“Absolutely.”
I took two plates out of a cupboard and set them down. Jordyn pulled a couple of placemats over and set the plates on them, then arranged the cutlery I handed her. I checked the dishes I’d been heating up to make sure they were hot enough, and set them on the island too. “Okay, we’re set.”
“It looks delicious. I want to try everything.” She began serving herself cashew chicken. “So I missed your goal. I haven’t been watching hockey.”
“What? You missed my goal? Damn.”
“I could probably find it online.”
“I bet you could. It’s not really worth searching for though.” I dished up some beef goulash. “It wasn’t exactly pretty, but it went in, so it counts.”
“You’re still frustrated.”
“Yeah.” I put a piece of beef in my mouth, and it damn near melted it was so tender. I chewed and swallowed. “It’s starting to really get to me. It’s taking the fun out of playing hockey.” I hated even saying it out loud. I hadn’t confessed that to anyone else. At the arena I tried to stay positive, making jokes about it, working hard. I hated to admit that the thing I loved most of all in life was becoming harder and harder to do. But pretending everything was okay when it wasn’t was exhausting me. I found I didn’t want to go out with the guys as much. I sure as hell hadn’t dated, which was also becoming a problem because I needed sex. A lot.
Come on, I was a twenty-five-year-old guy in his prime. That meant I was horny every day, all damn day.
“Wait, someone once gave me some great advice.” She held up a finger and struck a pose. “What was it? Oh yeah, life is like a dick…”
I cracked up laughing. Jesus. This woman. That cold knot that was almost always in my chest thawed and softened. I hadn’t felt this relaxed since…well, since the last time I saw her.
She smiled back at me, and I could see my pleasure reflected in her face. She’d been hesitant when she got here and now she was calm and smiling. I liked making her laugh, as if her laughter was some kind intoxicant that I craved. Part of it was how it made me feel…like I’d conquered something and won. Like, the Stanley Cup of flirting with women.
I liked winning.
And lately, I hadn’t felt like I’d been winning.
You know why I liked sports? Because you worked hard and you won. Nobody could dispute the number of goals you’d scored at the end of a game. It was black and white. Pure and measurable.
But when it came to women, things were never black and white. Success was much less tangible. And much as I liked winning? I hated losing even more.
Jordyn made me feel like I was winning.
And that was a goddamn addicting drug.
Chapter 11
Jordyn
After we ate, Chase tried to get me to go relax on the couch while he cleaned up, but I was having none of that. “Leave it,” I said. “We can do it later.”
“I can’t leave it.” He grimaced. “I hate a mess.”
“Oh no.” I gazed at him in dismay, my eyes dramatically wide.
“What?” He paused, a dish towel in his hands, his forehead furrowed.
“I’m a total slob. This is one area we are not compatible.”
“Hmm. Well, I’d have to see how much of a slob you are before knowing if it’s a deal breaker.”
“It’s pretty bad. I thought men had a much higher filth tolerance than women?”
“Some men, maybe. Not me.” He shrugged and wiped the counter so it was spotless.
“Well, then I’ll help. Together, we can get make short work of it.” I grabbed the leftovers and carried them over to the counter near the fridge. Together we put them away, placed dishes in the dishwasher, and made the kitchen perfect. Okay, it was somewhat satisfying.
It was also satisfying just watching him move around his kitchen, watching his jeans that were faded in all the right spots hug his tight ass. His black turtleneck sweater made his shoulders look massive, and when he pushed the sleeves up on strong, corded forearms, my knees went mushy.
When he’d kissed me earlier, when I’d got here…I’d thought I was melting. Literally dissolving, even my bones, all of me, into a warm gooey puddle at his feet. On our last date, the only kisses had been short and…not enough. This kiss had been…oh God, not enough either, but so much more, so incredibly hot and expansive. Then he’d said he wanted to spank my ass and I almost dropped to the floor. Just being around him made me tingle everywhere, made me want to taste him, to feel the muscles I knew hid under his clothes, to breathe in his amazing scent. I was a mess of lust and longing and frustration.
I sucked in a breath and tried not to chuck the plate into the dishwasher then run and tackle him.
“Okay, all done.” He hung the dish towel neatly on a rack inside the cabinet door. “Let’s go find a movie.”
We moved to the living room.
“You can have a drink yourself, if you want,” I told him as I sat on the couch, my body still pulsing. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“No, it’s fine. Oh hey…what about some hot chocolate?”
“Sure, that would be nice.” His immense floor to ceiling windows gave us a view of the icy city glimmering beneath us.
“And I’ll turn on the fireplace.”
“No!” My heart lurched, and I sat up straight.
He stopped and looked at me, eyebrows lifted. “Problem?”
“I, uh…” I twisted my fingers together. “I don’t like fireplaces.”
“How can you not like fireplaces?”
I bit my lip. There were things about myself I didn’t like to tell people, after a couple of bad experiences. “I just don’t.”
He gazed back at me, and his open, direct gaze made my insides quiver. He’d been honest with me about how he was feeling, how frustrated he was, which I knew had been hard for him to talk about. I felt like maybe I owed it to him to be as open with him. And for some reason, I felt I could trust him. I swallowed. “I’m afraid of fire.”
His chin jerked back as if I’d punched him. “Afraid of fire?” He gestured at the fireplace. “It’s gas. No wood. I just flick a switch…”
I shook my head violently. “I’m sorry. I know it’s weird.”
“Okay. No worries. I’ll make the chocolate. The remote is there if you want to find a movie to watch.”
I picked up the remote, surfing through movie selections until he came back, but I was rattled and didn’t even know what I was looking at. His acceptance of what I’d just told him—without laughing at me or pushing me to let him turn on the fireplace because my fear was stupid and irrational—made me feel very strange. Grateful. Safe. And wow…I really liked this guy.
He returned with two mugs full of steaming, creamy chocolate and set them on the table. “There. So. Why are you afraid of fire?”
“Gah. It’s embarrassing.”
He eyed me, but didn’t push me.
I picked up my mug. “When I was a kid, I was playing with matches. With a friend in the neighborhood. We set the neighbor’s garage on fire.”
“Oh.” He let out a soft breath.
“I got scared and I ran in the house before it got out of hand, and my dad put it out with the garden hose. The neighbor came and helped too. Luckily, there wasn’t much damage, but as you can imagine, I was in big trouble. And I felt so, so sick about it.”
“I’m sure.”
It had been a horrible childhood memory, a definite emotional scar that took years to be able to talk about. The guilt had been unbearable, to the point where I’d tried to deny it had ever happened. I was the light of my parents’ life, and it had killed me to disappoint them like that.
“I can’t even light matches,” I told him. “I don’t have any candles, even though I like the smell of them and the way they look.”
“If you can’t light matches, how did you set the fire?”
“I didn’t,” I admitted. “But I was encouraging my friend.”