Page 35 of Pucking Forbidden

“Go shower,” he orders as he turns and heads toward the kitchen. “You look like hell, sweetheart.”

The word sweetheart sends a delicious, traitorous shiver straight down my spine. My eyes lock onto the broad expanse of his back and the way his t-shirt stretches tight over his shoulder blades as he walks away.

I want to curl up into a ball and let the floor swallow me whole. I huff a quiet laugh despite myself, shutting the door behind him.

“Okay,” I call after him, and make my way to the bathroom as told.

CHAPTER TWELVE: A GOOD FRIEND

HADLEY

The shower does help. The hot water eases some of the tension in my shoulders and washes away the grime from the night before. I feel much more like myself by the time I’m done.

Wearing a towel, I slip out of the bathroom. Pausing in the hallway on the way to the bedroom, I listen to the sounds of Julian moving around in the kitchen.

Pans clanging against each other. Cabinets opening and closing. My stomach gives a traitorous flutter. Not from the hunger, but from the sheer, intimate domesticity of the moment. I close my eyes, leaning my damp forehead against the wall.

The thought of Julian moving through my kitchen specifically to take care of me makes my breath hitch. My mind continues wandering, imagining what it would feel like to walk up behind him, to wrap my arms around his waist and press my face into that warm space between his shoulder blades. I can almost feel the scratch of his beard against my neck and the weight of his hands pulling me flush against him while the rest of the world stays locked outside.

I let out a shaky breath, forcing my eyes open and shaking my head to clear the heat. Stop it.

He’s doing this out of respect for my grandfather. He’s doing this because he’s a good man. A good friend who doesn't leave people face-down on a couch. He is not mine, and in this world of high-stakes hockey and my father’s crushing expectations, being just friends is a good thing. Right?

A moment later, I hear sizzling, and the smell of cooking bacon floats through the air and hits my nose.

I get dressed, pulling on sweatpants and a t-shirt before making my way out to the kitchen. Julian’s standing at the stove, his back to me, one hand resting on the counter while the other holds a spatula and stirs something in another pan.

He looks so at ease, like he’s right at home here in my space. He moves around the sleek, marble-countered kitchen with an effortless, fluid grace that catches me completely off guard. He isn't fumbling with the high-end, state-of-the-art appliances or hunting aimlessly through drawers. He handles the heavy cast-iron skillet like an absolute pro, his motions practiced and confident. It’s a sharp contrast to the chaotic, hyper-masculine energy he radiates on the ice. Seeing this domestic, capable side of him shouldn't be so hot, but it is.

The last person who cooked for me was my grandmother. The thought hits me out of nowhere, making my chest ache. Not my mom, who’s always been more of a free spirit, and not my dad, either. He’s always…well…busy. Always busy. My grandmother used to cook for me all the time. She felt like the only person who ever really took the time to care for me.

I don’t realize I’ve been standing, gazing off at nothing, when Julian glances over his shoulder. “You gonna just watch me, or…?”

I blink, snapping out of my daze. “Right. Sorry.”

I move further into the kitchen and lean against the counter.

“It smells really good,” I say, smiling softly at him. “Can I help?”

He shakes his head, then points his spatula toward the small kitchen table. “Sit.”

I do, and a few minutes later, he sets a plate in front of me. It’s piled with eggs, toast, and bacon. My stomach churns, but my mouth waters as I gaze down at the food.

“Eat,” he says, already turning back to the stove.

I pick up the fork, hesitating for half a second, a little worried about my stomach, before taking a bite.

“Oh my God,” I moan.

Julian glances at me again, brow raised. I realize what noise I just made and how…sensual it sounded. My cheeks flush. I swallow and drop my gaze to my food.

“That good?” he asks with a chuckle.

I nod, taking another bite as I mumble, “Ridiculously good.”

“Hmm.” It’s such a minimal response, but his lips twitch into a half-smile.

I eat slowly, letting the food settle in my stomach. The silence stretches between us, and eventually, I clear my throat.