I manage to get the now charred, black lasagna out of the oven and toss it into the sink, dousing cold water over it, steam sizzling from the temperature drop.
Everything happens so quickly that my head feels like it’s spinning.
Honestly though, I’m proud of my response time on this because I was in a full-blown panic.
I look over at Wilder, who’s standing only a foot away, his eyes wide as he takes in the burnt lasagna, the smoke, the state of my small kitchen.
I look down at my dress and see black smudges decorating the front, and I toss my head back and laugh because what else am I supposed to do when I almost burned my entire kitchen down because I was too nervous and distracted by him being here tonight.
“So I guess… we’re ordering takeout?”
His mouth twitches. “Looks like it.”
Nothing about tonight has gone the way I imagined it would in my head.
And actually? I’m sort of glad.
Now that I’m sitting beside Wilder on pillows on my living room floor, eating Chinese takeout out of a box, I can’t imagine a stuffy dinner with us at a table, making small talk over my mama’s famous lasagna. He doesn’t feel like that kind of man.
But this… this feels right.
My hair and makeup were ruined by the shower I had to take to wash off the smell of smoke, and obviously, so was the dress.
So I threw on my new favorite hoodie and a pair of sleep shorts instead, and watching Wilder’s eyes flare with heat when he saw me once again wearing his hoodie was beyond worth almost burning my kitchen down.
I like his eyes on me. His appreciative gaze.
It makes me feel sexy and wanted, even when wearing something basic and shapeless like a hoodie.
“I’m sorry about dinner,” I say again, my nose crinkled. “I swear, Icancook. I was just a little distracted. That has never happened before.”
Wilder lifts a brow as he picks up a piece of chicken with his chopsticks. “You don’t need to apologize. Shit happens, Maisie. I’ll eat anything, trust me.”
He looks socasuallike this. Almost… relaxed even? Leaning back against the front of my couch, sleeves of his hoodie pushedup to his elbows, his powerful, corded forearms rippling as he moves.
It’s weird to see him without the usual edge.
But I like it.
Way too much for something that I know is only casual and temporary.
“I’m sure you’ve probably had to follow a really strict meal plan while you played hockey, right?”
“Yeah. The team nutritionist took care of meal plans, but now… I just stick to protein. Healthy carbs. Low fat.” His throat bobs with a swallow. “Never been picky though. Food’s sustenance. I didn’t have much option growing up, so I just learned to adapt.”
I want to ask him about his childhood, delve into that comment, but I don’t. I bite my tongue. It’s not my place, not really, but I still want to know things about him.
I want to know who he is outside of the ex-NHL player turned coach. Outside of what I could read about him on the gossip sites or on ESPN about the fall of his career, about the situation that brought him here to begin with.
But those people don’t know him, anyway. Not really.
I don’t know him either, but I want to.
“What’s that look for?” he asks, and it pulls me out of my thoughts.
I can feel my cheeks burning as I clear my throat. “Uh, I guess I was just thinking how crazy it is that you’re this famous, legendary hockey player, and you’re sitting on the floor, eating Chinese takeout with me. It feels like… normal?” I’m rambling because I feel the weight of his gaze, the scrutiny of it, and I feel stupid. “Ignore me.”
“Nah.”
