Page 163 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

I blink at him, trying to decide whether to laugh, cry, or just get back in bed and pretend this conversation never happened. “You can hardly build Ikea furniture without YouTube tutorials, and now you think you can build an ice rink?”

“Totally different skill set,” he insists, sounding completely unbothered. “I bookmarked some tutorials on my phone. It’s gonna be amazing. Trust me.”

We make our way toward the parking garage.

“Gio, just so we’re clear—this imaginary rink of yours?Who’s going to maintain it? Because I’m not waking up at five in the morning to scrape ice or whatever it is hockey parents do.”

“Oh, don’t worry, babe,” he says, pulling out the car keys with a flourish. “I’ve got it all figured out. I’ll get one of those Zamboni machines. You know, the mini ones. I’ll just drive it around the yard.”

I stop dead in my tracks. “AZamboni?”

He nods like this is the most reasonable idea he’s ever had. “Yeah. I’ve already been looking at used ones online. They’re not that expensive if you find one from, like, 1998.”

I stare at him, waiting for the punchline, but of course—there isn’t one.

This man is dead serious.

“Let me get this straight. You want to buy a house, build an ice rink, and then…drive a Zamboni in our backyard?”

“Exactly,” he says, grinning like he’s just nailed the best pitch of his life.

“Dude, no.”

As we pull out of the garage, I glance over at him, his face lit up with excitement. It’s ridiculous, honestly—this whole ice rink idea, the Zamboni, everything—but it’s also kind of adorable. Because underneath all the chaos and the questionable plans, Gio is trying.

And as much as I hate to admit it, I wouldn’t trade this insanity for anything.

“Know what I’m gonna do when we get back to my place?”

“Hmm?” I hum, scrolling through podcasts to listen to on our drive. “What are you going to do when we get back to your place?”

“Go down on you,” he announces, grinning at the oncoming traffic like he’s just declared he’s going to make a grilled cheese.

My brows shoot up at his pronouncement.

He’s said it as if he just told me the sky is blue, or that I’m having a baby: matter-of-fact and to the point. No room for argument.

I blink at him, momentarily forgetting how to form coherent words.

“Excuse me?”

He shrugs, still grinning. “What? You deserve it. House hunting is stressful. You’re carrying my child. Least I can do.”

“Oh, theleastyou can do?” I repeat, torn between laughing, rolling my eyes, and blushing furiously. Still, he is not wrong. It’s been a few weeks since he’s gone down on me and I wouldn’t shove him out of bed for crawling down between my legs. “It's not like we haven’t been having sex.”

“I realize that. But oral is like a Hallmark card—when you care enough to send the very best.”

He slides his big bear paw over my thigh and squeezes. “Sex is great, don’t get me wrong, but there’s something about oral. I think it’s a thoughtful gesture, don’t you?”

“A thoughtful gesture,” I repeat, staring at him in disbelief, podcast forgotten.

“Exactly,” he says, nodding confidently. “Like, ‘Hey babe, I see you, I appreciate you, and I want to make you feel amazing.’ That’s the message.”

His fingers slide up my black leggings, slow and deliberate, and my heart stutters in my chest.

“Gio,” I say, my voice a little breathier than I’d like, “we’re literally on our way to meet a realtor. Can you not?”

“Why not?” he teases, his hand lingering above my knee, thumb making lazy circles that send a shiver up my spine.

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