Page 14 of The Rival (Looking to Score 2)
ALEX
The pipes creak overhead as Aspen turns on the water. I guess I never thought about how much quieter this place would seem with just the two of us. Last time I was here, there were eight rowdy hockey players taking over every square inch.
I wander around the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets and drawers to reacquaint myself with the layout. Cutlery here, bowls and plates here, wineglasses here . . . I snag two stemless glasses for later.
“Bingo,” I mutter under my breath when I find about two dozen bottles of wine neatly tucked away in the pantry.
Picking a red at random, I set it on the island. It’s probably an expensive bottle, knowing Saint’s tastes, but I also know he won’t mind. Then I get to work gathering all the ingredients I need for dinner.
I love cooking, which may be a surprise to some. Unlike playing a competitive sport for a living, I’m in total control in the kitchen, and it feels good. The results are mine and mine alone, and the ingredients do as I say. In hockey, the puck doesn’t always go where I want, whether it’s a bad shot or blocked by an opponent. What control I lose on the ice, I’m able to take back in the kitchen . . . well, there and in the bedroom, but I can’t think about that right now, or I’ll completely lose focus.
Since I don’t trust anything left in the fridge, which are pretty much just old condiments anyway, I whip up a light salad dressing of lemon juice, olive oil, salt, and pepper. It’s simple, but it should balance well with the fresh butter lettuce and cucumbers I got from the farmer’s stand down the road.
Unfortunately, this won’t be my best steak. With more time, I’d have let the meat marinate for a few hours in the fridge. But some oil and seasonings will have to do the trick tonight. Out on the deck, I’m relieved to find that Saint cleaned and covered the grill before he left the cabin last. I turn the dial and the flames click to life.
A book resting on one of the deck chairs catches my eye—Aspen’s mystery novel. I walk over and pick it up, skimming the dust jacket.
My focus fades when the woman upstairs fills my thoughts instead. I can’t figure out what it is about her that has me so . . . invested. I’ve always had a thing for blondes, sure. But Aspen is nothing like Eden.
I can’t say I ever felt the desire to take care of Eden when we were together; she was always as self-sufficient as they come. I didn’t feel the need to wrap her in my arms and protect her like I do when Aspen is near me. It’s a strange urge, for sure, but it’s there all the same, lingering in all our glances and crackling between us like embers in a hearth.
When the meat is cooked through with just a hint of pink inside, I transfer it to a plate to rest before scraping away any residue from the grate. Then I tuck the book under my arm and bring the steaming steaks inside.
At the kitchen island, I find a freshly showered Aspen munching on a piece of cucumber I sliced for salad. Her blond hair is darker now, damp and neatly combed over one shoulder. I’ve never seen her so comfortable, wearing a slouchy cotton T-shirt and loose shorts that reveal miles of smooth, lightly tanned skin.
“So much for taking your time.” I give her a teasing look as I place the steaks on the kitchen island.
She chuckles, her gaze lingering on the wineglasses sitting side by side that I pulled out earlier. “I’m bad at relaxing.”
“Clearly. I figured you needed a break after all your earlier chores.”
“Believe me, I took one. That shower in the master bathroom is dreamy,” she says, grinning up at me.
Her eyes sparkle with humor, but it’s a dangerous thought to picture Aspen enjoying the massive walk-in shower. Aspen, with her luscious curves dripping wet with soapy water, her cheeks rosy with warmth . . .
My mouth lifts, twitching into a lopsided smirk as I attempt to keep things light between us, since I’m pretty sure the last thing Aspen wants is me picturing her naked.
“That’s good to hear.” Willing my cock to chill the fuck out, I inhale deeply. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving. And that wine looks nice too.”
Smiling, I join her at the island. “I borrowed it from Saint’s wine cellar—at the back of the pantry—but I’ll replace whatever we take before I go.”
“Saint’s just the gift that keeps on giving.” She smiles sweetly.
I laugh. “Fuck, don’t let him hear you call him that.”
I grab some silverware and work on plating equal portions of the food for each of us. Then I maneuver the cork from the wine bottle and pour her a hefty glass. When we finally sit down at the table, Aspen squirms with excitement.
