Page 33 of Hockey Wife

Banks remained still. He could have walked away, but he seemed to want to test himself with Cheddar’s presence.

“You should pick him up.”

“Why?” Banks stared at her, then at Cheddar, as if his opinion mattered.

“Because he’d like it.”

Instead, he picked up the remaining suitcase and went ahead of her up the stairs, which gave her a nice view of his ass. Was that what attracted her to him in the first place? A hockey butt? In that bar, she’d seen his strong back and broad shoulders tapering to trim hips. But mostly she’d liked his voice, that laconic way he spoke to his mom on the phone.

She’d never really been an ass-girl, but looking at Banks’s very nice behind, she wondered if that was about to change. Hopefully not. This place seemed big enough that she wouldn’t have to concern herself with Banks and his excellent butt musculature.

He dropped the suitcase inside the door of one of the rooms. Bright and airy, it was painted a light mauve color and had fresh flowers on the cream-colored dresser.

“Oh, this is lovely!”

Banks sniffed. “Cleaner comes in on Fridays. Food delivery twice a week, just add what you want to the list on the fridge.”

“Sounds good. I’ll pay for rent and groceries.” She moved the cat carrier to the closet.

“No need. You’re a guest.”

She might be broke, but she had enough to pay her own way. One look at Banks told her making this argument wouldn’t get her very far.

“How about I make lunch?”

His expression was pained. “I’d planned to head to the gym after this. And I have a five-day road trip starting tomorrow.”

He’d be gone for five days? She should be glad of the space. All the benefits of married life without having to spend time with your mistake of a husband.

So it was a surprise when the next words tumbled out of her mouth. “Come back for dinner tonight. I’ll cook.”

And even more of a surprise when he agreed.

But he didn’t sound happy about it.

11

“Smells good.”

She turned quickly. Banks stood at the entrance to the kitchen, leaning against the door with arms threaded over that wide chest. He wore dark sweatpants and a gray tee covered with a Rebels blue zip-up.

“I know it’s a bit of a mess …” She gestured ineffectually at the flour-covered counter, the remnants of her meal prep. “I’ll clean up after, I promise.”

His gaze skimmed the mess and landed on the kitchen table, where she’d placed a bottle of Cab Sauvignon, place settings for two, and a candle. Not yet lit, and the more she thought about it, not likely to be, either. Far too romantic.

Another thing to which she should have devoted more brain space: offering to make dinner for the man she’d accidentally married and was now living with for “appearances.”

The problem: she couldn’t cook.

The solution: order in.

But that seemed like a cop-out for their first night in their marital home.

Finding the Kitchen Aid mixer and the pasta attachment in the pantry was a sign. Dani loved to cook and had once perfected little pockets of sweetly savory pumpkin ravioli with a butter sage sauce. Georgia wouldn’t be trying anything as complicated as that, but she could make linguine. How hard could it be? Flour, water, salt, an egg—the most basic of ingredients. And she’d watched a video that told her how to do it.

Banks’s low rumble cut into her anxious thoughts. “What can I do?”

“Nothing!”

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