Page 50 of Puck You Very Much

Warmth spread through Lucy’s chest and she lowered her coffee cup. Dax loved his sister, and he hadn’t given up on Jack yet. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have put this photo here. That was Jack, all right. She knew that even if he wasn’t easily recognizable.

Turning, she shook her head. This wasn’t how she had imagined Dax’s apartment. It seemed so…comfortable. So lived in. Like he actually spent time here. That wasn’t the case with most bachelor players. Most guys didn’t bother decorating their apartment or house properly since they were out of town so frequently for away games. They essentially lived in hotels, and on the ice. But this…this wasn’t an impersonal apartment; this was a place someone called home. She couldn’t say why, but it bothered her. It made Dax so…real. She continued into the kitchen. In the sink there was a light-colored shirt with a red stain on it. It had been sprayed with something white. Frowning, she leaned forward. Was he treating the stain so it would come out in the wash?

That was incredibly…prudent. And uncharacteristic of pro hockey men, in general, as far as she knew. Matt preferred to throw away shirts with stubborn stains and buy new ones, instead. Lucy had always thought that was terribly wasteful, but when you made six million dollars a year, you probably didn’t think about it twice.

At least she imagined so.

Shaking her head again, she continued on and inspected the dishes set out to dry on a rack next to the sink – Dax had a dishwasher, why had he washed the dishes by hand? – before she went to the refrigerator.

She glanced towards the bathroom to make certain the water was still running, and then she opened the door. She’d expected to see something like her refrigerator, which was stacked with food containers from the Chinese restaurant next door, but here she saw only fresh vegetables, milk, a half-eaten lasagna in a casserole dish…

Dax cooked?That would explain the various kitchen utensils hanging from mounts on the walls and…was that a knife sharpener on the counter?

The door behind her opened and Dax stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped tightly around his waist.

Ten minutes ago, she would have had to avert her gaze so she wouldn’t be tempted to stare at his body again. It spoke of how unsettling she found the whole loft and what it said about Dax that she scarcely noticed his naked torso. Instead, she looked directly into his eyes and asked, utterly perplexed, “Dax, are you a…a grown man who’s down-to-earth?”

The corners of his mouth twitched and the dimple on his cheek appeared. “What on earth makes you think that?”

“Well, it looks so…homey here,” she responded, agitated, spreading her arms. “Cozy. Like you decorated it yourself. Like you shopped for it yourself. Like you are…totally responsible for your own life. Oh my God.” Stunned, she put a hand to her chest. “Are you aresponsiblehuman being too?”

He grinned broadly. “The disbelief in your voice…” he replied, shaking his head. “But, no, I’m not totally responsible. I drank too much yesterday and almost missed the photo shoot.”

“Well, yeah,” she replied inanely. “Yeah, I know, but…” She blinked. “You’re confusing me.”

“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he said and turned his back on her, disappearing into the sleeping area, which was hidden behind a large shelf full of files, CDs, and books.

“You have a lot of…kitchen utensils,” she called after him.

“You need those to cook.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, just…well, I didn’t realize you knew how to cook.”

A snort was the reply. “How else am I supposed to eat?”

“I…don’t know. Order out?”

“Too boring, too greasy, and too unhealthy for me in the long run.”

Oh God, he was responsible! “But…you’re a womanizer,” she stammered. “You’re probably already on conquest number seventy-something and…”

“And womanizers aren’t allowed to cook?” he exclaimed, confused.

“Well…no. That doesn’t fit the image. And why do you wash dishes by hand? Why do you soak stains? And do you water the plants yourself?”

“You know I’ve been asked some crazy questions by various journalists,” he remarked, rounding the shelf in jeans and a white T-shirt, his damp hair clinging to his forehead, “but yours outshine them all.”

“I’m not a journalist, so you can answer me,” she said, needing answers.

He sighed heavily. “I had to learn to cook early on so I could put something other than a peanut butter sandwich on the table,” he said quietly. “And I like food. Washing dishes soothes me for some reason and if I didn’t soak the stain, the shirt would be ruined. And who else would water the plants but me? Are you happy now?”

No, not at all. “Didn’t your parents…?” She left the question hanging and shook her head. “Sorry. Asking you that is not normal, is it?”

Dax sighed again and rubbed his face. “Nothing about you is normal, Lucy.”

She smiled and nervously turned the ring on her finger. “Thanks. Acting normal is terribly boring. And…” She hesitated and lowered her gaze to her feet for a split-second before raising it again, uncertain if she wanted to open that particular can of worms. Unsure if she wanted to remind him of that night a week ago.

“What?” Dax asked, raising an eyebrow.

---