Page 71 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
I blinked, tension dissolving into surprise. "Your girlfriend?"
"Unless you prefer 'bacterial colonizer'?" His mouth quirked.
"Girlfriend works," I said, warmth spreading through me. "You want me to meet the team? Officially?"
"Is that okay?" His thumb traced circles on my back, a nervous tell I'd come to recognize.
The question was loaded with implications. This wouldn't be just dinner with his father—this was stepping into his public life, being seen with him, acknowledged as his partner. Part of me wanted to panic, to calculate all the ways this could complicate everything.
Instead, I thought of Dr. Barnes and her hiking engineer.
"Yes," I said firmly. "I'd love to be your official girlfriend at your fancy hockey party."
Relief and something deeper flooded his expression. "It might be intense. Media, management, sponsors..."
"Austin," I interrupted, placing my hand on his cheek. "I regularly handle volatile compounds that could theoretically dissolve human tissue. I think I can handle a charity gala."
He laughed, pulling me closer. "Just promise not to bring any flesh-eating bacteria as your plus one."
"No promises," I teased, rising on tiptoes to kiss him again, dinner temporarily forgotten as his hands slid under my shirt, our bodies communicating far more effectively than words.
The domesticity that had frightened me moments ago now felt like the most natural thing in the world. Because this wasn't just any routine—it was ours, chaotic and ordered allat once, a perfectly unbalanced equation that somehow still worked.
The charity gala was held at some fancy downtown hotel with crystal chandeliers that probably cost more than my entire education. I tugged at my emerald cocktail dress—borrowed from Angel, who'd shipped it overnight with a note that read "Knock his teammates' socks off"—and tried not to fidget as Austin navigated us through the crowd.
"You look incredible," he whispered in my ear for the third time that evening, his hand warm and steady against my lower back. "Half the guys can't stop staring."
"That's because they're trying to figure out how you ended up with the awkward science nerd," I murmured back, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
Austin's expression darkened. "Stop that. They're staring because they can't believe I got so lucky."
Before I could argue, we were approached by a tall, grinning man with a booming voice.
"Stone! Finally dragged your ass out of hibernation!" The man clapped Austin on the shoulder before turning his megawatt smile to me. "And you must be the famous Kate. Dennis Thompson. This guy won't shut up about you."
I shook his outstretched hand, instantly recognizing the name from Austin's stories. "The one who orchestrated our housing situation?"
Dennis's eyebrows shot up. "He told you about that? Shit, I thought he'd take that to his grave."
"She's surprisingly good at extracting information," Austin said dryly, his arm sliding around my waist.
"I bet she is." Dennis waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "So, Kate, what's it like living with Mr. Clean Freak over here? Has he color-coded your bacteria samples yet?"
I laughed, relaxing slightly. "Actually, I'm the chaotic one. My organizational system is best described as 'controlled explosion.'"
"No fucking way." Dennis looked delighted. "Stone Callahan, living with mess? I need photographic evidence."
"And you won't get it," Austin cut in smoothly. "Where's Sarah tonight?"
"Ditched me for a medical conference," Dennis replied easily. "Said saving lives trumps watching me drink for charity."
As they bantered, I surveyed the room. The event was a sea of designer dresses, expensive suits, and blinding smiles. Hockey wives and girlfriends clustered in glamorous groups, looking like they'd stepped off magazine covers rather than trudged through Minnesota winter.
Self-consciousness crept up my spine. These women had their hair professionally styled, wore makeup that looked effortless but probably took hours, and understood the unwritten social rules of this world. Meanwhile, I'd had to Google "how to accessorize a cocktail dress" and my hair was already escaping its updo.
"Hey." Austin's voice pulled me back, his fingers squeezing mine gently. "You okay?"
"Just calculating the statistical probability that I'll spill something on this dress before the night ends," I joked.
