Page 52 of Three Pucking Words
“Good. Then you can keep saving it,” he replies stubbornly.
I glare at him.
He glares back. Except, his glare is playful.
“Bodhi.”
“Honor,” there’s a hint of a smile in his tone.
“This is a—”
“Fake date,” he finishes for me. “I know, you’ve said. However, I still have every intention of paying for the tab. In fact, I have a feeling it’ll be a fight between the men on who will pick it up. So you’ll have two other contenders to be mad at if they get the check first.”
While I’m not above the patriarchal stereotype that says men should pay for dinner, that doesn’t mean I expect it. Then this becomes…more. More than helping a friend with a favor. More than two co-workers going out to eat and enjoying the others company.
Something tells me neither of us are going to budge on this. “You could have asked hundreds of other girls to do this tonight, and I doubt they would have fought you on paying.”
His singular dimple pops. “I’m sure that’s true,” he agrees lightly, igniting the tiny jealous monster inside me. “But I wantedyouto be here, even if you’re being a pain in my ass.”
“A pain in—” I stop myself and scoff. “I’m simply trying to be respectful.”
“And I appreciate that, but it’s unnecessary.”
“But—”
“And if we’re being honest here,” he cuts me off with a knowing look in my direction. “It isn’t just about you being respectful of my finances. It’s about you creating boundaries to protect yourself. Which is fine. I won’t cross any lines you don’t want me to. But I think you owe it to yourself to be honest about what this really is.”
All I can do is gape at him. Because he’s…
Right. Annoyingly so.
Then I feel bad about keeping him at arm’s length because I could have said no to this. I could have easily told him I couldn’t come after all. I’d considered it a time or twelve since agreeing. I didn’t, though, because I was a little—and by little, I mean miniscule—bit excited.
Even though it’s not a real date, it feels like it is. The version of me who pined for a stranger years after one conversation with them in a dark bar is the one who said yes to this. Notme. Not the fresh divorcee with trust issues. Not the person who I used to think was logical.
Logical people don’t go on dates with attractive professional hockey players who play for their father. Whether the dates are real or not. They just…don’t.
“You’re in your head,” he notes.
Which, again, he’s right about.
“Stop doing that,” I mutter, more to myself than him.
He hears me and chuckles.
Sighing, I settle into the seat and close my eyes for a second. “It’s not you,” I tell him after a few moments of silence. “I have some stuff to work through.”
All he says is, “That’s fine.”
And when I look at him—reallylook—I can see he means that. There’s no pressure. No ultimatum or ulterior motive. He’s okay with taking this at my own pace, with letting me keep him at a healthy distance.
I swallow. “Okay then.”
“Okay.”
We share another look. His is softer than before. Comforting. “Okay.”
His eyes glimmer. “You said that already, honey.”
