Page 52 of Hooking Up with the Hockey Player

Frumpy and boring is fine when you’re hiding. But I’m not trying to hide from Troy. And if I’m being honest with myself, I don’t really want to hide in general. Not anymore.

Surveying the clothes scattered around me, I have the urge to go shopping. That won’t help me today, though. Troy will be here in twenty minutes, I still have to put clothes on, and then I have to clean up this mess. At least the rest of my house isn’t a disaster!

Just me.

I’m the only disaster here.

Irritated, I dig through what’s left in my closet and come across a wrap skirt I haven’t worn in a long time because it tends to catch the wind and fly open. But we’re just going to be in my apartment, so there’s no wind to worry about. Seized by inspiration, I toss it on the only clean space on my bed, then scrabble through the clothes piled there until I find the tank top I’m looking for. I shimmy into it, then wrap the skirt around me, fussing with the ties for a minute before getting them situated and tied to my liking. Then I step into the bathroom and stand in front of the mirror, slumping when I catch a glimpse of myself. I still look frazzled, but when I straighten, turning this way and that to look at just the outfit, I think it’ll do.

I spritz my brush with anti-frizz spray and run it through my hair, which helps me look more polished. Then I take a couple minutes to put on some eyeliner and reapply blush and mascara. When I reach for my usual everyday lipstick that’s slightly darker than my natural lip color, I hesitate. Then, I pick up the bold red that I bought on a whim a few months ago but haven’t worn in public. It’s always felt too flashy. But maybe …

I swipe it on, blot, and examine my reflection. My hair is sleek and straight, lips bold and inviting, and the ribbed coral tank and tan wrap skirt the perfect cute and casual look I wanted. I think … I think I might just be able to pull this off.

My phone chimes from my bedroom, but I can’t find it in the mass of clothes on the bed. When I finally locate it, there’s a text from Troy.

Troy

On my way. Be there in a few

Shit! I spent more time than I realized picking out my clothes, and now I have less than ten minutes to put everything away. I try to get everything back on the hangers and put away nicely because I like having it that way, but I’m not quite done when he knocks on the door.

I grab the last few things in my arms, cringing as I toss them on the closet floor and hurriedly slide the door closed. I pause and take a deep breath before opening the door, hoping I don’t look frazzled all over again.

But if I do, Troy doesn’t seem to notice or care. “Hey,” he says, his voice dripping with warmth, a giant smile spreading across his face at the sight of me.

My big, dopey grin matches his. “Hey! Come in. I’m glad you’re here.”

Stepping inside, he waits for me to close the door behind him, then wraps me in his arms and kisses me.

God, this man kisses like it’s an Olympic sport and he’s going for gold. I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed so thoroughly or so well before in my life. And honestly, I can’t get enough of it. If he kissed me like this every day for the rest of my life, I’d be thrilled.

That’s not possible, though, I remind myself, trying not to let the thought disrupt what we’re doing.

Troy must notice something, though, because he pulls away, his brows crimping together as he looks down at me.

But before he can ask whatever question is forming on his lips, I smile up at him. “Are you hungry? I’m starving.”

And he seems to accept that, because he lets me move toward the kitchen, though he stays right with me, his hand still on my waist as we go. “I could eat. What’d you have in mind?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Troy

Anna puts together a simple but tasty dinner of bowtie pasta topped with a thin garlicky sauce with sautéed mushrooms, bacon crumbles, and sliced cherry tomatoes with a salad and toast on the side. Despite the postage stamp footprint of her kitchen, we manage to work together to make the meal, me slicing the mushrooms while she got the pasta boiling, then sautéing the mushrooms and making the sauce while I cut up the tomatoes. She also pulls out a bagged salad mix, serving up a couple of handfuls of lettuce for each of us and getting a bottled vinaigrette dressing out of her fridge.

“This is my favorite dressing.” She passes it to me, and I glance at it.

“Sounds perfect.” I take advantage of the moment to bend and kiss her, intending for it to be little more than a quick peck. But she’s so responsive that it turns into something more, and she grins up at me shyly when she turns away to finish plating our food. I’m smiling too. I have been since I got here. I can’t help it. Being here with her makes me happy. I like this cozy domesticity, spending time with her in her space, seeing what she likes, how she moves, what makes her tick. She’s tidy and orderly, everything planned out in a specific manner. She cleans up as we go and seems flustered when I insist on helping both with the cooking and the cleaning.

“Oh, you don’t have to—” she starts to protest when I lightly hip-check her away from the sink and take the dirty dishes from her hands.

“But I want to,” I tell her, and that melts her resistance.

She gives me a small smile and nods. “Okay.” It’s a whisper, and she moves just enough to give me space to work but doesn’t entirely leave me to it. I’m not sure if she doesn’t trust me to do it right—which is entirely possible and not unreasonable considering we’ve only known each other for a few days—or if she just wants to be near me.

I’m choosing to assume the latter.

She pops bread into the toaster while I finish cleaning up, then slathers each piece with a generous amount of butter. My mouth is watering as we carry our food to her little dining table.

---