Page 17 of The First Kind of Love
“Shiloh, I’d do anything you asked if it meant I got to spend time with you.”
She chuckles, and it’s like sunlight sawing through a conglomeration of storm clouds. “Don’t say stuff like that. I’ll make you keep me company while I cook.”
She’s a cook too? Whatcan’tthis girl do?
“I don’t know any other way I’d want to spend my night,” I tell her, my lips ticking up into a wholehearted grin, all the first-time fear evaporating like a since-hidden message hastily drawn in foggy condensation.
Something shifts in Shiloh, reining back that spark of life that had guttered with the unfamiliarity of the flight. “Fulton Cazzarelli, are you flirting with me?” she teases coyly, doing a little shimmy with her shoulders.
“Um, that depends. Is it working?”
Suddenly, the small vents overhead aren’t strong enough to tame the merciless fever raging through my body, and my heart’s dropping to my stomach while my stomach’s propelling up my goddamn throat. Here I am, sitting with a girl who’s pretty enough to be a runway model, and I’m totally blowing it by being myself. Whoever said you just need to be yourself to impress a girl was lying. They’ve clearly never been a twenty-four-year-old virgin with a loser complex and an extensive history of public humiliation.
Her naturally long lashes flutter delicately against her brow bone, and a timid smile teases her pouty lips—lips that I’ve dreamt of kissing at least a handful of times. During an early morning when the wrens trill and there’s still frost crystallizing on the window; during a late night where dusk bruises the sky in shades of violet; during any time in between where I can get my hands on her.
Blood wells to the thin skin of her cheeks, and whether it’s from embarrassment or flattery, I have no idea. “Would it be totally inappropriate if I said yes?”
Wait…what? Have I died and gone to heaven?
“You’re kidding, right?” I blubber, shock and hope dueling in the depths of my stomach.
She shakes her head. “You’re an amazing person, Fulton. Even if you can’t see it yourself. Not only have you been a generous host, but you’ve pretty much been my emotional support person for this entire plane ride.”
Nobody has ever said anything like that to me before. Nobody has ever relied on me for anything—I mean, except my teammates. I feel this carnal need to protect Shiloh, to prioritize her, to do everything in my power to make her happy. This is the first girl in forever who’s seen past my hockey alter ego. It’s like she has a peephole into my very soul. Her consideration doesn’t come with conditions, nor does it come with an expiration date. And that speaks volumes about who she is as a person.
Riding some kind of faux-confidence high, my fingers crawl to her hand, and I lightly brush my thumb over the backs of her knuckles. Holding her hand like this…I can’t tell you how long this fantasy has festered in my brain.
“I’ll be whatever you want me to be, Shiloh.”
Her hand squeezes mine—a nonverbal cue that tilts my world on its axis and pumps out a complimentary flood of endorphins.
“So it’s a date then,” she decides.
“A date,” I parrot dumbly.
“Is that too strong of a word?”
Heat glues our palms together, and the potentially disastrous consequence of a date shatters my previous visage of composure.
Date? DATE? I thought we were going for a casual hangout. But a date…oh, God. A date is way more serious and way out of my wheelhouse. It’s been a while since I’ve been on a date. Years. Four, to be exact.
Shiloh just stares at me expectantly, so oblivious to mysnowballing panic that it’s almost comical. She doesn’t even acknowledge that my hand is abnormally sweaty—no, she continues to hold it, endearment glimmering in her rich, chocolate eyes.
Nervousness flickers at the base of my spine, but even amidst myvery reasonableconcerns, my heart grabs the proverbial steering wheel and plays with the delicate balance of life by taking a quick U-turn off a sky-scraping mountain.
“No! A date sounds great. I’d love to go on a date with you.”
6
CLOSE ENCOUNTERS
FULTON
Given my history, I thought the plane ride went fairly well. No screams from the soon-to-be-departed as the plane bursts into flames and nosedives into the Pacific Ocean. No annoying child kicking the back of my seat. No appearance of bodily fluids to permeate the already-musty cabin. A charter plane would’ve been ideal, but Coach is a stickler against us using it outside of hockey-related emergencies. Plus, first class isn’t a bad alternative at all.
Everything’s going according to plan. And I miraculously managed to fish a date out of it! I seriously don’t know how I did that. Everything’s been a blur since we left the airport.
Carrying Shiloh’s backpack on my shoulder, I trundle behind her like a lost puppy as we enter the hotel’s main lobby, and the ostentatious extravagance of it all sloughs off my prior confidence. I don’t know why I expected it to be far more low-key—I frequent fancy places all the time for work.
