Lane’s phone buzzes, and he steps away to take a call, leaving me with his parents and Kai.
“I like her,” Sabrina announces.
Kai bounces on his toes. “Me too.”
Lane’s father doesn’t seem convinced, but he might just have the general air of perpetually tasting sour milk.
An hour later, after Kai has left with his grandparents for his night of luxury hotel spoiling, I’m chatting with the girls when Lane leaves the huddle of his teammates, likely reviewing the game and makes his way to me.
I instantly know what Emerson meant by swoon. Or it could be that my blood sugar has gone off the deep end because not only do I stress-bake, but occasionally I stress-eat and today single handedly polished off more than one portion of Jess’s latest Bundt—spongy vanilla cake filled with luscious cream, which tastes uncannily like a Twinkie.
It’s dangerous, but this man is even more so.
My alleged friends suddenly seem to forget that we were having a conversation, and aside from the music and general chatter in the background, everything goes uncomfortably quiet.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he repeats as if we’re meeting for the first time.
“Hi,” the girls chorus, followed by a verse of giggles.
If I can handle Coach Sheridan, I suppose, I have to takethis situation into my hands. My strong, capable hands that are up every day at dawn, kneading dough.
Before I can say anything, a more powerful hand lands in mine. Our fingers twine and wrap snuggly, and thankfully so because that heady, swoony feeling comes again at Lane’s touch.
Or it could be the fresh mint and icy, woodsy scent that suddenly fills the air. Oh, wait. That’s him, too.
Addressing my friends, he says, “Ladies, if you excuse us. We have some hot chocolate to make.”
My jaw nearly hits the floor because how did he know that’s my go-to comfort drink after a late night? Actually, it contains more warm milk than it does chocolate, but it’s what Bibi always made when I was a kid and couldn’t sleep.
We take separate cars to my house on Sweet Corn Court. When we step inside, Lane takes a deep breath. Some people think I burn candles, but my house just carries the scent of sweet baked goods. His eyes hold the lines of exhaustion, but the tension that’s been in his shoulders dissolves like he just walked into a puffy cloud and is ready to kick back. He’s more relaxed than I’ve seen him since we were in the jacuzzi.
He eyes my Christmas tree, still glittering and aglow. “Kai is going to take one look at this place and think he just hit the kid’s equivalent of the jackpot.”
“Mission accomplished. I try to make my home a cozy, comfortable place that’s inviting. A cozy retreat from the world. Would you like some hot chocolate?” I ask because it’s been a day.
“Let me.” He winks. “Trust me on this.”
“In that case, make yourself at home.”
He heats milk and sugar in a saucepan instead of using the microwave, whisks in cocoa powder and vanilla, then adds apinch of cinnamon, followed by a sprinkle of salt that makes the whole kitchen smell like Christmas.
Well then. The man somehow knows my love language.
I take a sip and internally correct myself. No, this feels like Christmas. Like warmth and hope and affection. “This is super creamy. So much better than my recipe.”
“Secret ingredient,” he says, settling into the chair across from me.
“Which is …?” I ask, having watched his every move.
“Patience. You can’t rush good hot chocolate.” He takes a sip of his own. “My mom used to make it after games, slowly warming the milk, adding the sugar and letting it melt, then the cocoa powder, and finally a pinch of salt.”
“Tell me about her,” I say softly.
“She was ... steady. Always there. Even when Dad was traveling, even when things got crazy, she was our constant.” His voice gets quiet. “When she died, it felt like the center of our world … disappeared.”
“And your dad?”
