by Cathryn Fox
“If you don’t, I won’t be offended.”
“It’s not that at all. If I hired you, wouldn’t that take away from your writing time?”
She chokes out a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You wouldn’t have to pay me, and as far as writing time, I haven’t been doing too much of that lately.”
“I’m not going to ask you to cook and clean for me for free.”
She points a knife at me. “Hey, I didn’t say anything about cleaning.”
I flash her a smile. “Damn, I was hoping you wouldn’t pick up on that.”
She laughs. “Nice try though.”
I look her over as her laugh dissolves. What’s going on with little Nina Callaghan? “Why haven’t you been doing too much writing? Writer’s block?” I ask, even though I know as much about that as she does about hockey. Maybe it’s not even real, maybe it’s a term tossed around when you can’t get the words down right.
“Something like that, but I’m hoping to knock out a killer hockey romance.”
A commercial comes on, and when she stretches out her back like it hurts, I stand. “I’ll go light the barbecue.”
She squares her shoulders and stands up to me. “I’m capable.”
“I know. So am I.”
Ignoring her power pose, I step out into the night and flick the lights on in the pool. A soft blue glow lights up the deck as I start the BBQ.
Nina follows me out with the steaks. She slides them onto the grill and bastes them with sauce. I wonder if she even knows she’s humming softly. Maybe she really does like cooking, maybe it takes her to another place.
“How come you hate hockey?”
She closes the lid on the grill. “I never said I did.”
“You didn’t have to. You never came to any home games, that says enough.”
“I didn’t want to bother Cason,” she says, and walks back inside, abruptly putting an end to the conversation.
Why would it bother Cason? I follow her, and I’m about to ask, when she drops down into a chair at the table and picks up her pad and paper. “Tell me what’s going on?”
I sit next to her, and for the next few minutes, I lean into her and explain the game, even drawing a few plays on her pad. Then I talk about the icing call after the ref blows his whistle.
“Interesting,” she says, but seems a bit distracted. She’s not the only one; her closeness is fucking me over, big time. “I’ll be right back.” She slips outside to flip the steaks, and I sort of feel useless.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” I ask when she comes back in.
“You are helping me. Okay, what did I miss?”
“Not much, really.” Her eyes narrow when Burns shoves a guy hard into the boards.
“Ouch. That can’t be allowed.”
“Oh, it’s allowed. It’s called checking, and that guy is a pro at it.” I point to my head. “That’s how I got this.”
Her mouth drops open, her indignant gaze going from me to Burns, back to me. “He did that to you?” Anger flares in her eyes, and I’m a little touched by her concern, actually.
“Yup.”
“Then why is he still playing? Shouldn’t he be benched?”
“Hey, you know more about hockey than you think.”
She beams at me, and I like that so much more than her death glare. “I know the term from figure skating.”
“Good. Write down that he had to sit in the penalty box, that’s what it’s called. Oh, and he spent all of five minutes in there.”
“Well that’s just wrong.”
“It is what it is.”
“I’d better not run into him in a dark alleyway.”
I laugh at her boldness and nudge her chin with my fist. “Are all five feet of you going to take him out for me?”
She straightens. “I’m five-two, thank you very much.” I’m about to laugh again, until she winces and puts her hand on her back.
“What’s wrong?”
“Fractured tailbone. Still causes me pain.” She rolls her neck and stretches it out. “Also a damaged C-5 in my neck.”
“Then you shouldn’t be doing all this cooking, and you shouldn’t have been lifting the grocery bags,” I say, as a surge of guilt rolls over me. I shouldn’t have let her drive me to the store, then cook. Why the hell didn’t she tell me she still has pain?
She rolls her eyes at me. “I’m not an invalid. I can take care of myself, Cole. I have for a very long time now.”
My gut twists. Yeah, she has, and it couldn’t have been easy on her with her parents so absent and Cason on the road all the time. Could that be why she hates hockey? It took her brother away? They really only had each other growing up, and she must miss him. But even though he’s not here, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about her. He sure as fuck does.
Until he’s back, I’m going to make it my own personal mission to help her, the same way she’s helping me.
“Okay, explain that play to me,” she says, and taps her pen on her chin. I turn back to the TV, and as I talk, she makes notes. When another commercial comes on, she darts outside to check on the food.
“Medium well,” she says and comes back in with the steaks. “I hope that’s how you like them.”
“I like them any way I can get them,” I say, and rub my stomach. She fixes two plates with steak and salad, then roots around inside the fridge for dressing.
“Poppy seed, my favorite.”
“I have no idea how that got there,” I say. Maybe my twin sister left it here the last time she visited me.
She stares at the dressing for a minute, like she’s debating on whether to use it or not.
“I think it’s still good,” I say. “Even if it’s not, that stuff never goes bad.” I stand and grab us forks and knives from the drawer, then open the fridge. “I have beer…oh, wait, I think I have a bottle of wine around here somewhere.” Tabatha likes wine, so I always try to keep a few bottles on hand for her. She doesn’t visit much, being on the East Coast, but when she does come, I try to have everything for her. I miss her like fuck, but she’s better off on the other side of the country, away from our bastard of a father.
I know she’s grown up, but I don’t want the old man to have any kind of influence or hold anything over her. He pissed his money away on the bottle, and I don’t want him going to Tabby for money. What she has is hers, and no way will I let him guilt her into giving him a dime.
That doesn’t mean he’s on the streets starving. He’s got a pension coming in, and I take care of medical bills when they come up. Yeah, he was a fucking bastard, and I should have walked away, never to look back, but I guess I just don’t have that in me.
Maybe Nina and I are more alike than I realized. She says she doesn’t like me, but she stayed to help.
Then again, she does want something from me. Story of my fucking life, right?
“Beer is fine, actually.”
I grab two bottles, crack them and pour hers into a glass. “A girl after my own heart.”
“I like something cold when it’s hot out. I can’t believe this crazy heat wave we’re having. But it’s not hot in here.”
“Air conditioning. If it’s too cold, I can turn it down.”
“No, I’m okay,” she says, and sits down. I slide into the seat beside her and shift closer.
“Here, steal some of my body heat,” I say, as I press my outer thigh against hers. She visibly shivers, but I don’t think it’s from the cold.
What the fuck is going on between us? Well, I know what’s wrong with me. I’ve always crushed on my best friend’s sister, but up until yesterday, she’d always treated me like I was something that needed to be scraped off the bottom of her boot.
I cut into my steak and she does the same. “Damn, this is good. Best steak I ever had.”
“I doubt that.”
I turn to her, only to see her sliding her fork into her mouth. Oh, fuck. My dick flinches. Down boy. I curse under my breath and wait for my
erection to shrink, but the damn thing has a mind of its own. And Jesus Christ, does she have to moan like that? She’s eating steak, not having sex.
“Good, huh?” I manage to get out.
“Really good.” She takes a sip of beer and turns her attention back to the television.
If hockey is the most important thing in my life, then why am I watching sweet little Nina, and the way her lips pucker when she drinks, instead of the game that could very well determine if our team makes it to the playoffs?
5
Nina
When the game finishes and Illinois wins, I put my notepad down and glance at Cole, who is snarling at the TV. His hair is a mess from running his fingers through it, and the overhead light glistens in his green eyes as they narrow. I can almost hear the wheels in his brain turning as he considers the playoffs, and going up against his nemesis. But he shouldn’t be thinking so hard in his conditions.
I touch his arm and drag his attention to me. “You okay?”
His face softens, making him look younger, boyish, the tough kid from my youth. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“So that’s your happy face?”
His grin is slow. “Yeah, fingers crossed we make it to the playoffs, and I get to go one on one with Burns.”
I have an instant tightening in my gut at that. “What if he hurts you again?” Too many concussions can be detrimental in the long run, and I’d hate to see Cole have any kind of permanent damage.
He links his fingers and cracks them. I cringe at the sound, and he gives me an apologetic look. When we were young, I always glared at him when he did that, but he never apologized or even pretended to be sorry.
“That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”
“It’s kind of a barbaric sport, don’t you think?”
“Nah, far from it.”
My gaze roams over his face. “Judging from your scars, I’d beg to differ.”
Something comes over him, fast, and he stands, his chair nearly toppling backward as he glances around the kitchen.
Heavy silence fills the air, takes up space, seeps under my skin. Uncomfortable in its wake, I follow his gaze, note his deadly stillness, along with the tightening of my throat as I wait for him to speak. I’ve clearly hit a soft spot. His scars are something he doesn’t want to talk about.
“I better clean up,” he finally says as he scrubs his chin. The rustling of the hairs reaches my ears, and I fight the urge to run my fingers along the hard angle of his jaw, tug him to me and hug him.
Happy for the change in subject, I jump up and say, “I’ll help you load the dishwasher, and then I’ll get going.”
“You don’t have to do that. You cooked and I didn’t really help.”
“There was nothing for you to help with.” I look at the few dirty plates, salad bowl, glasses, and silverware. “Actually there’s not much, and there’s no need to put the dishwasher on with so few dishes.” At home I’m always conservative when it comes to things like this. “How about we just wash and dry the quickly. Working together we’ll be done in half the time? Then the next time I cook, I’ll do it when there’s no game on and you can get more involved.”
“Okay, I’ll wash, you dry,” he suggests.
“How about the other way around, since I don’t know where anything goes?”
“Sounds good.”
Cole clears the plates as I fill the sink with soapy water. From the window, I can see the pool all lit up and the hot tub tucked into the corner. It looks so nice and relaxing. What I’d do to top off a long night with a hot soak. But I don’t have a suit, and even if I did, I’m not stripping down in front of Cole.
“Just drop them in here,” I say, and splash my hands in the bubbles, flustered at the directions of my thoughts. Cole steps in beside me, and his body brushes against mine as he sets the dishes into the water. The clean, fresh sent of him takes over my senses, and my pulse flutters in my throat. Electricity snaps between us, hot, volatile, impossible to ignore. I try not to show a reaction, a difficult task, considering his closeness, the way his body is pressed against mine and lighting me up like I’m one of the July 4th fireworks.
“Do you like living in this big place all by yourself?” I ask, a tactic to get my mind on something else other than his hard body and how every touch makes my sex flutter. I soap the dishes, and water splashes over my shirt. Dammit.
“Yeah, I do. I spend a lot of time on the road with the guys, sharing rooms, meals, and sometimes beds. Here, well, I can just kind of relax, you know?”
I turn to face him, and his gaze rakes over me, lingering on my T-shirt.
I glance down and, thanks to the water I splashed on to myself, see that my bra is visible. Damn, how many times am I going to embarrass myself in front of this guy? I turn from him, hide my chest and say, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were an introvert.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You like to unwind, relax and rejuvenate alone. Nothing wrong with that. I’m an introvert,” I say. “I prefer libraries and quiet spaces over parties.”
He frowns at me. “Is that why you didn’t come to mine?”
He noticed that I hadn’t come?
Jeez, I never thought I’d be missed by him, or any other guy. Like I said, men rarely pay me attention.
But Cole was paying attention.
As my gaze trails to Cole, I go on to explain, “Partly. It’s not that introverts don’t like parties, they just need quiet time to refill the well. I think almost all writers are introverts. Maybe that’s why I gravitated toward it after the accident.”
Cole tosses the dishcloth over his shoulder and gestures with his head. Something mischievous sparkles in his eyes. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
My body instantly goes on high alert. Yes, I’ve been checking him out like, a lot, but if he thinks I’m going to follow him to his bedroom so he can show me something, no matter how much I want to see that something, it’s not going to happen.
I put my soapy hand on my hip, wetting my T-shirt even more. “What exactly is it you want to show me?”
“Come on, it’s a surprise.”
I lift my chin. “Forget it. I don’t like surprises.”
“You’ll like this. It’s a big one.”
Oh, I just bet it is.
His soft chuckle curls around me as I give him the death glare, and when that sexy grin materializes, my nipples harden. “Don’t you trust me?”
“No,” I shoot back quickly.
He laughs. “Come on, what did I ever do to you?”
“You called me names, Cole. Mean names.”
He angles his head, his eyes softening. “I’m sorry. I never meant to be mean…not to you, Nina.”
My heart flips at the softness in his voice, the sincerity, the… What the hell? That can’t be real. This is Cocky Cole, and he must be playing with me somehow.
I clear my tightening throat. “A little too late, don’t you think?”
“Can you please just come with me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you won’t tell me where you’re taking me. Lord knows what you have in mind.”
That slow-ass sexy grin of his is making me insane, making it harder and harder to keep from just throwing myself at him and letting him take me wherever he wants.
“If you’re worried it’s my bedroom, it’s not,” he says.
“I never thought that,” I blurt out, but his brow arches, like he’s begging to differ. God, am I that obvious? A blush comes over me at my presumptuousness. Just because we kissed doesn’t mean he wants me in his bed. A little embarrassed, I say, “Then show me here.”
“I can’t.”
“Well—”
“Nina, are you always so stubborn?”
“That’s name calling again, Cole.”
“Jesus, woman.”
Before I even realize what he’s doing, he scoops me up and leaves the kitc
hen.
“Put me down!” I say and squirm against him.
“You’re going to want to stop that.”
“I will not stop.”
“Nina, I’m getting a hard-on again, so if you’re okay with that, go ahead and keep wiggling.”
OMFG.
“Oh.”
Maybe I wasn’t so wrong in thinking he wanted to take me to his bedroom. I mean this is the second time I’ve felt his hard on tonight. Then again, he’s been out of commission for so long, a grilled cheese sandwich would probably turn him on. The steak sure seemed to, and he was pretty excited about his sugary cereal.
“Yeah. Oh.”
He carries me down the hall and turns left. Then sets me back on my feet. My eyes go wide as I glance around.
“Cole, this is…amazing!” I walk around the gorgeous dark-wood circular library, a few reclining reading chairs near the window.
“My decorator thought I’d like this.”
“Don’t you?”
“I don’t read much.” He jerks his head toward the cabinets. “The shelves are still pretty empty. My decorator put a few books up there on hockey, and a few autobiographies. To give it a bit of a lived-in look. All for show, you know?”
“Oh, man, I could help you fill these shelves.” I run my hands over the bare bookcases.
“With your books?”
“Oh, hell no. Don’t read my books.”
“Why not?”
“Just…don’t.”
He steps up behind me, his body close enough that I feel his heat. “Because of the sex? Are you worried that I’d be peeking inside your brain, learning all about little Nina’s wants and desires?”
“No, it’s not like that. That’s all made up.”
“All of it?”
“Of course.” I turn to see him. “It’s fiction, Cole. No sex is that good, and no man is that good.”
He opens his mouth like he’s about to respond, then his lips curves downward. He bends forward a bit, as he releases a long, slow breath.
Next thing I know, he squares his shoulders and Cocky Cole is suddenly standing before me, a smile on his face, but it’s fake, grim, and reminds me more of young Cole, when he’d show up at our house unexpectedly, a little shaken up but trying to hide it.
