Page 60 of Breaking the Ice

Isabella looks up from where she’s studying at our shared desk in the corner. Well, “shared” is a bit of a stretch. She’s the only one who uses it, but she’s made it clear that I’m welcome to it anytime I want. But what do I need with a desk?

Her brown eyes light up and her face breaks into a smile. “Are we celebrating something? Our two-and-a-half-week anniversary? Your hockey win last weekend? Or is it just date night?”

“Nah.” I hold up my phone. “I got a text from the public relations lady. People are clamoring for more content. We’ve gotta keep up appearances and make some social media posts.”

“Oh.” The happy expression slides off her face and her voice turns wooden. “Yeah, okay.”

Uh-oh. I might be just a phys ed major, but even I can tell I made the wrong move somewhere in there.

I walk over to the desk and grab both her hands, forcing her to face me. “Bella, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

She keeps her gaze on the floor and mumbles. “I thought you wanted to go out with me, but it’s just for social media.”

Duh. What a dummy.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. Can I have a do-over?”

She raises her eyes to mine, questioning. “How does that work?”

“You forgive me for being stupid and let me try again. It’s going to happen a lot, so you’ll get really good at it.”

She cracks a smile at this—a victory for me—but shakes her head. “Nope. You’re not stupid. You’ve got to start giving yourself more credit.”

Warmth buzzes in my chest and spreads outward through the rest of my body. This woman never ceases to amaze me. “I’ve never been a husband before. I’ve barely been a boyfriend, and we skipped right over the fiancé stage, too. So I’m definitely going to need some space to mess up and try again.”

“That’s fair.” Her tiny grin morphs into the full-wattage version, almost blinding me with how gorgeous she is. “I guess we did a lot of things out of order. Is this our first official date?”

“Unless you count when we got married?” I ask, raising a brow and stepping closer to her, circling my arms around her. I drop a kiss to her forehead, resisting the urge to kiss her lips or else I’ll get distracted and never stop. “Was that a date?”

“Hmm.” She taps her chin, still in my embrace. “While it was fun and romantic, there were two other couples, so no.”

“What about Sing-O?” I ask, loving the way she’s pressed against me. “The arcade?”

“You said we were just friends.” She glances up at me, a flirty glint in her eyes.

“I’m pretty sure you said that. And if I recall, Sing-O did end with a kiss. Feels like a date to me.”

“Doesn’t count,” she mutters, nuzzling her nose into my chest, and I let her have the win.

“Okay.” Taking my wife on our first date. I should pull out all the stops for this. “And if it bothers you, we don’t have to take any pictures tonight. We can stage those for the college later.”

“I don’t mind.” Pushing up on her tiptoes, Isabella presses a kiss to my cheek. “But I do have one weird request.”

“Anything for you, babe.”

She bites her lip, drawing my attention to her mouth, and my pants get tight. “Um, can you get ready somewhere else?”

“What?” I ask, distracted. Did I hear that right?

“It’s our first official date and all.” Stepping away from me, she twists her hands together. I hate that I’ve made her anxious. “I want to get ready, open the door and have the big reveal. I don’t want you to see how the sausage is made.”

I can’t help it—I bust up laughing. “Bella, that’s the worst analogy I’ve ever heard. But I’ll pick you up at seven.”

I get ready at Hockey Hall—there’s still an empty room and available bathroom in Jonas’s place, after all—and get recommendations for where to go from Hadley. I grab flowers for Isabella from the grocery store on my way back to our place. I wish I knew her favorites. Once again, skipping over the important steps has its downsides. After her play, I got her wine-red roses that reminded me of her lips, and that’s always a good bet. Hadley told me just not carnations. I don’t know why, but she’s usually right about this stuff.

I’m drawn towards pink roses this time. That’s the color her cheeks turn when I make her blush—or when she’s flushed from kissing. Yeah, that’s the bouquet I want.

Feels like she wouldn’t want me to use my key, so I knock on our apartment door and wait for her to answer. When she does, I have to pick my jaw up off the floor. Her long red hair is down in waves like I love, her brown eyes are accentuated by smokey shadows, and she wears a black strapless dress that’s molded to her curves. It shows off the freckles on her shoulders and her smooth thighs. I want to peel it back inch by inch and reveal everything it’s hiding.