From the garage, we enter the most beautiful kitchen I’ve ever seen. Everywhere my gawking eyes land, modern lines are accentuated by natural wood and faded stone. This is an interior designer’s wet dream. Luxury and coziness merge in perfect harmony.
Through floor-to-ceiling windows, the pink and purple tones of winter dusk creep over a snow-sprinkled landscape. This is where I’m going to live for a whole freaking year?
“Holy shit, this is the ultimate after house on those before and after shows,” I prattle.
“Thanks, I think?” He shuts the garage door and places my stuff at the entrance of a hallway.
Removing my shoes, I relish the heated floors. My eyes are drawn to a massive gas fireplace surrounded by oversized couches with fluffy pillows. The hearth is bigger than most campsites. In front of that fireplace is exactly where I plan to park myself every chance I get.
“Can I grab you a vitaminwater? Or something else?” he asks, opening a fridge with a door that blends into the kitchen cabinets.
Before I can answer, the patio outside snags my attention. Although calling it a patio is like calling a private jet a means of transportation. The dining area, entertainment center, and outdoor kitchen rival a five-star resort.
This is truly my dream house.
“If I’d known you were this loaded, I’d have married you sooner!” I tease.
He snorts before handing me a bottle with a label I don’t recognize. I hope it’s pumped with whatever supplements he takes to be more muscular every time I see him.
“If that’s all it was gonna take, I would have flashed my cash sooner,” he jokes back.
“Cheers to your cash, Dex!” I say before gulping the most delicious water I’ve ever had.
Turns out rich people have better versions of everything.
“Cheers to you, Baby Brie. I’m so fucking glad you’re here,” he says with open arms. The simple sincerity of his words brings with it a wave of gratitude.
He only ever calls me “Baby Brie” when we’re alone. The private nickname reminds me that Dex’s wealth is the least amazing thing about him.
It’s his authentic kindness and unwavering friendship that truly matter. Overwhelmed with emotion, I wrap my arms around his waist, melting into his bear hug and inhaling deeply. His aroma is as familiar to me as home.
But something is very different.
Disturbingly unprecedented.
Terrifyingly new.
My best friend’s burly chest lifts with each breath and his hands encompass my entire back. Offering a gentle peck on the crown of my head, he’s as sweet and platonic as always.
The problem isn’t Dex.
The problem is me.
My fingers, to be exact. They move from his muscular neck along his broad shoulders and back again, eager to explore the hills and valleys of Dexter Whitby’s masculine anatomy.
Wait, what? How dare I reduce him to masculine anatomy?
I shouldn’t be thinking about his anatomy at all!
He’s so much more than a hot hockey superstar.
Oh shit, did I just call my best friend hot?
I meant generous and kind, funny and thoughtful. An honest-to-goodness lifesaver. By marrying me, he’s enabling my recovery from a spinal disk replacement and the repair of an ear avulsion. That’s a fancy way of saying a large glass shard ripped the skin and cartilage at the back of my ear.
I step back guiltily and suddenly find the floor pattern fascinating. I can’t look him in the eye and breathe at the same time.
Dex steps away, and I finally exhale.
