Page 8 of At First Smile
“Like that, but with a layer of fuzziness. I see things; however, the details can be unclear like looking through a fogged-up telescope. My peripheral vision is pretty much MIA, so I use Cane Austen to get around safely,” she explains, releasing her hands from mine.
A shiver slides down my spine at how wrong it feels to lose the contact. Like somehow my body never felt warm until she touched me.
Ice runs in Iverson’s veins.It’s the most common descriptor announcers, reporters and, even, some teammates use for me. For ten years, I’ve been Rowan ‘Iceman’ Iverson, topdefenseman in the National Hockey League. I’d been called a ruthless, unfeeling machine with only one goal: defend.
Pushing those thoughts away, I arch an eyebrow. “Cane Austen?”
“My cane.”
“Favorite Austen book?”
“Mansfield Park.” Her entire face explodes into a grin. “You?”
“Emma.”
“Tea andEmma.” Smirking, her body shifts, as if she is giddy.
Can someone be both adorable and fucking sexy as hell all at the same time? I want to pull her into the bathroom, lift her onto the counter, fall to my knees and worship her until she screams my nameandhave her curl up against me watching a sappy movie. The dichotomy of each scenario sighs with a satisfying rightness through me. I want to do depraved things to her, while tucking her close, protecting and cherishing her all at the same time.
“The Colin Firth or Mathew MacFayden version ofPride and Prejudice?” I ask.
Gasping, she clutches her hand to her chest. “There’snochoice. Any real Austen fan knows the Colin Firth version is superior. Sorry, Mathew MacFayden.”
I chortle. “My mam would agree with you.”
“Your mam?”
“My mother. She’s a professor of English specializing in Austen. She got her PhD when I was a teenager, so there was a lot of Austen-related discussion and compulsory reading in my house growing up.”
“The vile woman…making you read Austen and starting your proper male education,” she teases.
I raise my finger andtsk. “Don’t mock me. It was arealproblem. I actually used the word court when dating my first girlfriend in secondary school.”
“Secondary school? Mam?” She tilts her head. “I hear a slight Irish lilt, but it only comes in and out.”
“I was born in Toronto, but my mam is from Dublin. She came to Canada for university and met my dad. They had a bit of a whirlwind?—”
“Courtship,” she interjects, with a cheeky grin.
“Yes.” I nudge her shoulder with mine. “My brother Gillian was born ten months after they met.”
“That is a whirlwind.”
“A year later, Finn came along and then me the following year.”
Pen motions to me. “There are two more of you? Are they as big as you? Your poor mother’s vagina.”
I grimace. “Please don’t mention my mam’s bits.”
“Ladies don’t have bits,” she scoffs. “You gentlemen have that market cornered.”
“Noted.”
“So, the Irish-ish accent is just something that rubbed off from your mam?” The tiny dimples punctuating her smile pop with the word “mam.”
“A bit, but we moved back to Dublin when I was nine and lived there until I was sixteen when mam went back to university in Canada to finish her degree.” I hold my breath knowing what the next question will be and deciding if I’ll answer. It’s not something I talk about with anyone. Even with Finn and Gillian. Outside of Wes, my unwanted and persistent friend, I’ve barely spoken about it outside the cliff notes version.
“Why’d you move to Ireland?”
