“Or we could watch a movie.” I adopt an innocent expression. “There’s a new one out I think you might like.”
He gives me a flat look, but his eyes are twinkling. “Does it have a murderer or ghost?”
“Neither.” I wait a beat. “It’s a possessed doll.”
A pillow flies at my face, and I laugh. Since we kissed, things have been weird. Every time our eyes meet, I think about it. I think about the way his lips felt, the way he kissed me like I was exactly what he needed. How he unraveled, being selfish and taking for himself.
I think about that part a lot.
“Jordan?”
I snap back to reality. An unfortunate reality where we are definitely not kissing anymore. “Mmm?”
“Are you cold?” He tilts his chin at me, where I’m clutching my arms at my sides. Before I can answer, he disappears back upstairs, returning with a sweater and handing it to me.
It’s a soft navy blue crewneck sweatshirt that feels well-worn and loved.Vancouver Storm Training Camp 2006is written across the back around the Storm logo in fading letters.
“Put it on,” he says in a firm tone, eyebrows raised, and when I tug it over my head, his scent surrounds me. The same scent I’ve been trying to ignore all week, because it reminds me of his hands in my hair and his groan of pleasure.
“Thanks.” I don’t meet his eyes as I set up another record and return to my spot. Between songs, we can hear the low drumming of the rain outside.
He studies me, toned biceps distracting me. “Do you need anything, over there?”
Yes, I want to say.I want to touch you. I want to crawl onto your lap and run my fingers through your hair and see how you’d react.I want to kiss you and learn what you taste like. Maybe I can get another one of those groans out of you.
Instead, I shake my head. His eyes skate over me in thecrewneck and my scalp prickles with the weight of his attention. His broad chest rises and falls with a deep breath, like he’s in pain.
“Do you want it back?” I ask, starting to pull it off.
“No.” The word rushes out of him and he laughs, shoving a hand through his hair. “No, I like the way you look in it.”
Something flutters in my stomach. Butterflies. Thirty years old and I’m finally feeling it for the first time. Electricity snaps in the air, strung between our gazes, and it’s hard to get a full breath. God, he’s handsome.
There’s that zing again, that sweet, fizzing feeling of lightness and excitement in my chest that keeps happening when he looks at me with that funny smile, like I’m adorable or something. Like he actually likes me. My heart gives an annoying tug.
He studies me. “You’re beautiful.”
My pulse jumps into my throat. I’ve heard those words before and they’ve always felt so empty, so meaningless, but from a guy like Tate? Who clearly doesn’t want to like me?
Those words warm me head to toe.
“Tate.” I stare at the floor. If I look at him, I’m going to do something dumb.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“You were right.” I force myself to meet his gaze. “What you said about me staying with the team. I’m thinking about it.”
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me with a small frown.
“I, um.” I tug a hand through my hair. “I was going to give you the team if we won the Cup. I still am.”
His eyes turn alarmed. “Why?”
“You’re kidding, right? What am I going to do with a hockey team?”
“Run it,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Own it and run it, like Grace Madueke does.”
“That’s not me.” I shake my head, pressing my hands to my temples. “You’re the best person for the job.”
