Yes.
Would I also like to be at home with my bra off, eating a crabcake sandwich in my underwear?
Also yes. It’s a duality I can allow to exist in my world.
It would be nice, though. To have a person. To kiss someone without it being a whole thing. Without it being a scare tactic or necessity.
My brain, apparently having zero sense of self-preservation, immediately supplies an image, once again, of Ty and his beautiful, amazing lips.
I groan loudly. A little too loudly judging by the side-eye I get from other patrons near me, so I look back down at my glass like that might help.
Could I kiss his lips again? Yes.
Would I kiss his lips after eating a crabcake sandwich? Also yes.
Would I kiss his lips if they smelled like coffee? I fight the urge to not laugh at my internal narration, because, absolutely I would.
I set my glass down. “Stop,” I mutter under my breath. “Stop thinking about Ty and his great big, pink and pouty lips.”
“Interrupting something important?”
I glance up as the bartender sets a bag on the bar in front of me, the smell hitting immediately.
Perfect timing.
“My food,” I say, like that explains everything.
“Sure is,” he replies, nodding toward the bag. “You looked deep in thought.”
“You have no idea,” I murmur.
He grins and moves on, leaving me with my wine, my sandwich, and significantly fewer inappropriate thoughts.
I grab the bag, sliding off the stool and tossing a glance back at the screen where my username still sits in the queue.
I shake my head once, a small smile pulling at my mouth. That is a very cool idea. I’ll have to come back. But for now, I’m headed home.
Bra off.
Crabcake sandwich.
And absolutely no thinking about Ty’s lips.
CHAPTER 8
TY
Practice should be easy. It’s hockey. It’s drills. It’s structure. I’ve stepped onto the ice in packed arenas louder than this. Except those are arenas full of fans and players. Today, it’s all chaos in ponytails, mismatched laces, and a level of side conversation I cannot cut through.
I clap my hands once. “Hey. Did anyone hear me? I need your attention.”
One girl nods at me like I’ve just told her the weather. Another keeps talking.
Cool. Great. Love that for me.
I blow the whistle, sharp and loud, the sound cutting clean across the ice. “Hey, hey. That’s enough.”
Two of them are squared off like they’re about to drop gloves, sticks gripped tight, helmets tipped forward with all the intensity of a playoff game.
