I shrug.“Helps me clear my head.I build things.Fix things.”
She smiles, and damn if it doesn’t light me up inside.“See?That wasn’t so hard.”
I shake my head, but my lips twitch anyway.
The fries arrive, and she pushes the plate between us.“Interview food.”
I raise an eyebrow.“If you eat this much, you’ll never make it up the stairs at the rink.”
She pops a fry in her mouth, grinning.“Good thing I’m not the one skating, then.”
Her laugh, her quick comebacks, sink under my skin faster than I can fight them.This doesn’t feel like an interview.It feels like a date.The thought rattles me, because dates aren’t in my playbook.They lead to connections, and connections lead to weakness.But God, with her sitting across from me, leaning in, hanging on my every word like it matters, I want it.
Too much.
By the time the plate is empty and her notebook is full, I know more about Elle Martin than I should.She grew up in Wolf Valley, a little town south of Maple Creek.She’s been fighting for years to be taken seriously as a journalist.And she doesn’t back down, not from her editor, not from a room full of reporters, not from me.
And I’m already addicted.
I walk her out to her car, telling myself it’s just good manners.
“Thanks for doing the interview,” she says sincerely.“I know you didn’t want to.”
“You’re welcome.It wasn’t as painful as I thought it would be,” I admit.
“Such sweet words from the grumpy center,” she teases, sliding behind the wheel of her car.
I bite back a smile, grateful that she’s too distracted getting settled in her car to see it.She twists the key in the ignition, and the engine sputters, then dies.
I frown.
Elle groans.
It seems this isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and protectiveness surges inside me.
It’s cold out here.She shouldn’t be driving around in a car that barely works.
“Of course,” she mutters, smacking the wheel.“This stupid car hates me.”
“Come on.I’ll give you a ride,” I say before I can think it through.
“Oh, you don’t have to do tha—”
“Get in,” I say, jerking my chin toward my car.
“I can call a tow—”
“Get in, Elle,” I cut her off again, my tone sharper than I intended.
Her eyes flash, but she huffs and climbs out, muttering about bossy hockey players under her breath.I open the passenger door for her, ignoring the way my hands itch to brush against her arm as she slides in.
The drive is silent except for her giving me directions.Her perfume teases me, soft and floral, and every breath feels like torture.
When I pull up outside her place, the words are out before I can stop them.“This is where you live?”
Even I can recognize that I sound like an asshole, and my stomach sinks as I see her back stiffen instantly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
