I pull back and play with the bottom of my glass.
“Now my reputation is at stake,” he asserts. “I demand that you let me prove I'm not what you think I am.”
“How do you propose we do that?” I ask coquettishly, my voice teasing but wary.
“I want to date you.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he stops me, placing his fingers gently on my lips. His touch melts me, and I fall silent. I shut my mouth firmly, trying my best not to bite him.
“Just hear me out and then you can tell me all the reasons why you can't,” he teases.
I don't respond with words, his fingers still pressing against my mouth. But something in my expression must show my acquiescence. He notices, and without pushing, continues.
“That's my girl,” he breathes. “All I want is three dates that I plan and arrange. We'll spend time together between each one, having fun—no sex involved. I'll prove to you that I'm honorable.”
“I…”
“No sex, no friends with benefits, and not even a serious relationship. Just two friends enjoying time together.”
I exhale deeply, only now realizing I'd been holding my breath when dizziness washes over me.
“Before I agree, I need to lay all my cards on the table,” I admit.
He leans back on the bench, hands laced behind his head, intently focused on me. He nods slightly, giving me the go-ahead to continue.
I take a deep breath and start telling him my ugly story, careful to leave out our names and anything that could identify us. I share enough to be honest, but not so much that I cross any lines.
When I finally stop, I've laid myself bare, feeling emotionally wrung out, but lighter somehow. Bash knows everything now, well, almost. I haven't told him that my husband is Jaxson Kingston, a pro hockey player. I don't mind him knowing I'm a professional skater, but saying Jaxson's name feels like a betrayal.
“Well,” he murmurs, voice so low I can barely hear him over the music, “that's messed up, love. But I know one thing, your husband's an idiot.”
I smile faintly. "Thanks, I think so, too.”
He shifts closer, and there's something serious in his eyes. "And just so we're clear, I've never dated a married woman. Not once. It's not my thing."
I nod. "Just friends."
"Exactly. Friends," he says with a slight grin.
“I'd still like to see you,” he continues. “Normally, I don't go near married women, but I'll make anexception for you. We'll keep it platonic. I want to show you I'm not like other men, especially your husband.”
I meet his blue eyes, wondering why I thought they were icy. Instead, they're warm and kind, and I realize there's no reason to lump all men together.
Not everyone cheats, I hope. I want to believe that's true because I'm having fun for the first time in a long time.
"Alright," I say, a little smile tugging at my lips. "Let's… make some rules for our 'relationship.'" I make air quotes with my fingers.
He chuckles. "I like the finger quotes.
"Rule one," I say, "we share what we want to share. Neither one of us gets into the other's personal business unless invited."
"Agreed." He nods. "And we keep whatever we want to keep to ourselves. This is about us, not anyone else."
"Right. Rule two," I add, "no looking each other up online. No Googling. We get to know each other from scratch, without backstory, games, or preconceived ideas. Uh… unless you're a serial killer or a drug lord."
"I'm good. Clean as a whistle. Scout's honor." He holds up two fingers and grins. "My contract… my job has a morality policy. If that doesn't convince you, we can always make a blood pact."
"Okaaay. I've always wanted to be tied to someone via a minor injury, Boy Scout," I snark. "Should we get matching tattoos and braid each other's hair while we're at it?"
