I’m now gaping at him. “What?”
“But first, I think I want dinner.”
Dinner.
“Okay…”
“Together,” he amends.
I blink.
“I’m asking you on a date, sweetheart. Although I don’t think going out right now is a great idea. We’d hardly be left alone. So, let me rephrase. I’d like to cook for you. Tonight.”
He wants to…cook for me?
“I’ll even make leftovers for you to bring home,” he adds, a secretive smile dancing on his lips. “Because I know I can’t convince you to stay here, even if I sweeten the deal with Oreo.”
He’s accepting my independence, even if it means me going back to the apartment that’s half the size of his kitchen. “Although, I’m hoping one day to convince you to get out of that shithole. There’s no security and there are water stains on the ceiling. There could be mold.”
There probably is, but I don’t voice that suspicion because it wouldn’t help my case. My apartment isn’t much, but it’s mine. It’s cluttered and small, but I love it. One day, I’ll get something better. Maybe with him. Maybe on my own. I guess we’ll see what the future holds.
“I should have never told you about the food thing,” I grumble instead.
His smile spreads. “It’s my intention to ensure you never need to go out on dates for food again. I actually enjoy cooking, and I don’t do it often enough. So, I’d like to cook you dinner and spend time together. Maybe we can go to Our Open Table and see Bev and Vinnie this week. If we’re going to be followed by the press, we may as well get their organization some more attention.”
He wants to go to Our Open Table.
Together.
I swallow. “What’s for dinner?”
He moves some hair out of my face. “Whatever you want, sweetheart.”
Whatever I want.
I shake my head. “I’m not sure how we got here,” I admit. This feels like a fever dream.
He presses a kiss to my temple. “Neither am I, but I’m sure as hell glad we are.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Moskins
I’m not sureI ever knew the definition of love until I met Winter Bronte. I’d experienced different levels of the four-letter word, but it never sank in the way it has its grasp on me whenever the blonde is nearby.
But when I see the blonde and her sister in jerseys with my name and number on them from the friends and family suite at our first game, almost a month later, that feeling blossoms in my chest—a warmth so deep that I barely feel the cold of the rink.
She spent the last week watching videos on how hockey works and asking me questions each time we saw each other to better understand the game so that she would be prepared.
Then, two days ago, she showed up at my house with a pan covered in tinfoil. It smelled like chocolate and sugar, and I couldn’t help but grin when I saw what was inside.
A cake. Chocolate.“For your sweet tooth,”she’d said. There were two number-shaped candles that made a larger number I silently hated because it meant I was another year closer to retirement. But until then, I’d embrace thirty-six like I embraced everything else. With pride and vengeance.
Since Emaly’s threats toward her father, he hasn’t tried benching me. I’m not sure what she has on him or his business tactics, and I don’t think she’ll ever tell me. That’ll be her secret to keep unless he warrants it to be told. And it won’t be to me, but the media contacts she has now.
Maybe when I’m a free agent, I can move on from the Fireflies. Hell, maybe by then I’ll be ready to hang up my skates and do something else with my life. For right now, though, I have no intention of letting Mikhail, my age, or anybody else get in the way of what I want.
To win.
