Page 21 of Pucking the Grump

Once Piper moves on to the next table, Stone’s gaze shifts my way, sending a sizzle of awareness across my skin. “Figured it was easier just to say thanks. And I mean…we do have lovely energy.”

“It’s not bad,” I murmur, my mind turning to just how “energetic” we usually are together. I would be lying if I said a part of me wasn’t jonesing for Stone to bend me over the closest piece of furniture and deliver some of our usual stress relief, but…this is nice too.

Maybe too nice?

I push the thought aside, concentrating on finishing up my dragon’s mane. We’re having fun. There’s no reason to overthink it. In fact, not overthinking is the whole point of this “intervention.”

By the time we finish our second puppets—a monster for Stone and a unicorn for me—the evening is winding down. Three of the six tables have already left when Piper announces clean-up time, but I feel a pang of disappointment, anyway.

“I guess I’ll have to finish the unicorn’s mane at home,” I say, tucking my last wad of black yarn into my pocket. I decided to make my unicorn dark and goth-y to contrast with my dragon’s rainbow vibes.

Stone grins. “Look at you! From anti-craft to taking yarn home with you. I call that a raving success.”

“Yeah, it was fun,” I say, waving goodbye to Piper as we collect our puppets and head for the exit.

“Just fun?” Stone holds the door open for me before following me out into the cool night air. “Not amazing? Life-changing? An awakening of your creative spirit?”

I bump his shoulder with mine. “I don’t know about all that, but you did good. It was a great first fun date.”

His smile is pleased and a little smug. “I knew it. I knew there was a crafter under that corporate jock exterior.”

I laugh. “Don’t get carried away. I’m not going to decoupage with you. Not ever.”

“Not even if I had some really fun material to work with?” he asks as he unlocks the SUV. “I have Mad magazines from the 1930s and an old copy of Macbeth with loads of creepy illustrations…”

I pat his arm. “Thanks, but I’m going to leave those for you. I’m not big on cutting and pasting. But this was great. I’m really glad we came.”

He opens the passenger door for me. “Me, too.”

The drive back to my place is even easier and more relaxed than our drive down to The Painted Lady. We chat about everything and nothing, and when we pull up outside my building, an unexpected reluctance sweeps over me. I usually like living alone—dealing with people all day has me ready for peace and quiet by the time I head home—but for the first time in a long while, I’m not looking forward to “me time” before bed.

“Thanks for tonight,” I say as I reach into the back for my bags. “It was really nice.”

“My pleasure.” Stone’s voice is soft, rumbly, reminding me of the way his words vibrate across my skin when we’re as close as two people can get. “I’ll shoot you a text about where to meet on Saturday once I have more details.”

“Sounds good.” I hesitate, the invitation to come up and have another beer—and have me up against the wall—hovering on my lips.

But before I can speak, Stone leans over and gives me a quick hug. “I’d better get home to Barb,” he says, his breath warm on my neck. “I took her out right before I came to get you, but she’ll still need a trip to her puppy pad on the balcony before bed.”

“Of course, no worries. Go take care of the fur baby,” I say, trying not to sound disappointed.

He pulls back, gazing at me for a beat before he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Night, Rem.” Then he kisses me, but not one of our usual “starved for each other” kisses. This kiss is soft, almost friendly, and lands on the corner of my mouth instead of my lips.

But it’s still enough to make me ache…

“Night,” I whisper, my heart beating faster.

I climb out of the SUV, waving as he heads for home before ducking into the building. Once inside my apartment, I prop my sock puppets up on my bookshelf, with the pile of black yarn beside them, charmed by how they disrupt the dry symmetry of my hockey trophies and non-fiction book collection. Even as a kid, most of the books at the Lauder house were hockey-related histories or memoirs, but I also had a small collection of dragon-themed books.

In a rare moment of sentimentality, I took them with me when I moved out of Dad’s house for good after college. They’re little kid books, but they remind me of Mom, and how she’d read to me every night before bed.

On impulse, I grab “Sleepy Baby Dragon” from the bottom shelf beneath my collection of coffee table books and place it beside Scorcher Jr, smiling at how cute the illustrated cover looks beside my homemade puppet.

I head into the shower, staying loyal to my usual routine, but the hot water doesn’t calm me the way it usually does, and as I slip between my sheets, I find myself wishing Stone were here to snuggle again. Just…snuggle, not even deliver multiple O’s.

This is dangerous territory. Getting attached to a man I have no intention of getting serious about is about as smart as skating without a helmet. Even if I decided I was up for breaking my “no relationships” rule, and Stone was game to be boyfriend/girlfriend, between my career ambitions in Seattle and Stone aiming for a sportscaster job in L.A. after he retires, we’re moving in completely different directions. And the fact still remains that my dad would make Stone’s final NHL season miserable if he found out about us.

Nope, giving in to my softer side would be a mistake. I just need to enjoy this for what it is and keep holding Stone at an appropriate distance. A friendly, fuck buddy distance. I can do that.

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