Page 59 of Across the Boards

I can’t help laughing, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Part of my charm?” he suggests hopefully.

“We’ll call it that,” I concede, heading toward the kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m getting water. Want some?”

“Please.”

I watch Brody stalk around my living room. This is my sanctuary, my carefully curated retreat from the world. I’ve had exactly three visitors in the past year: Sarah, my mother, and the cable repair guy who I’m pretty sure thought I was a shut-in.

Now there’s a six-ish foot hockey player examining my family photos like they hold the secrets of the universe. I should feel invaded. Instead, I feel... something else. Something warmer and more dangerous.

I take longer than necessary filling our water glasses, using the moment to collect myself. I’m a grown woman who’s been married and divorced. I’ve negotiated corporate contracts and once told off an author with three Pulitzers for his abuse of passive voice. I can handle one hockey player without losing my composure.

When I return with two glasses, he’s exactly where I suspected—examining my bookshelf, head tilted to read the spines.

“You weren’t kidding about Pride and Prejudice,” he comments, pointing to my collection.

“I never kid about Austen,” I reply, handing him a glass. “It would be sacrilege.”

He accepts the water but doesn’t drink, his eyes still on me with an intensity that makes my skin warm. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told. Usually not as a compliment.”

“It absolutely is.” He sets his glass down on a coaster—brownie points for that—and takes a step closer. “I had a really good time tonight. Even with the hockey wives brigade and Jason’s spy network.”

“Weirdly, so did I.” I set my own glass down, suddenly needing something to do with my hands. “Though if Melissa invites me to that brunch one more time, I may have to fake my own death.”

“Too drastic. We could just move to Canada. Hockey wives can’t survive those winters, it’s too hard to wear designer shoes in six feet of snow.”

“’We’?” I raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore the flip my stomach does at his casual use of the plural.

“Figure of speech?” he offers, a hopeful smile playing at his lips.

“Nice try.”

He shrugs, unrepentant. “Worth a shot.”

We stand there for a moment in mildly awkward silence.

“So,” he says finally, voice dropping to a register that does funny things to my insides. “You mentioned something about wanting to kiss me since the dance floor?”

“Did I?” I feign confusion. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“My mistake.” He takes another step closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. “Must have been some other beautiful woman in a red dress who said that.”

“Must have been.” I resist the urge to step back, to maintain the safe distance I’ve kept from men, especially hockey players, for the past three years. “I would never be so forward.”

“Never?” His eyes are challenging, playful.

“Well.” I tilt my head, pretending to consider. “Hardly ever.”

“That’s a shame.” He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear so gently that it makes me catch my breath. “Because I’ve been thinking about kissing you since you opened your door that morning and yelled at me for locking myself out.”

“That was three weeks ago,” I point out, trying to sound amused rather than affected by his proximity.

“I’m aware of the timeline, Waltman.” His thumb traces along my jawline, feather-light. “I’ve been keeping very detailed records.”

“Stalker tendencies aren’t attractive, Carter.”

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