Page 50 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
I looked down at my gloves, then back at the ice. The basil scent had faded.
Coach blew the whistle. The Zamboni doors cracked open, and we headed to the tunnel.
In the room, tape snapped and showers hissed. Chappy thumped my shoulder once as he passed. “Use your words.”
“Got it,” I laughed. We fist-bumped.
Mac pointed at me with his stick. “Whatever basil magic that is, keep it.”
I cracked a smile and headed for the showers. Twenty minutes later I was clean, packed, and out of the arena. Time to go home and start the risotto.
I stopped for wine. No clue what she likes, so I grabbed a Sauv blanc, a chardonnay, and a pinot. Three chances to get it right. I’ll learn the favorite; tonight, she gets a choice.
The Gesture
Claire
Now that our culinary supplies were put away, I slipped back into my room to tackle the work that had come in that morning.
Two proposals in, my focus slipped. Shoes, keys, coat. I ran down to the corner shop and came back with a small bunch of autumn-hued flowers, wrapped in paper. In the kitchen, I rinsed a jar, trimmed the stems with his shears, and set them in the center of the table. Paper into the bin. Back to work.
I got through maybe two more proposals before I heard the faint sounds of chopping and a pan clinking against the stove.
I poked my head out. "Just checking if you need me. I know you’ll say no, but I feel like I have to offer."
Liam didn’t look up right away. "Appreciate the gesture," he said, then flicked his gaze toward me with a soft smile. "But no surprise, still no."
I nodded. "Just confirming your kitchen dominance."
"Undisputed," he said without missing a beat.
I tried to keep reading, but the apartment started to smell like butter and something bright. Citrus, maybe saffron.
A little while later, there was a knock on my door.
"Dinner’s ready," Liam called.
I stood, stretched, and made my way out.
When I turned the corner, I stopped. Normally, we ate at the kitchen counter.
Tonight, the dining table was fully set. With real place settings. Cloth napkins. Silverware. Three types of glasses at each setting. One for water, one for white wine, and one for red wine.
The overheads were dim; the lights on the bookshelf were on instead. Two small candles flickered at the center of the table, flanking the flowers I bought. Soft piano music drifted in from the speaker across the room.
And the chairs... not across from each other.
One at the head of the table, and the other tucked just to the side.
Close. Angled.
I drew in a breath, slow and quiet, as my eyes took in the scene, then looked at him.
He suddenly looked sheepish.
"I wasn’t sure what you wanted to drink," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "So, I kind of covered my bases."
I closed my eyes briefly.
