man standing closest to the kitchen wasn’t in a toque, though—he was wearing a chef’s jacket and he held out his hand. “You must be Zara’s friend Caleb. I’m John. Welcome to class. I hope you two have as much fun as your parents hoped you would when Jasper called to see if I had room for two more today.”
Caleb shook the other man’s hand. “I have to warn you, my best kitchen skill is making a mean boxed mashed potatoes.”
“Well, you’re going to walk out of here today knowing a little bit more than that.”
The chef gave Zara a hug, and the two chatted like old friends for a few minutes before he moved on to greet the other couples.
Zara leaned in close. “Not quite the den of inequity you were expecting.”
“I’m never going to live that down, am I?” What could he say? His brain went a totally different direction than it should when he was around her.
One red eyebrow went up. “Highly doubtful.”
Pointing out the scenes with the miniatures, he asked, “So the art is yours, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, they’re mine.” Her cheeks turned a darker shade of pink. “John’s grandmother was one of my first customers at my Etsy store. When John made the list of the hottest chefs in Harbor City, she commissioned the dioramas showing his journey.”
“It’s pretty amazing.” The detailing in each scene blew him away, right down to the bowls of pho, the shoes by the door, and the love that seemed to permeate all of it.
“It was the first piece I was ever commissioned to do.” She pointed to the scene of two parents bringing home a baby wrapped up in the same pink, blue, and white blanket his sisters had come home from the hospital in. “Up until then, everything was accessories and dolls for others’ scenes.”
“Why not your own?” The woman was talented beyond belief. She really needed to do more of her own art like these.
She shrugged, letting out a weary sigh before giving him a smile that had a brittle edge to it. “That’s a long story, and we’re here to make bún bò Huê. It’s the best noodle soup you’ll ever have. It has pork hocks, beef shanks, cubes of congealed pork blood, a deliciously spicy broth, and a sate chili sauce made with annatto seeds. It’s so good.”
Judging by the look of foodie bliss on her face, he had to believe her. For the next four
hours, they moved around the kitchen, working together as he did with his teammates on the ice.
There was an easy flow between them as they sliced, diced, mixed, and boiled the soup. She teased him about stripping while he pounded the lemongrass stalks to release their oil. He told her about Phillips’s on-again, off-again dating drama with Marti, asking for a woman’s advice to pass along. She’d snorted and told him that dating advice was not her thing—maybe he should ask his mom.
Then they ate their creation in the dining room, and it was heaven. “You were not lying. This is really good.”
“Better than boxed mashed potatoes?” Zara asked, pointedly looking at his empty bowl that he’d practically licked clean.
“Without a doubt.” He rubbed his very full stomach. “Now all I want to do is sit on the couch and watch Law and Order while I pet a super-smart dog’s belly.”
She rolled her eyes. “That was oddly specific.”
“Oh no, you saw through me.” He added a melodramatic gasp for good measure. “What do you say? My place is across the harbor in Waterbury. Let me recuperate for a bit at your place?”
For a moment, she just stared at him, no doubt trying to give him her best evil eye. The bún bò Huê had obviously done its magic, though, and put her in the best of moods, because the corners of her mouth curled upward even as she gave him a minimal stink eye.
“Coming over to watch TV is not in the rules,” she said.
“It’s not against them, either, because it won’t be a date. It’s just us watching a show minus FaceTime. Exactly what we’ve already done.”
Another minor stare off before she laughed, the sound even better than the buzzer after a goal.
“I really should have been more specific when we made that list,” she said with a chuckle before standing up and pointing at the containers of leftover bún bò Huê. “You’re carrying that on the train back to my apartment.”
This wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had. He had to face it: spending time alone with Zara was just asking for trouble. It was hard enough to keep from picturing her naked when they were in a kitchen full of people and boiling broth. Of course, that wasn’t about to stop him from going home with Zara, where he would sit on his end of the couch and she would be on the other and that small horse of a dog of hers would be between them, like a furry chaperone.
Everything would be fine.
…
The loud snuffling on the other side of her apartment door followed by a muffled woof meant Zara’s arrival home wasn’t a surprise. It never was. Anchovy always knew when she was here—and when she had company.
“So, a word of warning.” She slid her key into the dead bolt. “Anchovy thinks he’s a lapdog and that personal boundaries are a myth.”
Caleb nodded, seemingly not worried at all, and she opened the door. Anchovy gave her a hearty bark of a greeting that would no doubt get her a nasty gram from Mr. Tottingham next door. Then he started to do the zoomies around the couch and the kitchen island, occasionally stopping to accept a quick behind-the-ear scratch from both of them.
“Have you been gone for a long time?” Caleb asked when Anchovy ducked his big head under her bed and came back with the already mauled neon-green ball her dad had given him yesterday.
“I could go downstairs and get the mail in the lobby, and this would be my greeting when I walked back in.” She took the leftovers from him and put them in her fridge. “I’m already signed in to Prime, so why don’t you grab the remote and pick out a Law and Order episode.”
He shoved his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “It’s your place—you should pick.”
“You go ahead and choose.” She glanced over at the Great Dane. “I have to take Anchovy outside before he explodes.”
As soon as she said the word “outside,” the dog dropped his new favorite toy and rushed over to the basket holding his leash, using his big snout to push all the other things in there to retrieve it. Caleb didn’t look convinced, but judging by the urgency with which Anchovy shoved his leash into her hand, she didn’t have time to argue.
She snapped on the dog’s leash. “I’ll be back. Whatever you go with is fine, just wait for me to start.”
Then she was out the door for a quick trip to the park across the street so Anchovy could pee on the same fire hydrant he always did and then sniff every bush along the short path until she said the magic word (“treat”) and then trot along next to her back inside the building. When she opened her front door, Caleb was standing close to the TV, his lips moving as he slowly and quietly read the episode descriptions out loud.
She froze, not able to shake the feeling that she was intruding on a private moment. Anchovy, though, took full advantage of her loosening her grip on his leash. Probably thrilled to see his new best friend was still there, he bolted inside, snagged his ball from the ground while galloping toward Caleb, who turned to face them just in time for the dog to rear up on his hind legs and put his paws on Caleb’s chest.
Not looking freaked out in the least, he just rubbed the dog’s sides. “Nice ball.”
“Sorry, I failed horribly at teaching him manners,” she said, hurrying forward. “Anchovy, get down.”
The dog shot her a pained look but got down and went over to the couch, climbing up and curling into a ball on the blanket spread over his end.
“It’s no biggie,” Caleb said. “I love dogs. Wish I could have one but with my schedule, I’d be worried about even keeping a goldfish alive.”
From what she’d read this week, she’d learned that hockey didn’t have as many games a week as baseball, but the teams played around three games a week. It was a long-ass season going from preseason in September to possible Stanley Cup finals in late May or early June. It was just another example of why she’d been smart to make “no relationship” rule number one. The last thing she wanted was a repeat of the chaos of how she’d grown up, with her dad never having the same hours—or regular hours—and not being home very often when he was off work. Unreliability and a lack of stability were not in her life plan.
“Yeah, Mr. Friendly here has separation anxiety, so the fact that my office is my home works out really well for us.” She sat down on the couch. “Did you pick out an episode?”
He glanced back at the TV, his jaw tightening, then pointed the remote at the screen and clicked play episode. “This one sounded interesting.”
“Let’s do it,” she said, taking off her shoes and putting her feet up on the coffee table, her heels barely reaching.
He sat down beside her, leaving a few inches between them—right up until Anchovy ever so gracefully farted and then stretched out, his oversize paws pushing against Caleb and forcing him to scoot closer to her. His hip touched hers, and he extended his arm along the back of the couch behind her. Zara had never been more aware of her hip or the tops of her shoulders. Her chest tightened. She wouldn’t relax back against him. She wouldn’t. It wasn’t against the rules, but it seemed like a bad idea.
Still, somehow, by the time the action on the screen had moved from the police investigating the crime to the district attorneys who prosecute the offenders, the back of her head was nestled in the hollow of his shoulder. His arm had moved from being across the back of the couch to wrapping around her waist. Neither of them said anything, but there was a tension tightening in her core, a thrill of anticipation brushing against her skin. Her every nerve was focused on him, the tease of his fingertips over her T-shirt; his deep, steady breaths in and out; and—finally—the soft, barely there snore that penetrated the haze of lust making her every thought center on sex.
Gently, she sat forward, pivoting to get a look at him. He was sacked out. Now that did wonders for a woman’s ego.
Still, she couldn’t help but look at him. It wasn’t every day a hot guy like Caleb crashed out on her couch. She’d never realized his eyelashes were so long or that he had a faded scar near his left eye or that such a big, hard man could look so soft whil
e he slept. It sucker punched her right in the feels. And while waking him up and sending him on his way home was the right decision, she just couldn’t do it. Instead, she turned off the TV, grabbed the non-dog-hair-covered blanket in a basket by the couch, and covered him. The blanket, which spanned from her head to her toes, barely went from shoulders to knees on him.
Then, before she could give in to the urge to kiss him good night that she didn’t understand, she got up and tiptoed to her bedroom.
…
Caleb couldn’t say what woke him up at first, just some instinctual knowledge that something wasn’t right. His right shoulder was stiff from where he’d been lying on it—unusual, since his bed was worth almost as much as the rest of his bedroom furniture combined, a concession to the fact that a tweaked neck from sleeping weird could be the difference between a good game and a great one. Everything around him was dim, the first soft light of dawn barely coming in through the windows. He lay there listening, trying to climb through the sleepy haze making his brain slow to figure out why things felt off.
Then he heard it. A quiet shuffle. A light clink of glass.
Someone was in his house.
He didn’t get any further than that before he jumped up, whacking his shin on something hard that shouldn’t be near his bed, and sprinted, his eyes starting to acclimate to the low light, toward the noise. He cleared the space between his bed and the source of the noise like he was racing for the puck, connecting with its source. He wrapped his arms around the intruder and was about to slam them against the wall when a single noise cut through.
“Caleb.”
Zara.
Everything in him stilled for a second as reality seeped in and he shook off the last of his sleepy confusion. The memories came as fast as heartbeats. He and Zara had made dinner. They’d come back to her place and watched Law & Order. He…must have crashed on her couch like the biggest asshole ever. And now he was holding her, clutched to his chest high enough that her feet were probably dangling in the air.