“So you haven’t Googled me?”
Panic engulfs me.
I have. I have totally Googled him. But, honestly, I didn’t find anything more than a whole host of photographs with beautiful women on his arm and his stats—neither of which was what I was really looking for. I wanted to learn more about Cole, the man, not Handsy, the player, but there doesn’t seem to be much about him online.
I study the man himself, and the nagging urge to find out more about him only gets worse. If I learned anything from my online stalking, it’s that he keeps his private life just that: private.
“Okay, fine. I may have Googled you a little bit,” I confess.
“Knew it.” My eyes roll before I can stop them, and I instantly regret it. Men like Cole don’t like women acting like that. Thankfully, his only reaction is his growing smirk. “And did you learn anything?”
“You prefer blondes,” I state, remembering the theme amongst the women he seems to spend time with.
He tuts. “Not necessarily. I’m an equal opportunity kind of man. I don’t believe that blondes have more fun.”
“What about strawberry blondes?” I ask, holding up a wavy lock of my light hair.
“I’ll let you know in a few weeks.”
Something warm and unfamiliar descends through my body.
Is he…is he flirting?
No.
I almost laugh at my stupid thoughts. Of course this incredibly hot, can-have-anyone-he-wants hockey player isn’t flirting with the woman he’s just hired as his personal cook.
“I can already tell you there’s not a lot of fun happening over here.”
“We’re all allowed blips, Freya. It doesn’t mean it’s always going to be that way.”
I study him for a beat. “I’m not the only one who’s been doing some stalking, am I?”
“I’m inviting you into my home. I needed to know a few things before allowing that to happen.”
“That’s fair. So can I assume that Casey didn’t scare you off with all the skeletons in my closet?”
“She had nothing but good things to say. I’m still trying to work out how much you paid her for that.”
I gasp in faux horror. “I would never.”
He chuckles, and the smile on his face makes my own grow.
Cole might be this larger-than-life hockey goalie, but there's so much more to him than that, and I can’t help but feel like I might be getting glimpses of him that no one else does.
Behind me, the bubbling of water starts, and I turn around to put the greens in to cook. Remembering where the plates are, I grab one, and as my alarm goes off on my cell, I pull the baking tray out and check the salmon.
It’s perfect. Internally, I do a little happy dance that dish one is going to be a success.
I plate it all up and drizzle my sticky sauce over the fish before turning around and placing it before Cole.
“This looks incredible,” he muses, his eyes locked on the food. He looks about two seconds away from drooling. “Freya, you’re perfect. Honestly.”
“You haven’t tried it yet. I might have laced it with something.” I gasp the second I hear the words rolling off my tongue. “Oh my god, that is not…I haven’t…flipping hell, I don’t know why I said that. I’m so sorry.” Spinning around, I grab a fork. “I’ll eat some to prove I haven’t. I?—”
“Freya, stop, please.”
His eyes hold mine, urging me to chill the hell out.
