In the lobby, though, when I head to the elevators, his hand wraps around my arm to stop me. “Where are you going?”
“My room.”
“I thought we’d get dinner.”
My pulse stumbles. “You saidlet’s go.”
He gives me a funny smile, like I’m strange and cute. “For pizza.There’s a good place around the corner, smaller and less stuffy than this.”
Oh. The little balloon in my chest inflates.
“You need to eat,” he says like it’s final, and with his hand still around my arm, gently tugs me out the doors.
CHAPTER 55
JORDAN
Ten minutes later,we’re seated at a table in the back of a tiny family-run Italian restaurant, complete with wood-paneled walls. Tate orders his usual soda water with lime and I order a glass of non-alcoholic red wine.
A few people look over, whispering, but they give us privacy, and somehow, in Tate’s presence, I don’t mind the stares.
“How’d you find this place?” I ask.
“Owens told me about it. He took Darcy here for her birthday a few years ago.”
This is exactly the kind of place a couple like them would frequent. Something intimate, cozy, and unpretentious. I bet the food is incredible. I can already smell garlic and something mouthwatering wafting from the open kitchen.
When I turn back to Tate, he’s giving me a funny look.
“What?” My fingers fly to my mouth. My lipstick is probably smeared up the side of my face.
“Nothing.” He blinks like he’s stunned. “You have a beautiful smile.”
Longing flashes through his eyes and he takes a deep breath. I don’t know what to say.
“When people pay you a compliment, Jordan,” his voice goes low and teasing as he leans forward on his elbow, eyes on me, “you say thank you.”
It’s warm in here. That’s why my face feels warm. “Thank you,” I say lightly.
“Very good.”
Heat rushes down my body, between my legs, and I think about waking up with him. I think about cuddling with him. If he isn’t interested, why did he challenge me to cuddle with him like that? Why did he relax under me?
I don’t know. I don’t know what we’re doing, both in general and here at the restaurant, having dinner. Silence lingers, but it’s not awkward. Butterflies go off in my stomach, but I’m comfortable.
“Do you miss hockey?” I ask. It’s a question I’ve been wondering about more and more lately, and a lot more appropriate and safe than the other question I want to ask:
Are you lonely, Tate?
He raises his eyebrows at me. “Why do you ask?”
“I see you on the ice with the guys during practice. You’re . . .” I search for the right words, “exceptional. Still. You demonstrated that snap shot for the guys yesterday and they stared at you in awe, because, a decade later, you still have it, Tate. You retired so abruptly, and that must have been really hard.”
Probably how it’s going to feel once I leave the team after playoffs. Like my entire network, all my friends, are gone.
“I saw how you used to love the game,” I add.
He gives me an arch look, his eyes glittering. “Have you been watching my game tape, Jordan?”
