Page 79 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
I jerk, pulling myself out of the lovely warmth that is Gray’s body—his chest is hard, intensely muscled, but it’s also surprisingly comfortable to rest my head there, to have his arms wrapped around me.
“Hmm?”
“You’re snoring, Red.”
I feel my cheeks heat. “I am not. I’m awake,” I lie. “I’m enjoying…” I trail off as I try to focus on what the hell is on the television.
It’s—
“Are you watching people push shopping carts for fun?” I ask, aghast.
“Not for fun,” he murmurs, turning down the volume. “For sport.”
I look at the TV, watch the average-looking person crouching and straightening, leaning from side-to-side, as though they’re trying to gauge the distance between themselves and the metal rack the cart needs to presumably be pushed in to. Then I roll over so Gray and I are face-to-face. “What are you talking about? This is sport?”
His eyes dance and I want to close the distance between our mouths, to taste the amusement on his face.
Beautiful man.
And I love that all day we’ve done nothing but hang out and watch hockey and bad action movies and eat my caramel popcorn. And talk—and make out and…well, also participate in just a smidge bit of deliberate touching (to very enjoyable outcomes for both of us).
If it wasn’t for me having to answer the occasional insurance-related phone call and putting in an order for a new cell phone and computer—who knew that having several of my credit card numbers memorized because of my addiction to online shopping would one day be a godsend? Anyway, if it wasn’t for all that, it would have felt like a lazy weekend day we’ve been whiling away together.
Because between the calls and polishing off the banana bread and ordering in pizza (and working both of those foods off with horizontal exercise), we’ve just hung.
He’s told me more about his parents…and how disconnected he’s felt from them for years.
“They don’t have any clue about how my life really works,” he told me. “Hell, the last time they visited, my mom asked if I could skip practice to drive them to some outlet mall, like I was a ten-year-old kid who could miss ice-time without any consequences. On a basic level, they get this is my job,” he said. “They just don’t have any idea what that truly entails. It feels…unreal to them.” He shrugged. “And they don’t care enough to make an effort to understand.”
God, how that had resonated.
Which meant I shared how I grew apart from friends who thought writing was a silly hobby and from those who sneered because I wasn’t writing real books and from those who didn’t understand that being a writer entailed so much more than just jotting down stories in my spare time.
We also talked about Nana and her recipes, bonded over a shared love of cinnamon rolls.
And as we devoured pizza, we discussed TV shows (no surprise, I love love stories and he’s more of a sports, in any form—hence shopping carts—man).
It was normal and it was great.
But it also felt fragile—as though one knock on the door, one of Gray’s furtive glances out the kitchen window, could send it skittering away.
And maybe that’s why it felt so precious.
Why I didn’t complain when he put on the Gold game.
Truthfully, it wasn’t that bad. He taught me a few of the finer points of hockey, shared some fun behind-the-scenes stories that had me craving my laptop so I could jot down all the plot bunnies.
But when those stories ran out and he started analyzing the game for their upcoming matchup, I’d lost interest.
Turns out, I need to be rooting for or talking to a hot hockey hero in order to truly appreciate the sport.
“I think I’d take hockey over this,” I say, having turned back to watch the sport, watching as one of the contestants misses by a mile.
A chuckle that vibrates through his chest and along my spine, teasing my nerve endings, melting me against him.
He smooths his hand up and down my side and I sigh contentedly.
I could stay here—right here—all day.
