They shared an easy laugh and continued to eat their omelets, and buttered sourdough toast, in companionable silence. This was new. He didn’t usually have people over to his place. In fact, he’d been a little self-conscious to bring her in here. It was big, but barren. He’d wanted a place to invest his hard-earned salary, and his financial advisor pushed real estate, but more often than not he just bounced around the three stories. Five of the six bedrooms were empty.
“It’s a little stark,” he’d said sheepishly, when he’d unlocked the front door and turned off the security.
“Um...” She had taken in the bare white walls. The leather couch, coffee table and flat screen with a PlayStation were the only furniture in the living room. A pool table held court in the dining room as he preferred to eat at the island in his kitchen. “You like the minimal look?” she teased. “Maybe you’re more Zen then you let on.”
He’d brought her into the kitchen, determined to impress. A bonus of cooking from the age of eight was that he could improvise.
She nibbled another piece of toast. “How long have you lived here?”
“Bought it last year.” He shrugged. “At the time I was too busy with hockey to worry about figuring out furnishings. And besides, what does a guy like me know about interior decoration? During the lockout, I had more time... but was in a bad headspace.”
“Because of the fight?” She leaned in closer, searching out the secrets of his face. “The Jury Room is a classy bar, the décor feels like a library in Oxford. You must have been one of their first fights.”
His mouth flattened “Lucky me.”
“I hate Guy Footscray’s commercials. He talks so loud I’m surprised spit doesn’t fly out of the television screen.”
“Out of all the gin joints in the metro area, and I cross paths with that prick.”
“Well... prick or not, you didn’t have to dislocate his shoulder. Even if he isn’t that nice of a guy.”
He remembered how it felt, having Footscray’s arm between his hands, the blind rage he’d felt. The fucker was lucky he didn’t rip the appendage off and stuff it down his throat.
“You want to talk about what happened?” she asked lightly. “Because from where I sit, it looks like there is a lot going on between your ears.”
Heat rose within him as memory washed over him. His temples pounded. His stomach clenched like he was trying to do a sit-up.
Fuck.
He didn’t want to feel this way around Margot. She was all that was good, light and happiness. Freckles. Flying in his arms. This thing between them was pure. The last thing he wanted to do was taint it with his anger.
“No.” He screwed the lid off a bottle of Gatorade in front of him and took a swig. “Not really.”
“I know I’m not a qualified therapist or anything,” she said lightly. “But sometimes talking to a friend can help.”
“Let’s make one thing crystal clear.” He set down his drink. “You’re not my friend, Margot.”
She blinked. Did she set a world record for the longest lashes?
“Margot, eh? You’re using my name in a sentence. That makes this a serious conversation.”
“I’m a serious guy.”
“So I’m not a friend.” She dabbed her pink lips with a napkin. “What’s that all about? You don’t like me?”
“I more than like you.”
She went quiet a moment. “You didn’t invite me to your house to eat an omelet, did you?”
“And you didn’t come to my house to eat an omelet, did you?”
She huffed a small laugh. “No.”
The air was thick with everything going unsaid. He tried drawing a full breath, just like she’d taught him, but his lungs might as well be encased in plaster.
At last she huffed a husky laugh. “This isn’t easy.”
“Be more specific.”
