Page 32 of Thunderstruck
I don’t know what I would have expected an ex-football player’s house to look like, but it wouldn’t have been this. Given his friendship with the likes of movie stars and an actual princess, I probably would haveimagined a sterile, oversized mansion if I’d had the chance to imagine in the first place. But this is…
“Darling,” I breathe, my eyes jumping around to take it all in. The front room is smaller than I expected and tells me that the house must have been built several decades ago, though everything looks updated and cared for. The floors are a polished dark wood, the walls a buttery yellow, and plants are everywhere. His hodgepodge furnishings all somehow match despite being various colors and styles, and there’s a noticeable lack of a TV, which is not something I would have expected from a sports guy. And every wall is peppered with paintings, none of them matching in technique or subject.
I can feel Cole’s eyes on me, but I’m pretty sure my face is the color of a tomato based on the heat blazing beneath my skin, so I keep my head turned away from him.
“I have to be honest with you,” I tell him. “This is not what I expected.”
He chuckles, the sound a deep rumble in his chest. “What did you expect?”
“Not this.”
“You expected something like Derek’s house.”
I look at him now, if only because he sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. His expression holds no humor, but I can almost see it in his eyes, hiding behind the armor he wears.
There’s a chance I looked up more articles about him while Mel and I were watching the guys practice today, and if I can believe half of what the internet says about Cole Evanson, he has good reasons for being a little grumpy. He got dumped last fall, and the internet decided to air all his dirty laundry, consistently calling back to the fact that he lost the Super Bowl right before he quit football and took up rugby. Add in the fact that his girlfriend is engaged to one of his old teammates, and I’d be gruff too!
“I guess…” I tilt my head, still trying to see more of that amusement that I heard in his voice just now. “I guess I don’t know you enough to know what to expect with you.” Especially because I don’t think he said anything about Darcy.
Throughout all of practice, I kept waiting for the guys to start confronting me about my relation to someone they have every reason to be wary of, but they were all just as friendly as they were yesterday. Maybe even more so. Cole was in the weight room for pretty much all of practice, like he was actively avoiding his teammates.
Cole purses his lips and glances into the kitchen behind him. “Thirsty?”
“No, I’m curious.” But I scrunch up my face as I get a sudden awareness of my dry throat. “Actually, yeah, I am thirsty.”
Nodding once, Cole slips into the kitchen, and I follow him as he pulls a glass pitcher from the fridge, which looks just as retro as the rest of his house with its avocado-green doors and rounded edges. He pours what looks like lemonade into two glasses and holds one out to me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, taking the glass, “but did we go back in time at some point?”
Cole chuckles as he returns the pitcher to the fridge. “I’m well aware my tastes are far from modern.”
That’s putting it lightly, and the aesthetic is nowhere near what I expected with a guy like him. Taking a sip of the lemonade, I’m about to tell him how much I like his tastes when the sourness of real lemon hits my tongue. I choke as I inhale a drop of my drink in my surprise, but thankfully I cough it out quickly.
Cole grimaces. “Is it bad?”
“It’s delicious!” To prove it, I chug half the glass, then regret my choice when I think about how much I could have savored the flavor. I don’t even remember the last time I had real lemonade. “Did you make it?”
He shrugs.
“Cole, this might be the best lemonade I’ve ever had.” Now I’m wondering if he can make anything else, or if this lemonade is a one hit wonder. Based on the appliances sitting on the kitchen counter—the KitchenAid mixer isnotretro—I get the feeling he spends a decent amount of time in this kitchen.
A man who can cook? If he wasn’t so gruff, I’d probably be falling hard and fast for this guy.
The lemonade suddenly tastes bitter as that thought rolls over me. It’s a good thing Cole is as sour as the lemons he used because I can’t afford to fall for any of my patients. Not even the cute ones like Cole.
Especially not the cute ones.
“So,” I say, tracing the condensation that has already formed on the outside of my glass. “I’m assuming the reason you brought me here isn’t to cater to my sweet tooth.”
Though Cole isn’t the most expressive of people, I can still see his expression fall. For a moment, we sort of bonded over the lemonade, but I just brought the tension back.
“Right,” he says, rinsing his cup before putting it in the dishwasher.Be still my soul. He’s clean too. He does the same with my cup and then grabs a keychain from a hook on the wall. He pulls open a door on the other end of the kitchen, reaching around in the darkness for something, and a second later a garage door opens and fills the space with the golden light of sunset.
Curious, I step closer and peer past him to find a shiny, deep blue car sitting prettily in the garage. “You have a car? Why don’t you drive it?” But I wince as soon as the words are out of my mouth. There are plenty of reasons why a person does not or cannot drive, and I don’t want to come across as judgy. “I didn’t mean—”
“I get severe anxiety when I drive.” Cole speaks so quietly that I almost don’t hear him. “Icandrive. And I do. Sometimes. But only when I haveto.” His lips press together as he meets my gaze. I can practically feel his discomfort as he adds, “I don’t generally tell people that.”
“So why did you tell me?” I’m whispering like he is. I don’t know if it’s because I don’t want him to stop telling me things or because I’m standing with my back against the doorframe mirroring him, so we’re standing just a few inches apart. Maybe it’s because my heart is aching for him. There’s enough emotion in his words that I would guess there’s a reason he gets anxiety when he drives. One that will make me feel a connection to him I probably shouldn’t feel.
