Page 5
“It’s too much,” I mutter, tugging at the hem. “This is a fake date.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t want to knock his socks off,” she chirps, completely unbothered by my existential crisis. “Now, put on your heels and go save a hockey career. Or ruin one. I’m fine with either as long as there’s a good story at the end of it.”
There’s a knock on the front door, and I throw it open to find Ryan leaning against the door frame. He’s wearing a charcoal suit that fits like it was made for him. It probably freaking was. The fabric pulls slightly across his shoulders, reminding me that underneath the expensive wool is the body of a man who spends his life slamming into other men on ice.
He looks down at me but doesn't say anything at first. He just looks. His eyes track from my heels up to my face, and the air between us suddenly feels like it’s been charged by a downed power line.
“Rory,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “You look fucking gorgeous.” I barely resist the urge to fan myself as my insides turn to mush on the spot.
“You look pretty good yourself.” That’s a freaking understatement. He looks good enough to eat.
He moves toward me, and the distance between us vanishes too fast. He reaches out, his hand hovering near my waist before he catches himself and redirects it to take my hand.
I practice my calm breathing the entire walk out to his big black SUV. He opens the door for me, and I brush up against him as I slide into the massive vehicle.
The interior of the car smells like him—something clean, like cedar and cold air. “Thank you.” I breathe in when he reaches over and hooks my seatbelt. Damn. If I don’t get myself under control, I’m going to be a shivering mess by the time we get to the restaurant.
“You’re welcome,” he says before closing my door. He walks around the front of the car, and I watch him the entire way. He slides into the driver's seat and looks at me, a small, lopsided smirk playing on his lips. “Are you ready for tonight?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” I sit back and watch as the city streets blur past the window.
The restaurant is one of those places where the lighting is so dim you need a flashlight to find your fork, and the menu doesn't include prices because if you have to ask, you shouldn't be there. It’s the kind of place where the paparazzi linger near the valet stand like vultures circling a kill. As we step out of the car, the first flash goes off. It’s bright and invasive, a jagged tear in the evening.
Ryan doesn't flinch. He reaches out and slides his hand into mine. His palm is warm, his grip firm and sure. The contact sends a jolt straight down my center and straight to my hussy girly parts. My fingers twitch as he laces his with mine.
“Smile, Rory,” he whispers, leaning his head close to mine. His breath brushes my ear, and I have to fight the urge to shiver. “You look like you’re facing a firing squad, not going out with the love of your life.”
“Right now, I’d take a firing squad,” I mutter back, but I fix a bright, soft smile on my face. I look at him, tilting my head back just enough to catch the light.
He laughs, a low, genuine sound that vibrates through our joined hands. “I feel your pain.” I seriously doubt it. He’s used to being front and center. This is all new for me.
Inside, the restaurant is a sea of white linen and hushed conversations. The hostess leads us to a booth along the back wall. Every head turns as we pass. Damn. I feel like I’m having one of those crazy dreams where you walk through the room bare ass naked.
“You’re doing great,” he says, taking his seat across from me. He picks up the wine list, but he doesn't look at it. He looks at me. “What’s your favorite wine?”
“Anything white. What about you?”
He pauses, and for a moment, the cocky athlete mask slips. “I’m not picky.”
The waitress comes by, and I order the house Chardonnay before he tells her he’ll take the same thing.
“I guess we should get to know each other since we’re going to be hanging out a lot,” I tell him once the waitress walks away. “Tell me something about yourself.”
He looks down at the table, tracing the edge of his water glass with a thumb. “I read. A lot. History, mostly. I like knowing how things were built. How they fell apart.”
I blink, surprised by the honesty. “I can see that.”
“What about you?” he asks, looking back up. There’s a directness in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe. “What makes you tick?”
“I love to read, too. But I like steamy romance and creepy horror.”
“That’s quite an eclectic range of reading material.” He smirks. “I haven’t read any romance books lately, but I’m about to start the new McFadden book.”
“I love her work.” I finally begin to relax and forget about the crowded restaurant. And I totally forget this is all make-believe as we discuss the last few books we’ve read.
The meal is a blur of laughter and calculated touches. We both order the lasagna, and the way he watches me eat makes my skin prickle with heat. He tells me stories about the Seattle Knights’ locker room, and I tell him about my job working at a pediatric dental office. This is supposed to be a performance, but it feels all too real.
The drive back to my apartment is quieter. The performance is over, or it should be, but Ryan doesn't let go of the tension. He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console, inches from my thigh. I can feel the space between us vibrating with a charged silence that makes every breath feel heavy.
