“You cooked. I can help clean up.” She follows me into the kitchen. “We’ll chat while we work together.”
I can tell by the wariness in her eyes that she’s had a longday. I want to insist that she go relax on the sofa in the living room and let me do dishes. She bustles past me before I can order her to the couch, and she turns on the faucet to rinse the dishes. She’s obviously determined, so I get to work beside her.
“Ideas?” She glances up at me as she loads our bowls into the dishwasher.
I start wiping down the counter as I answer. “I’ve been watching the White Wolves team film from last season and looking over the current roster. I think our first priority is a strong center, someone who can go hard on defense, maybe even harder, than he does on offense. Someone who’s not chasing points all the time. I think it’s also a good idea to get more versatile with our defensemen. Guys who can transition well and guys who are shut down?—”
I look up to see Libby staring at me with raised eyebrows. “Um. We’re gonna need some Hockey 101 for me to understand anything you just said.”
I put both hands on the counter, facing her with a grin. “Libby Bennet, it’s time to watch some hockey.”
CHAPTER 11
LIBBY
Once the kitchen is cleaned up after dinner, Jordan and I both settle on the couch in front of my TV.
“Hmmm,” he says when he turns it on. “Maybe we should go to my house.”
I turn to him. “What’s wrong?”
He gives a little grimace. “Your TV is kind of small.”
My mouth drops open. “I think it’s something like sixty inches,” I defend, though I’m not sure why I’m offended that he thinks my TV is small.
He holds up his hands, laughing. “Sorry. Mine is ninety-eight. Easier to see all the players and stuff. But I’ll make do.”
“I’m sorry for my poverty,” I say dryly.
“No problem.” His smile is … disarming. I quickly look away. He taps a few things on his phone and then connects it to the TV. I’m pretty sure he’s pulled up an old game of his from a couple years ago.
“So,” he says, turning to me before he starts it. “Tell me how basic I need to be.”
“I’ve been trying to study up on it. So I know the positions and stuff and the basic rules, but strategy is beyond me.”
He’s sitting a respectable distance away, but Jordan is a prettybig guy. Over six feet and beefy enough to rival some of the guys on the Pumas. He reaches over and pats my leg. “That’s why you’ve got me,” he says. He pulls his hand back quickly. The touch was purely friendly, but it still leaves warmth where his hand was.
The problem is that Ilikewhen Jordan flirts with me, when he touches me, when it’s clear that this thing between us is more than friendly—which is what I keep insisting. But I have to stand by my boundaries. I thought I liked Grayson’s attention too. I know plenty of women who wanted the attention of the men that ended up hurting them. I believe Jordan’s a good guy. I wouldn’t have hired him otherwise. I certainly wouldn’t have married him. But I can protect myself best if I don’t get distracted by his good looks, his kindness, and the way he cares for me.
But it feels like I’m fighting myself. He’s the type of guy the counselor at my firm advises our clients to look for: someone who respects your boundaries without excuse, someone who’s willing to serve you, someone ready to be open and honest.
He’s just also … so charming and likable. So easy to believe in. I can’t help but think of the earnest way Grayson Hollis stared into my eyes when he told me that Will had gotten him kicked off the team out of pure spite, that Grayson hadlovedAnna and Will didn’t like it, so he kept them apart. Unease churns in my stomach with those memories.
I remind myself that Grayson groomed me purposefully, that he used the power imbalance in our age difference and pitted me against my family.
I want to believe that just because Jordan flirts with ease doesn’t mean he’s the same as Grayson. But what if he’s just patient? What if he just knows how to act for me to gain his trust and soon that will drop? Maybe he’ll start coercing me into things because we’re married. Because I have money. Because he sacrificed so much for me.
“Libby?” Jordan asks. “You ready?”
I snap quickly out of my reverie, all over his hand on my knee for a couple seconds. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He presses play on the game, pointing out the positions in real time. “Our first-line center is the type of guy I think we should build a team around. Strong, a good leader, and smart.” He pauses and points to the screen to show me the player he wants me to follow, then presses play again.
“He’s like the quarterback of hockey,” I say, thinking of a YouTube video I watched to help understand the game. I focus on the center’s movements as we watch—he skates lightning fast on transitions and seems to anticipate where the puck is going to be.
“Yep.” Jordan nods. “He sets the tone. He’s talking to his team, calling the plays, directing everyone.”
It’s hard not to stare at Jordan instead of the screen. He leans forward on the couch, an intense position I recognize from the men in my family when they’re watching football. He looks so at ease in my home, and that’s surprisingly attractive. He wears black sweats and a white Outlaws team T-shirt. His feet are bare, and I can’t explain why that’s so incredibly sexy. Men’s feet are not actually that attractive. But him sitting here, casual, comfortable—it’s hot. I can picture him sprawled out on the couch, holding me against him and kissing me during commercials.
