“What does that mean?” I ask her, looking back at my house. It’s a two-story house, and from the front of the house, you can’t tell how big it is because the upper balcony is covered, and you can only see one room on the side because the two-car garage is on the other side.
“It’s sleek,” she says, looking up, and she isn’t wrong. The square stairs lead up to two gray pillars that hold up the upper balcony and cover the door. “Modern.”
I grab her hand and link our fingers together, laughing. “Let me give you a tour.” This is the second time she’s let me do this. I keep expecting her to pull her hand away from mine, but she doesn’t rip it away.
Walking up the five steps to the big brown door, I open it, and we are in the foyer. I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous about someone else seeing my house before. I also have never had anyone that I’m interested in over. This is my home, and I am not going to treat it like a revolving door. It is also my private space, and I’m going to share it with a one-night stand. “This is the foyer,” I say, and she looks at the pictures all along the wall. Each picture is a milestone in my life from my first time on the ice to the last season, when I scored my three hundredth point.
“It’s very GQ,” she says, pushing my shoulder with hers.
“Those stairs lead to the second floor.” I point at the staircase on the side and then walk into the great room. And it really is a great room. It’s the whole reason I bought this house to begin with. The whole back wall is windows, and to the left, I have two large white couches facing each other with a gray marble table in the middle. Four single chairs are at each end, almost like a box.
“This space is huge,” she says, walking in to stand between the couches and the dining room table. “I love how it goes from family room to dining room to massive ass kitchen,” she says, pointing toward the kitchen in the back. “Is that where you’re going to cook for me?”
“It is,” I say, walking into the kitchen and standing beside the big marble island.
“I love the high ceilings.” She points at the ceiling. “This house is so you.”
“Good,” I say, walking to the big stainless steel fridge. “What would you like to drink?” I open the fridge. “Wine, beer, mimosa?”
“Mimosa.” She answers right away as she walks over to put her purse on the dining room table. I grab the orange juice and the bottle of champagne.
“We should get a picture of this.” I look over at her. “It’s like we are christening the house with you.” I wink at her. “I mean, if it was up to me, I’d be licking the champagne off your naked body.” Her mouth hangs open. “But for now, let’s just go one step at a time.”
“Nice save,” she says and jumps when I pop the cork. “Also, why do you assume I would get naked for you?”
I shrug my shoulder as I walk to get a champagne glass and pour it, then grab the fresh orange juice I picked up this morning. “Wishful thinking,” I say and hand the glass to her.
“Are you not drinking?” she asks, holding the glass at her mouth. I nod.
“I don’t really drink,” I tell her, “especially not during the season. But having you here is a special occasion.” I open the fridge and grab a bottle of beer. “So I will bend the rules for you.” I twist open the bottle. “To the beginning of a great—”
“Day.” She finishes for me, and I just smirk. She clinks her glass to my bottle and takes a sip, then turns and looks out the window. “I will say that your backyard has to be the nicest backyard I’ve ever seen,” she says, walking to the window.
“Let me show you,” I say, putting down my bottle of beer. Walking over to the window, I slide it open. “All these windows open.” I walk out, and she follows me to the covered lanai. “There are three seating areas.” I point out as I walk down two steps toward the pool. “There is the hot tub,” I tell her. “I’ve spent many nights soaking after a game in there.”
“I thought you were going to say something else.” She shakes her head. “I hate hot tubs.”
I look at her, shocked. “How can you hate hot tubs?”
“Because of all the sex people have in them.” She scrunches up her nose. “It’s just a pool of bacteria festering.” She shakes her head. “But I love the infinity pool.”
“Well, no one has had sex in that hot tub.” I point at the tub. “And there are steps on each side leading down to the grass where I have my outside workouts,” I say, pointing at the large green yard. I don’t tell her that it’s enough space to put a treehouse and for kids to run around free.
I point over to the second covered lanai in front of the great room. “And if you walk this way.” I walk all across to the third covered lanai. There is an L-shaped couch set with a glass table in the middle, facing a wall with a television and a built-in fireplace. I stop and point at the windows. “This is my bedroom.”
“Smooth,” she says. “Trying to lure me into your bedroom.” She finishes her drink. “I’m going to need a lot more than one mimosa.” She chuckles, and I step closer to her. Grabbing her empty glass, I put it on the table next to me.
Walking back to her, I see her eyes follow me, and if someone asked me, I would say she looks nervous. “When I get you in my bedroom,” I say, my voice going low, “it’s not going to be because you’re drunk. It’ll be because you are begging me.”
She shakes her head. “That’s a lot of confidence for a man who has been chasing me for the past four years.”
“Well, I was confident enough to get you here,” I say and then lean in. “Even if you did have to buy my time.”
She pushes me now. “Fuck off. It was for charity.”
“Is that your story?” I say, tucking my hands in my back pockets. Otherwise, I would reach out and touch her, and the last thing I want to do is push her away. I already feel like she has her guard up.
“That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it,” she says, folding her arms across her chest.
I throw my head back and laugh. “Does that mean you don’t want the grand tour of the house?” I point toward the bedroom where you can see the chair in the corner as well as the white cover on the big king-size bed.
“I think we can save that tour for another time,” she says. I clap my hands and smile so big my face feels like it’s going to hurt. “What are you clapping about?”
“You,” I say, getting close enough to her that I can feel her breath on me. “Just admit that this”—I point at her and then at me—“will happen.” Her mouth falls open, and I lean in farther. “Good to know we are on the same page,” I tell her right before I kiss the corner of her mouth. “Now, let me refill your drink.”
Chapter 13
Layla
I can’t seem to take my eyes off him while he walks away. The date or whatever we are calling this is going great. I look around the yard and then back at the window that I now know belongs to his bedroom, and I wonder what it looks like. I mean, not that I care, but I do wonder if it matches the rest of the house.
I will admit I thought I would see a bachelor pad with a man cave, but instead, I found a sleek modern home. “Here you go.” I hear him say and look back at the sound of his voice. “Were you trying to peek in my room?” he says, and I roll my eyes.
“You caught me,” I say. Our fingers graze as I grab the glass of mimosa that he’s holding up for me, making me shiver. I blame it on the wind right away, but the tree leaves haven’t moved. “I was wondering how fast I can get in and out.” I take a sip of the mimosa, hoping like fuck my mouth just stops talking at this point.
“Oh, gorgeous,” he says, winking at me. “If you’re in my bed, nothing is going to be fast.”
“Oh, good God,” I say, trying to show him that I’m not affected by his words. He throws his head back and laughs. “Good one.” I point at him. He walks toward the door, but I don’t follow him. He looks over his shoulder.
“Come on and check it out.” He opens the two doors. “I promise I won’t bite.
” He takes one step in and then smirks at me. “I mean, unless you want me to.”
“You are the most annoying man,” I say, walking to him. “I’m going to check out the bedroom just to prove to you that I don’t care.”
I walk in ahead of him, and if I wasn’t trying to prove a point, I would gush about how beautiful his room is. The ceilings are high with exposed gray beams. The king-size bed sits in the middle with a white duvet on it, a gray throw blanket is across the foot of the bed, and about fifteen throw pillows. “Do you really make your bed every day?”
He shrugs. “Not every day, but I like things clean,” he says. I check out the gray velvet couch in front of the bed facing the fireplace with two round gray velvet chairs in front. The lights hanging from the ceiling look like light bulbs on a chain—it’s modern and masculine all at the same time. “The master bathroom is in there.” He points at the arched doorway in the corner. My feet move on their own, and again, I’m awestruck when I walk into the bathroom. The floor has transitioned from the gray rustic wood planks in his bedroom to a darkish gray marble. The massive shower has mirrors all the way around with what looks like jets everywhere, and it faces a big deep tub that has a marble step to get into it. Candles line the back of the tub, and I can just imagine how it would be.
“It’s so …” I try to find the words. “It’s so …”
“I love it, too,” he says. “Come and let me show you upstairs.”
“You really don’t have to give me a whole tour,” I tell him, but I follow him out of the bathroom past his walk-in closet, and we end up in the great room. “I will give you this; the layout is perfect.”
“It’s not the only thing that’s perfect,” he says, and I groan.
“I know,” I tell him. “I know you’re perfect, too.”
He stops and turns around to face me. We’re suddenly standing way too close, and our chests are practically touching. He lifts his hand and rubs my cheek with his thumb. I think I hold my breath because I’m not sure what’s going on. Maybe the champagne is just fucking with my head. “I was going to say that you’re perfect, but thank you for thinking I’m perfect, gorgeous.” He winks at me, walking away to the stairs. I put the glass of mimosa down as I follow him.
When I get to the top of the stairs, there is another living room that leads to an outside patio, but I don’t stop there. My eyes roam to the hallway and what looks like a game room. “Oh my gosh,” I say, looking at the framed jerseys all along the walls around the room. “Are all these yours?”
He nods his head. “This one was when I was drafted.” He points at the one all the way at the far end. “That one was the first jersey I wore in the NHL,” he says, pointing at the next one. I walk toward the wall and start going from one to the other. “What are these?” I ask him of the wall of pucks all in separate glass boxes.
“That was from my first goal ever.” He points at the box on the top with a smile. “I was five, and my mother kept it.” I look at him as he stands next to me.
“You, Miller,” I say to him, standing in front of him. “You are definitely unexpected.”
“Gorgeous,” he says, stepping closer to me. “We have just begun.” I’m waiting for him to lean in closer to me, waiting for him to kiss me. This is it, but am I going to let him kiss me? Do I really want to do that and confuse him and lead him on? This can’t go anywhere; my mind is fighting with itself. “Now let’s go start dinner,” he says, walking past me and toward the stairs, leaving me here suddenly wishing that he fucking kissed me.
I follow him down the stairs, and he points at the stool in front of the island. “Sit,” he tells me, and I raise an eyebrow at him. “Please.”
“That’s better,” I say and sit on the stool. He walks over and gets my glass and puts it in front of me. “What is on the menu?”
“Steak,” he says. Walking over to the fridge, he takes the steak out and puts it on the counter while grabbing other things.
“Do you want me to help?” I ask him.
“Are you kidding me?” He laughs, turning to grab the bowls. “You paid twenty-five thousand dollars for me, so the least I can do is cook for you.”
I laugh now. “I mean, for twenty-five K, I think you’re right.” I watch as he marinates the meat.
“What’s your favorite music?” he asks, grabbing a remote, and I shrug. “Michael Buble it is.”
I laugh when his voice comes out of the speakers. “Are you trying to seduce me?” I ask as he grabs something else and chuckles.
“Gorgeous,” he says, “if I was trying to seduce you, I would put on Barry White.” He looks up at me and winks.
I laugh so hard my stomach hurts, but I don’t say anything as he prepares the steak and then starts on the salad. “Do you always cook?”
“When I have the time, yeah,” he says. “It helps me de-stress. I can just focus on the food and not stress about anything else.”
“Is it hard to go from a hockey player to a normal human?” I ask, wanting to know everything about him.
“Well, I think I’m a human, to begin with, and being a hockey player is just my job.” He walks over and opens a bottle of red wine and grabs a clean wine glass. He pours me some wine and smiles at me. “My job is just under the microscope.”
“And when you fuck up, the whole world sees,” he says. “I mean, if other people fuck up at work, reporters aren’t there shoving a microphone in your face to ask you why you fucked up so bad.”
I never actually thought about that. “I guess I do it also then.” Taking a sip of my wine, I say, “I get on the air the day after and …”
“You discuss what we did wrong, but”—he looks up at me—“you also discuss what we are doing to fix things or not.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Not always.” I swallow the wine down. “I mean, when you fuck up.”
“Oh, I know.” He chuckles. “Also.” He leans in and whispers, “Sometimes, I listen just to hear you say my name.” I don’t know what to say to that, so instead, I just take another gulp of wine. “Do you want to sit by the pool while I barbecue?”
“No,” I say, getting up. “I’m going to set the table and make myself useful.”
“Well, gorgeous, if you want to make yourself useful …” he says, and I know I set myself up for something. “You can stand next to me in a bikini and feed me grapes while I cook for you.”
I can’t help the laughter that escapes me. “But if you feel more comfortable with setting the table, that is good, too.” He grabs the plate of meat and the bowl of veggies and walks out toward the grill.
“Where do you want to eat?” I ask right before he starts the grill.
“Wherever you want, gorgeous.” He places the veggies on the counter next to the grill.
“You know I have a name, right?” I ask. “It’s two syllables. Lay-la.”
He laughs. “So is gor-geous.” Shrugging, he says, “So same.”
Shaking my head, I walk back into the house and go to the kitchen, opening drawers to find a tablecloth and then the plates and utensils. I carry the stuff outside, putting it down on the white round table right next to the grill. “Is it okay if we eat outside?”
“More than okay,” he says, opening the grill lid and walking away from the smoke that comes out. “If you want, we can play music outside.”
“It’s totally up to you,” I say, setting the table for the two of us. “Should I bring out the salad that you left on the counter?”
“Yes,” he says, and when I walk in and then walk back out, he has the food on the table.
“I didn’t know how you liked your steak, so I made it medium, and if you need it cooked more, then I can put it back on the grill,” he says as I place the salad in the middle of the table.
“That should be perfect,” I say, looking down at the food he grilled. The steaks look perfect. He has baked potatoes, some asparagus, and then some veggies in a tin platter that he cooked on the grill, and I’m shocked he
did all this. I don’t think anyone has actually cooked me a meal before.
“Where do you sit?” I ask. He comes over to the table with two bottles of water that he got out of the fridge that is under the counter. He pulls out one of the chairs and waits for me to sit down. “Thank you,” I say, trying to ignore the heavy beating of my heart and the dryness in my mouth.
“You forgot your wine?” he says, putting the bottles of water on the table. I can’t say anything to him, so I just nod my head. He walks back into the kitchen, and I see him coming out with the bottle of wine and my glass, but he is also carrying a glass bowl under his arm. He puts the bottle down, then grabs the bowl and sets it down. The glass bowl has folded paper inside it, and I watch him put down the glass and then pour me some more wine. He walks over to his chair and sits down. “Serve yourself,” he says. I grab my fork and place a steak on my plate and then serve him one, too. He grabs the veggies and places some on his plate and then hands it over to me.
“Okay, the suspense is killing me,” I say when I grab my fork and knife and cut into the steak.
“What’s with the bowl?” I look at him and take a bite of the steak, the meat melting on my tongue.
“That,” he says, grabbing his own fork and knife and cutting into his steak and popping a piece into his mouth, “is the question bowl.”
“A question bowl?” I ask, taking another bite of the steak.
“It’s to get to know each other,” he says, and I look at him, shocked that he set this up. “Figured this is one way to get to know you.” He winks at me. I have never had a guy try this hard. I have never had a guy want to try this hard. And before he even says the next line, I already know that I’m in uncharted territory. “And it’ll be a step to you giving me a chance.”
Chapter 14
Miller
Only One Chance Page 8
