“I’m sorry you went through that,” she murmurs, her thumb rubbing back and forth over my stiff muscle.
“I’ve had years to come to terms with it, but it seems pointless to try again. I’m still in the NHL, still have a schedule that isn’t conducive to relationships. Casual simply feels more—”
“Achievable,” Alia finishes.
An acute sense of loss stirs in me when she draws her hand back. God, what I wouldn’t give for her to touch me again. Soothe me everywhere.
“I get it,” she says. “No one wants to set themselves up to fail.”
That she understands so easily is another reminder why she’s here. Because she doesn’t want a relationship either.
“It’s only that you’re. . .” She mumbles under her breath, too low for me to catch the words.
“I’m what?”
“You’re amazing,” she sighs. “Any girl would beluckyto be with you.”
My spoon falls to the counter with a clatter, crumbs of cake and flecks of blueberry coulis staining the previously clean surface. I should be embarrassed by how jittery and reactive I am, but I can’t hide my surprise.
“You’re kind, caring, and respectful. You did all this,” she gestures around us, “for a non-date.”
“Did what?” I question. I may not have invited the women I’ve slept with to my home but I’ve sure as fuck taken them on a date before they dropped to their knees for me. I’ve wined-and-dined them in lavish restaurants with no menus but still cost four figures for a meal. Not wanting a relationship wasn’t a reason to treat them carelessly, so I have no idea what about today—a conversation and homemade pasta—constitutes asall this.
“I bought you some flowers, made dinner, and got dessert. That’s it.”
“That’s a lot,” she insists, her rich brown eyes clearly reflecting how grateful she feels. And fuck if it doesn’t kill me. How are her standards this goddamn low?
“The bar is in hell, isn’t it?” I grunt.
“Hmm?”
“It’s the bare fucking minimum, Alia. Don’t letanyonetreat you otherwise because you’re too good for less.”
Her wistful look rips me apart so harshly, I almost fold over. I want to hold her, kiss her, demand that she understand what I’ve said and live by it as a principle.
“Like I was saying,” she continues, her throat bobbing in a quiet swallow, “I can only imagine how well you’d treat the girl you fall in love with. The more I get to know you, the more perfect you seem.”
I’m no longer fully listening. A wave of giddiness drowns everything out.
Perfect? She thinks I’m perfect?
My entire body goes awash in heat. A furious blush blooms across my chest, rising until the tips of my ears burn. I’m surprised they don’t fall right off. Fucking hell, am I going to faint? Is this what swooning is?
My fingers clench the edges of the cold counter as my vision homes in on the woman who’s crushing my capacity to converse without falling all over myself. All because she praised me.
Fuck me, do I have a praise kink?
“I’m not perfect,” I mumble, heat swathing my face. “If I was, I’d have something resembling my parents’ happy marriage. I thought it’d be easy to find but, clearly, it’s not.”
I can’t seem to help myself from spilling my guts like an emotional mess. What the hell is in this cake? I glare at the dessert tray like it’s the lemon or the berry making me loose-lipped.
I don’t usually deep dive into my emotions. With the boys, I’m one of the fun ones. The one who takes it easy. The one who doesn’t get worked up and dwell on failures. Hell, I don’t fail—period. Yet this introverted woman with eyes the color of my favorite chocolate has the capacity to obliterate my filters and tear down my armor until the very heart of me is exposed.
With anyone else, I’d be scrambling to put some distance between us. With Alia, intrinsically, I know what I’ve shared in confidence is safe. Dropping my guard to let her see my biggest failure has been easier than anticipated. “I guess we have this experience in common apart from our nicknames.”
“We have one more thing in common,” she adds. “We’re both imperfect works-in-progress.”
As her words sink in, something slots into place inside me. The cumbersome dissatisfaction I’ve been battling loses a little of its edge. Like I’ve been given the space to be whatever I choose to be—and to evolve in my own time.