Page 131 of Securing the Pucking Rebound

“Go on.”

“You’ve got to wear my jersey.”

“What makes you think I own anyone else’s?”

His smile grows. “There’s no reason for you to. And if you do, I’d suggest you burn them.”

His possessive streak sends a shot of electricity through me, and I snuggle closer.

“So, what about this date you’re planning?” I ask, beyond curious about what he’s got in mind.

“Friday?”

“I guess it depends on how the game goes.”

“Why? Are you going to refuse any more dates if the Vipers lose?”

“While I rate their chances of bringing home the W against Seattle, they haven’t had the strongest start to the season. I wouldn’t want to put that much pressure on their shoulders. I’d be so sad if they lost.”

“Oh yeah?” he teases, shifting to face me.

“Yep. I’m starting to like you a little bit.”

“Only a little bit?” he taunts.

“Uh huh.”

“I think I can prove to you that it’s more than that.”

He shifts us so we’re lying on the couch, his bad leg stretched out in a way that I pray doesn’t hurt him, and then he pulls me into his arms, and we make out like teenagers for the longest time.

“I should go,” he finally says once we come up for air.

“You don’t have to,” I blurt without thinking.

“As tempting as that is, darlin’, I promised you that we’d take this slow, and I have every intention of following through with that.”

My heart slams against my ribs. How did I ever think this man was nothing but a fuckboy? He is the kindest and most thoughtful guy I’ve ever spent time with.

I roll off the couch, allowing him to do the same and get to his feet.

“All your dishes are still in the dishwasher,” I tell him as I walk him to the front door.

“Then I’ll have to come back and get them. Tomorrow, maybe?”

“I’m meeting Bea for brunch, then a shopping trip. Tomorrow evening?”

“Tomorrow evening. I might even cook for you again, if you’re lucky.”

“What have I done to deserve this?” I ask, gazing up at him with what I fear are heart eyes.

“You’re just you,” he breathes, cupping my jaw tenderly. Leaning in, he brushes his lips against mine in the sweetest of kisses. “Sweet dreams, darlin’. I hope they’re of me.”

“If they are, then I can assure you, they won’t be sweet.”

“Goddamn.” He groans. “What are you doing to me?”

“Tell me everything,” Bea demands, not even bothering with a hello, when I slide into the booth at our favorite brunch place the next morning.