Page 14 of Dating Goals
Griffin stretches lazily. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
“Nein. I mean no. I just…wouldn’t want you to catch cold.”
Real smooth, Anika.
He reaches for his T-shirt draped over a nearby log, but instead of putting it on, he dangles it from one finger. “You sure? Because I’m actually quite warm from all the wood chopping.”
My eyes betray me, tracking a bead of sweat as it trails down his chest. I snap my gaze back to his face, finding him watching me with that infuriating dimpled smile.
“Fine. Freeze to death. See if I care.” I cross my arms.
“Well, if you insist…” He unfolds the shirt with deliberate slowness, making a show of sliding one arm through, then the other. The fabric clings to his damp skin as he works it down his chest, somehow managing to make getting dressed look like a scene fromMagic Mike.
“Better?” He smooths the shirt over his stomach, his movements deliberate.
I tilt my head, studying him more carefully. Years of bartending have given me a sixth sense about people—the way they carry themselves, the stories behind their eyes. But this guy? He’s throwing me off balance.
“What are you even doing here?” I wave my hand at the cabin. “A Canadian, renting in Grächen of all places?”
He runs a hand through his damp hair, tossing me a flirty look. “Playing hockey for Visp, actually. There’s this whole lockout situation back home.”
“Hockey?” I roll my eyes dismissively, even though my heart skips. “That’s the one with the little white ball?”
His jaw drops. “You’re kidding.”
“Oh wait, no. That’s golf.” I tap my chin, playing dumb. “It is the one with the sticks,ja? Like golf, but chasing the ball around the ice.”
“It’s nothing like golf,” Griffin corrects, looking personally wounded. “And it’s not a ball. It’s a puck. Hockey is an art form. The speed, the skill, the strategy…”
I bite back a smile, remembering how I’d won a lot of money last season betting on my favorite teams. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“Sounds boring.” I examine my nails.
“Boring?” The poor man seems to be gasping for air, the way he’s sputtering. Yeesh, you’d think I’d just insulted his mother.
“I prefer real sports,” I say. “Like skiing.”
“Real sports?” He clutches his chest. “Maybe you should come see a game, let me change your mind.”
“Shouldn’t you be splitting more wood or something?”
“Come on, I’ll get you tickets.” He steps closer, and I catch a whiff of pine and fresh sweat. “Front row, right behind the goal. Best seats in the house.”
“So I can watch sweaty men slam each other into walls? No thanks.”
“Hey, some of those sweaty men are quite charming.” He winks. “One in particular.”
“Let me guess. You?”
“I’ve been told I clean up nice.”
“Are you trying to get me to come to your game, or ask me out?”
“Can’t it be both?” He grins. “Come watch me play. If you still think it’s boring, I’ll buy you dinner to make up for wasting your time.”
Such a smooth talker.
“And if I like it?”
