Page 68 of From Coast to Coast

“Fishta salad,” I prompt. I don’t want to be rude, but Remy told me back when he moved into my place that he couldn’t cook. I’m not about to eat something he cooked the last time he was in town and then left in the refrigerator; especially not if that something has fish in it.

“Oh. My mom left us a bunch of food. She came over to get the house ready for me when I told her we were coming.” He reaches over and pops the refrigerator door open. Inside, dozens of containers are stacked and labeled in neat, organized rows. “This is a recipe she used to make when I was a kid. We always used to have it when we came back from the beach. It’s essentially a pasta salad but there is fish in it, hence?—”

“Fishta salad. Got it.” I nod. “That’s incredible that she did all this for you. She must have been cooking for days to make all of that.”

“I’m an only child, so I get spoiled no matter how old I am,” he says, grinning. “Do you want something different, though?”

“No, no, I’m game for whatever.” I pull my bowl closer and take a bite. Both of us are still wearing nothing but our board shorts; I can see the appeal of living in a place like this, where the weather is always temperate. Remy walking around barefoot and shirtless certainly isn’t a hardship.

“Okay, so,” he says around a mouthful of pasta, “just so we’re clear. You and I aretogethertogether. Partners. No dating other people, and certainly not cute bartenders.”

“Remy!” I laugh, and he scowls at me, poking his fork aggressively into his bowl. “There is no cute bartender. It was one date and it was never going to work out. Also, need I remind you that you’re the one who told me to go on that date? I wasn’t even going to call him!”

“I told you to go, but I didn’twantyou to,” he says, as though this is perfectly obvious and not completely insane. “I was hoping you’d say you didn’t want to date the bartender because you were crazy in love with me, and I was the only guy for you.”

“Sure.” I nod seriously. “Sounds like exactly the thing I would say to the guy who told me he only wanted a casual fuck.”

He flicks a chunk of fish at me, hitting me in the chest. I catch it before it can slide to the floor and pop it into my mouth.

“It’s cute that you’re jealous,” I add, lifting a hand in case I have to ward off any more food missiles. “But unnecessary. In fact, I’m crazy in love with you, and you’re the only guy for me.”

“Oh my god,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Eat your dinner, smartass. I’m ready to be fucked within an inch of my life. I want to be walking funny when I get back onto that plane to Calgary.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Remy

It doesn’t matterhow many times I score a goal—each time that lamp lights up, I get the kind of endorphin rush that has thrill seekers jumping out of airplanes. It’s how I feel right now, standing in my kitchen with Grayson, knowing that he’s mine. It feels huge and all-encompassing, like I’ve won the Stanley Cup of relationships. And the truth is, I really think I might have.

Not only is Grayson a fucking snack, but he’s kind. He’s steady. He’s the guy who puts aside what he wants in favor of a friend. Now, I just have to figure out a way to keep him.

Step 1: doing filthy things on my couch.

“You know,” Grayson says, dropping his spoon into his now empty bowl, “I kind of feel like I need to brush my teeth before I—what was it you said—fuck you within an inch of your life. That pasta salad was ninety percent fish andmayonnaise.”

Laughing, I circle the island and pull him to stand. “Nope. I’m tired of waiting. I don’t care if you taste like ass.”

“Mm, not a bad idea,” he says, and leans down to lick my neck. I start walking backward, pulling him along.

“Couch,” I instruct.

He hums a little bit, bending at the knees to lick at my collarbone. When I try to move back toward the couch again, he stops me. I’m about to complain, when he cups his hands over the backs of my thighs, yanks me flush against him, and stands up. I scramble to grab on to his shoulders, laughing.

“Jesus,” I mutter, when he nips at my neck. Wrapping my legs around his waist, I twist my fingers through his hair and tug. “I don’t know whether to be embarrassed or turned on that you can pick me up so easily.”

“Turned on,” he answers, laying me down far more gently than I’d anticipated. “Definitely turned on.”

I aim a pointed stare at the crotch of my board shorts. “Mission accomplished.”

He grins, pushes me back until I’m lying flat on the L-shaped portion of the couch, and wastes no time ridding us of our little clothing. I have a list of about a hundred things I want to do with him, but between the visual of him standing naked above me right now and the fact that he can pick my hockey-playing ass up and carry me around, I’m at the point where I just need to be fucked. Pronto.

“I stashed a condom and lube over there.” I point toward the console table. “The drawer on the left.”

“Not yet,” he says, planting a knee and one hand onto the couch so he can lean over and start licking me again. My eyes practically roll to the back of my head when he spends an obscene amount of time on my nipples, and I know my grip on his shoulders is probably rough enough to bruise, but Ican’t figure out the mechanics of relaxing. Not when he’s apparently set on using his mouth to rid every bit of saltwater from my skin.

“Are we…are you going to do the…” His lips are on the inside of my upper thigh, so close to my dick and yet so far away. “Are we doing the edging again, because…”

I’m panting already, thoughts scattering each time his tongue finds a new patch of skin to taste.What the hell was I saying?

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