Four
Serena
I don’t know why I just agreed to this—I can’t afford to buy the ingredients to make a good osso bucco. I’ve got over a hundred dollars in daycare fees that are going to eat into my grocery budget next week. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t more than a little intrigued by a man who plays professional hockeyandcan cook.
Except for the little fact that I don’t date hockey players.
Joey’s father was my one and only experience with them and it wasn’t a good one.
I know it’s not fair to lump them all together, but I made it my mantra as a way to protect myself emotionally. Now I get the feeling all bets are off, which is equal parts exciting and terrifying. I know not everyone is like Tony, but I’d be stupid not to be wary.
“My place,” West says with a playful grin, unaware of the dark direction my thoughts have gone. “Next week sometime, when the weather settles down.”
“Next week might be a little busy for me,” I hedge. “Especially if we miss a few days of school, but sure, I’m game.”
“I’ll buy the groceries.” His eyes meet mine as if he can read my mind. “We won’t tell my friends who made what and let them decide.”
I chuckle. “I’m strangely intrigued by this concept of a cook off between someone who went to culinary school and a pro athlete.”
He laughs. “I’ve been single most of my adult life, beyond a few relationships here and there, so it was either learn to cook or pay someone else to do it. Then I found that it was relaxing, something I do when I’m not playing that’s a complete departure from sports. It’s good for my mental health and obviously, it allows me to fulfill my dietary needs.”
“I never thought about that,” I admit. “But I guess you have to be careful what you eat.”
“You have no idea. Don’t get me wrong, I still love beer and burgers and pizza, but I can’t eat like that regularly.”
“Of course.”
“Mommy, I done!” Joey jumps down and grins at me.
“Wipe your mouth,” I say gently.
He grabs the napkin and uses it to wipe his entire face, including his eyes and ears, making West and me chuckle.
“Go play for a few minutes,” I tell him. “When I’m done in the kitchen, we’ll get in the bath.”
“Okay.” He bounds off and I watch him for a moment before turning back to West. “I know, he’s a handful.”
“He’s fine.” West pushes his bowl away. “And that was incredible. Really delicious. All kidding aside, that might be the best stew I’ve ever tasted.”
For some reason, his praise fills me with warmth. I can’t remember the last time someone complimented my cooking outside of work.
But this is different.
And for some reason, I’m enjoying this stranger’s company a lot more than I thought I would.
“Let me clean up,” he offers, endearing himself to me even more.
“No, it’s fine. I’ve got a dishwasher.” I stand up and carry the bowls to the sink, but West is right behind me with the water glasses we’d been using. I turn to take them from him and we bump into each other.
Again.
His touch as he steadies me is warm and gentle, matching the look in his blue eyes.
And I’m rooted to the spot, unable—or maybe unwilling—to break the contact between us. It’s been a long time since anyone touched me and even longer since I craved that kind of contact.
Jesus, I don’t know what he’s thinking but he’s so damn hot. The best part is that he’s not in a hurry to move either. Under almostany other circumstances, I’d lean up, part my lips, let him kiss me and?—
I quickly avert my gaze because that’s not a direction this can go. He’s leaving in a few minutes and I’ll probably never see him again.