“That or we’re just petty.”
His mouth twitched again as he crossed the threshold, and his shoulder brushed mine in the doorway for half a second, warm and solid and completely unnecessary to notice. “That’s why hockey’s superior, Pip.”
I shut the door a little harder than I needed to. “Pip?”
“I like it better than Pipsqueak.”
“Oh my goodness. Absolutely not.”
He set the coffee carrier on the kitchen counter and turned back to me, looking entirely too entertained with himself. “It suits you. You’re tiny.”
“I am average height.”
“You are bite-sized.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Careful, Cross Check.”
This time he actually laughed, the sound low and real enough to pull my attention straight to the dimples cutting into his cheeks. “Cross Check?”
“You keep pushing for Pip and it’ll fit.”
He laughed again, and I hated how fast I smiled. Not because he was funny, but because he was unexpectedly fun. There was a difference, and unfortunately that difference was becoming a problem.
Cade was supposed to be cold. Rich. Untouchable. Some snobby future NHL god with no personality and enough campus worship to damage an already questionable male ego beyond repair. From a distance, he looked exactly like every reason I had sworn off athletes. Too handsome. Too wanted. Too used to rooms revolving around him.
But standing in my kitchen with coffee and bakery bags while morning light cut across his jaw, he did not feel like the version everyone whispered about.
“So,” he said, sliding one of the coffees toward me. “How are we doing this?”
I reached for the cup automatically. “The project?”
“No, Pip.” His mouth curved like the nickname had already entertained him before it ever reached me. “Our secret affair.”
I nearly choked on my first sip of coffee. “Stop calling me Pip.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It’s an improvement from Pipsqueak.”
I stared at him. “You called me Pipsqueak in your head first?”
“Saying Bliss too many times a day could fuck with me. I thought Pipsqueak, but I like Pip. It suits you. Like I said, you’re very small.”
“I am five-two, but emotionally I’m an easy six-five.”
“But still just five-two.”
“I might be little, but I pack a punch.”
His dimples appeared, and I had to look down at the coffee cup for my own safety. What was it called when you signed paperwork before surgery acknowledging all the risks? Prolonged exposure to Cade Mercer probably needed one of those.
“Pip is not happening,” I said.
“It already happened.”
“You don’t get to nickname me.”
