His every move shouldn’t have such an effect on me, but it does. I find myself waiting for his smiles, craving his attention like sunlight on a cold day.
And I know I have to find a way to tamp that down. Feelings like this don’t lead anywhere good. What I have with Miles is too important to risk.
After a while, our conversation drifts to movies, old road trip stories, Anna’s interviews, and my completely irrational fear of spiders. The more we talk, the easier it is to forget the rest of the world exists.
He tells me how nervous he was walking into his first NHL locker room. During his first home game, he forgot his stick on the bench during warm-ups because he was too busy staring at the crowd.
“You’re kidding,” I say, laughing. “You always seem so confident out there.”
“For the most part, I am. But those first few weeks, I was in awe.”
“Like you were in Hollywood with Jennifer?”
“Exactly.” He chuckles. “The dream I’d worked toward my entire life had come true. I’d made it. It took a while to sink in.”
“I can’t picture you being nervous about anything.”
He smiles faintly. “You want to know the first game I actually felt at ease?”
I nod.
“It was the first time you and Anna came. You were in Jaden’s box, wearing my number sixteen jersey. I looked up and saw you cheering. It’s hard to explain, but it felt incredible—like I’d finally made it. There was someone in the stands wearing my jersey. The fact that it was a gorgeous woman wearing it?” He winks. “Icing on the cake.”
I blink, caught off guard. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yep. That made my day.”
“Well, I’m glad,” I say softly. “It’s still my favorite jersey number.”
He studies me for a beat, something warm flickering behind his eyes. Then his gaze dips slightly, and he says, “You’ve got something on your cheek—a crumb.”
My heart stutters as his thumb brushes my skin, gentle and warm. He wipes it away, but his hand lingers for a heartbeat too long, fingers hovering like he’s debating whether to move.
I bring my own hand up, pressing it lightly to where he touched. “Thanks.”
He clears his throat and leans back, giving a quick nod. “No problem.”
I stand abruptly, collecting our plates just to have something to do. “You want ice cream? I think we have cookie dough in the freezer.”
He grins. “Absolutely.”
While I scoop the ice cream, he pulls up music on his phone. A soft, mellow indie song fills the kitchen. It feels like the perfect soundtrack to this little bubble we’ve built—warm light, tired laughter, and the faint smell of burnt tomato sauce.
We eat standing at the counter, spoons clinking against our bowls.
“You know,” he says between bites, “I think we’re going to get good at this whole cooking thing.”
I smirk. “You think?”
“Yeah. The first time’s bound to be a disaster, right? We’ll get better as we go.”
“I sure hope so.”
“We’ll make it a weekly thing,” he continues. “Pick a new recipe, go shopping, cook together. Every dish can’t be a disaster. And even if it is, it’ll be time spent together. That’s what matters.”
I glance up at him, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. His tone is light, but his eyes—there’s something deeper there.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “You’re right.”
