Page 71 of Against the Clock

“Is that right?” I laugh, my momentary discomfort washed away by his easy-going nature.

“Yep. And I’m going to watch you carb-load to make sure you’re ready.”

“What do you have planned for me?” I follow him through the main foyer, past the library-slash-office he must have grabbed A Wrinkle In Time from.

“We’re going to work out. Go over plays, discuss optimal positioning for our relationship.”

I stare at him. “Huh?”

“I’m going to fuck you, Kelsey, and you’re going to tell me exactly how and where you want it.”

I squeak, then laugh, realizing what he meant. “I have to work tomorrow.”

“We can just sleep, too, if you want. But I don’t have work tomorrow…” He drifts off and his fingers find a light switch, illuminating a gorgeous navy blue and dark wood kitchen that somehow manages to be masculine and homey all at once. There’s a huge copper farmhouse sink and an oversized fridge, like he’s used to cooking for an army.

For all I know, he does.

As public as my new boyfriend’s career is, I don’t know nearly as much about him as I should.

“Sit,” he says. “Water? Wine?”

“Water,” I tell him.

“Sparkling or still?”

I tilt my head, unsure if the question is a joke. “Sparkling?”

“Good choice,” he says and opens the fridge door to reveal rows of Topo Chico mineral water, protein shakes, and an assortment of fruits and vegetables. He pops the lid off one of the Topo Chicos and it fizzes as he hands it to me.

“Thanks,” I say. “You know, I’m happy to help cook.”

“Normally I would say yes,” he says, unbuttoning and rolling up his sleeves, then leaning his muscled forearms against the counter, making unrelenting eye contact with me. “But right now, I want you to relax and I want to impress my girlfriend with my cooking skills.”

“Is that right?” I can’t help laughing a little, the bubbles from the water dancing along my tongue when I take a sip.

“I want to do everything I can to make being with me as easy as possible, Kelsey. Because it won’t always be easy. But if making you dinner makes you smile, then I’ll do it every night.”

It’s so sincere, the way he says it, his dazzling blue eyes full of heat and hope, that it takes me aback.

“I’ve never dated anyone like you,” I finally say.

“Good. I’d be very jealous if you had.” He bends down, pulling out a pot, and I settle back in the barstool, watching him work.

He floats around the kitchen with clear, efficient ease, obviously in his element and so competent that my eyebrows might be permanently lifted in surprise and awe. I’m not a great cook, but I can cook, and that’s more than most guys I’ve dated. Then again, most guys aren’t thirty-nine-year-old quarterbacks who like to garden because they like to cook, apparently.

I close my eyes and inhale, breathing in a delicious aroma of garlic and butter and onions. Water starts to boil in one of the pots, and Daniel’s whisking together a cream sauce, pouring it into the butter mixture, alternating it with pinches of flour.

All while I bask in my post-orgasm glow and sip Topo Chico.

“You’re spoiling me,” I finally say.

“You deserve to be spoiled. That’s what girlfriends are for.”

I press the cool bottle against my cheek, practically glowing.

“If I haven’t made this completely clear, Kelsey Cole, let me.” He looks up at me from whisking the sauce, his blue eyes intense and focused. “When it comes to you, I’m in it to win it. I’ll go as slow or fast as you want. You set the pace. You tell me what you want. But as for me? You don’t have to worry.”

I cough, choking on the fizzy water.

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