Professional. I reminded myself. I was here for the sake of the article. That was all.
“Hey.” His broad shoulders filled the doorway as his gaze trailed over my outfit. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
I smiled and stepped through the doorway. My eyes raked over the space. Warm neutral colors, family photos lining the walls, and a worn brown sectional in the middle of the room with two matching leather recliners that looked like they got used daily. This was the kind of place that felt lived-in and was better suited for casual nights in than a temporary crash pad between games.
“You look a little shocked.” He chuckled and shut the door behind him.
I spun around to face him. “I was expecting a bachelor pad.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So, you thought there would be a pool table and a stripper pole instead of a couch and fireplace?”
“Pretty much.” I laughed. “And maybe some neon signs and a fully stocked bar.”
He whistled while shaking his head. “Damn. You set the bar pretty low, huh?”
Okay, now I felt bad.
I walked further into the room and set my tote bag down. “It’s just not what I pictured.”
“You sound a little disappointed.”
“Not at all. You have a beautiful home.”
I walked closer to the stone fireplace. It was warm and inviting, and I imagined curling up on a lazy Sunday morning with coffee and a good book.
Nate cleared his throat. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Water is fine.”
I followed him into the wide-open kitchen with vaulted ceilings, a large island, and state-of-the-art appliances.
“Wow. Now I’m a little jealous.”
“Why is that?”
He handed me a water bottle; his fingers brushed mine, sending a spark up my arm. I twisted the cap, needing to do something with my hands and hoping like hell he didn’t notice how nervous I was.
“Well, you have this beautiful kitchen that probably never gets used. I would sell a kidney to have a space as nice as this.”
He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “Who says I don’t cook?”
“Are you trying to tell me that you cook your own meals?”
I knew for a fact that most athletes had personal chefs, and the Hawks sent meals home every day after practice.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
I looked at him in disbelief. There was no way he was serious.
“Still doubting me, huh?” He strolled over to the counter and pulled open a drawer. He grabbed a stack of recipe cards thatwere tucked in the back. “These are my mom’s recipes. I meal prep on Mondays. I don’t eat out a lot. I do take advantage of the team’s cafeteria for breakfast and lunches, though.”
“Wow.” I blinked down at the stack of index cards in his hands. “You are just full of surprises.”
His lips quirked, causing his dimple to pop out. “I like to keep people on their toes.”
“What’s your favorite recipe?” I asked, suddenly wanting to learn every little detail about this man.
“Is this for the article?”
