Page 74 of Stick Break
His kindness is almost too much. I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve it. Honestly, people don’t do things like this without expecting something in return—or at least, that’s what life’s taught me.
“Thank you, Rip.” My voice trembles more than I’d like. “We don’t even really know each other that well, and this... this goes above and beyond.”
He shakes his head, sincere and steady. “It’s nothing. And I know enough to know I want to offer you a place to stay.”
But it’s not nothing. It’s everything.
“For the record,” I say, lifting my chin. “I do have a friend.”
“Yes, your brother, I?—”
I rise onto my toes and press my lips to his, cutting him off. “No,” I whisper when I pull back. “You. You’ve been the best friend I’ve ever had.”
A flicker of surprise crosses his face, then warmth floods in. “Do you mean BFWB?” he asks, eyes twinkling. I wrinkle my nose and he says, “Best friends with benefits.”
I laugh. “It’s a great romance trope.” I narrow my eyes. “Wait, tell me something, Rip—have you been sneaking those romance novels Betsy keeps stashed at her place?”
He looks out the window and lets out a low, innocent whistle.
I burst out laughing, and something inside me settles. Like maybe, in this moment, I can forget everything else. The scandal. The cameras. The career in shambles. Because this man, this house, this feeling is more real than anything I’ve known in a long time.
Before I can say anything else, he scoops me up and deposits me on the counter. My legs wrap around his waist on instinct, arms sliding around his shoulders, and he kisses me like he’s starving. When his hips press forward, I gasp at the hardness straining between us.
“Rip,” I murmur, already breathless.
“Babe,” he whispers, voice thick with heat.
And God, I want him. I want to disappear into him for the rest of the day. But... “I promised Emma a lesson this afternoon.”
He groans and presses his forehead to mine. “Right.” Then he winces, lips quirking. “I could be fast.”
I laugh, even as heat pools low in my belly. “Oh, I know you can.”
“Hey,” he mock-offends. “I resemble that comment.”
He lifts me off the counter and sets me gently on my feet. “Fine. Go. Abandon me. I’ll just be here… suffering. Alone.” He winks to let me know he’s kidding and gestures toward the door. “Maybe I’ll go catch dinner. A little solo fishing therapy.”
“I just need to finish the dishes first,” I say, glancing toward the sink. “I know how you are about keeping this place in order.”
He swats my butt playfully. “Go. I’ll clean up. You can think about how to repay me later.”
That look in his eye says he already has a few ideas.
I hurry to the bathroom to brush my teeth and splash some water on my face. When I return, Rip is still at the sink, forearms flexing as he scrubs a plate. I pause in the doorway. There’s something so deeply right about this. It’s domestic, intimate… and unexpectedly beautiful. Who knew seeing a man do dishes could make my heart flutter like this?
I thought NHL players had chefs and assistants. Schedules, handlers. But Rip is just... grounded. A man who fixes things, cooks meals, scrubs pans. There’s no ego here, no spotlight. Just him. And I love that about him.
Love.
My breath catches. Nope. Nope, we are not going there. He wasn’t offering me marriage—he was offering me space. A spare room. A no-strings arrangement. That’s all. Still...
There’s a sting in the thought that he doesn’t see me as marriage material. But I’m not looking for that either.
Right?
19
Rip
