Page 14 of Hooking Up with the Hockey Player

That makes me chuckle. “I’m a French toast girl, myself. That’s what I always get on the rare occasions I eat breakfast at a restaurant.”

“Ah, but this is brunch,” he points out, holding up a finger. “Does that mean you can break with your usual habits?”

Screwing up my face like I’m deep in thought, I shake my head. “I mean, I suppose I could. But the real question is”—I spread my hands, palms up—“why would I want to?”

That makes him laugh, and the sound undoes a few more knots of tension coiling my muscles tight. I made him laugh. Like a normal human woman on a date with an attractive man.

Maybe I can do this after all.

“Good point,” he murmurs. “So which do you think you’ll choose? Sausage or berries?”

My eyes widen, because the tone of his voice is overtly suggestive.

He splutters a laugh, pulling his arm from behind me so he can wave both hands in a negative gesture. “Wait, wait, wait. No. I didn’t mean it like that.” He points at me. “No. I swear to god. That wasn’t what I was getting at.”

I grin at his spluttering protests, his clear dismay making me feel even more at ease.

“Suuuure,” I draw out. “Likely story. Toss out a double entendre, see what kind of reaction you get, huh?”

“No!” he protests again, and I’m grinning, doing my best to hold back my laughter. “I swear!” He holds up his right hand. “I know plenty of guys who are that douchey, but I’m not one of them.”

“Uh-huh.” I lick my finger and pretend I’m marking a column in the air in front of me. “We’ll just keep track of how many of these pop up.”

He groans. “Pop up? Are you serious? Does that mean I get to keep score on you too?”

I look at him blankly for a second, and then the penny drops. I whack him on the arm. “Gross! That’s not what I meant at all!”

He catches my hand, and his grip feels a little rough, like his hands are calloused—probably from years of playing hockey—but it’s warm and comforting too.

My laughter dries up from the contact, and we’re caught like that for a moment. But the moment is broken by the hostess. “Anna! Table for two!”

At my gentle tug, Troy releases my hand. “That’s us,” I murmur unnecessarily, flustered and prickly with heat from my chest to my hairline, the feeling too familiar to blame on the summer sun.

We follow the hostess to a table inside the crowded restaurant, but thankfully the one we get is nestled in the corner next to a window, giving us a view of the street and the corner of the central downtown park with the gazebo that’s the heart of our summertime festivals. There’s an art show there this weekend, which I hadn’t thought about when I invited Troy for brunch, nor the ensuing parking nightmare that would cause.

Once we’re seated, menus in front of us, I glance up at him. “Sorry about the parking situation. I forgot about the art festival going on this weekend.”

He flashes me an easy grin. “No apologies necessary. I’m sorry I was late.”

Shrugging, I dismiss his apology. “It just meant you didn’t have to wait as long for our table.”

“True,” he says thoughtfully. “But it also meant less time sitting on that bench with you.”

Another wave of heat washes over me, but I can’t help feeling pleased at the comment. Still, I don’t have anything good to say. He glosses over my silence, flipping his menu over then setting it on the table in front of him and meeting my eyes. “I’m not sure why we’re bothering with the menu when we know what we’re getting, don’t we?”

My eyebrows raise. “We do?”

“Stuffed French toast, right? That’s what they’re known for. That means we’re duty-bound to try it.”

“And do you always do what duty dictates?”

He tips his head to the side, his lips compressing as he studies me, thinking over my question. “Usually, yeah.”

“Interesting,” I muse quietly, and his eyebrows jump.

“Is that surprising?”

I shake my head. “I can’t say I know enough about you for it to be surprising or not. But I think people are endlessly fascinating. I enjoy getting to know what makes people tick. And so I find it interesting that you adhere to a sense of duty.” Despite being awkward with new people, it’s the truth. Or maybe that’s the heart of my awkwardness—I know that asking probing questions is weird and uncomfortable, so I tend to not say anything rather than do that. Both options tend to result in conversations going nowhere, though. But Troy doesn’t seem to mind. I rest my chin on my hand. “Why is that, do you think?”

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