Page 67 of Playing for the Hat Trick
His place is exactly what I should’ve expected—clean, expensive, masculine. All cool colors, high ceilings, and architectural lighting. But then there’s a scent—a soft, warm, completely unexpected aroma floating in the air.
Garlic. Butter. Lemon.
No. Nope. Absolutely not.
I turn on my heel. “Did you cook?”
Jason shrugs like it’s no big deal. “You said we start tonight. I figured we’d need energy.”
I cross my arms. “It’s just sex. Meals should not be included.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just walks toward the kitchen with his easy, self-assured stride. “Relax, Crawford. It’s chicken piccata.Not a marriage proposal.” He waves me forward like this is normal. “Sit. Eat. Get your protein. You’re gonna need it.”
My brain short-circuits. I drag both hands down my face because, goddammit, it smells really good in here, and now my stomach is confused, and so is my vagina.
“You realize this makes it feel . . . intimate, right?” I say, already edging toward the kitchen despite my objections. “This is not a date.”
He doesn’t even look at me when he answers. “Only if you let it.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m not here to date you.”
I briefly consider walking right back out that door and never speaking to him again.
Instead, I sit.
Very intentionally. Like a sane person. Like someone not imagining climbing onto the kitchen island, dragging him by the hoodie, and kissing him until one of us passes out from lack of oxygen.
The bar stool is tall, cool under my legs, and completely ineffective at stopping the heat, which is still crawling up the back of my neck. I focus on the granite countertop. It’s flawless. Glossy. Black veined with gold, which feels metaphorical somehow. Like this entire night—polished and expensive and asking for trouble.
Jason pulls two glasses from the cabinet and pours wine with casual precision as if this is a Tuesday and not the prelude to something that might ruin me. He slides a glass across the island, and I grab it like it’s armor. Like a sip of wine will be enough to distract me from the way his sweatpants hug his hips. It’s not.
I pick up a fork, twirl it once like I’m brandishing a weapon, and point it at him. “You’re infuriating.”
He turns, holding two plates, looking far too pleased with himself. “I’m effective.”
“And cocky.”
“Only when I’ve got the follow-through to back it up.” He sets my plate down gently, then steps back just enough to give me air—but not distance. His eyes drag across the neckline of my sweater, slow and deliberate, like he’s reading something etched there.
I take a bite before I say something stupid.
The second the food hits my tongue, I regret that too. Because it’s good. Like, stupidly good. The kind of good that makes you sigh without meaning to. The kind that makes your toes curl inside your boots because buttery lemon sauce shouldn’t be allowed to taste like foreplay. It melts in my mouth—tender chicken, soft garlic, that citrus zing that tastes like he knew exactly what I needed before I did.
I moan quietly.
Barely audible.
But Jason fucking hears it.
He leans on the counter across from me, arms folded, that look in his eyes sharp enough to make my spine straighten. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches me chew like he’s picturing my mouth doing something far less innocent.
“You made this?” I ask like that’ll cut the tension.
He nods, eyes glittering. “Would’ve made dessert, but I figured you’d rather skip to the part where I fuck you senseless.”
I choke on a caper. Cough. Swallow too hard. His expression doesn’t change—except for the slow, smug curl of his mouth.
“Shit, Tate.”
