Page 81 of Faking All the Way
I smirk at the nickname, but I do pay attention to what she’s doing. Her hands move with the grace and confidence of a professional artist, measuring the paper against the box, cutting clean lines, folding edges with surgical accuracy. I try to focus on her technique, to learn whatever magic she’s employing, but I keep getting distracted by other things. The way her tongue darts out slightly when she’s concentrating. How delicate her fingers look as they curl a ribbon. The soft sound she makes when she’s pleased with a particularly perfect corner, a little hum of satisfaction that reminds me of entirely different circumstances.
“Your turn,” she says once she’s finished her demonstration, handing me another box. “And this time, let me help.”
She guides my hands as I position the paper, her fingers warm where they overlap mine. When I start to fold a corner wrong, she covers my hands with hers to correct the movement, shaking her head and grinning.
“Like this,” she murmurs, and her breath tickles across my neck, raising goosebumps along my skin.
The innocent contact shouldn’t affect me the way it does, especially given everything we’ve done together over the past few days, but every brush of her skin against mine sends electricity through my system. When she leans closer to help me with the ribbon, I catch another hint of her almond and cinnamon scent and have to resist the urge to take a fucking bite out of her.
“There,” she says as we finish the package together, smoothing down the final edge. “See? Much better.”
She’s right. It actually looks like a present instead of something that’s been mauled by a particularly destructive animal.
“You’re a good teacher,” I tell her with a wry smile.
“You’re a good student. When you’re not being stubborn about asking for help.” Her grin is teasing and affectionate.
We fall into an easy rhythm after that. She handles the more complex packages—the oddly shaped ones that require creative folding techniques—while I work on the simple rectangular boxes that even I can’t destroy. Our conversation flows just as easily, punctuated by the soft sounds of paper crinkling and scissors cutting. We talk about the earliest Christmases we can remember, which then leads to talking about other holidays and sets off a spectacular debate about whether it’s sacrilege to put up Halloween decorations before the first official day of fall.
It’s all so fun and easy.
Toofun.Tooeasy.
Spending time with Kat feels comfortable in a way that makes me forget this is all temporary, that it was never meant to last beyond the holidays. If my agent manages to pull through, I’ll get a new contract at some point and will start a new chapter of my life in whatever city wants me, and this—an afternoon spent wrapping presents on the floor with a bright eyed, dark haired woman—will just be a memory.
The thought sits like a lead weight in my mind, tugging at my subconscious even though I don’t want to acknowledge it.
My phone rings just as I’m putting the finishing touches on what might actually be my first successfully wrapped present. The screen shows Brody’s name, and my heart immediately kicks into high gear.
Oh, damn. Speak of the devil.
“I need to take this,” I tell Kat, grabbing my cell.
She nods, leaning back a little as I stand up.
“Hey, Brody,” I answer, pressing the phone to my ear as I move toward the kitchen so I won’t disturb her while I talk.
“Asher, I’ve got news.” He speaks quickly, and I can hear the edge of excitement in his tone. “The Denver Aces. They’re not just interested anymore—they want to make an offer.”
The world seems to stop for a moment, and I grip the phone tighter, going still. “What kind of offer?”
“A good one. Multi-year term, strong money, and they specifically said they see you as a core piece of their rebuild. It’s not finalized yet—we still need to negotiate the details, work through the structure, all the nitty-gritty. But this is it. This is what we’ve been waiting for.”
Relief pours through me, and I run a hand through my hair. After months of uncertainty, of wondering if my career was over before I’d even reached my peak, of second-guessing every playand every decision, I have a real offer. From a team that wants me. A team that sees value in what I bring to the ice.
“Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. I’ll send over the preliminary terms tonight so you can look them over, but I wanted to call you first. Congratulations, man. You earned this.”
We talk for a few more minutes about next steps and timelines, having my lawyer look over the contract and all of that, but I’m barely processing the details. The Denver Aces want me. They want me enough to make a serious offer, to invest in my future.
When I hang up, I turn to find Kat watching me with wide, expectant eyes. She’s sitting perfectly still among the scattered wrapping supplies as if she’s been holding her breath waiting to hear what this was all about.
“Good news?” she asks hopefully.
“The best news.” I can’t keep the grin off my face. “The team in Denver wants to make me an offer. A real offer.”
“Asher, that’s amazing!” She leaps to her feet, throwing her arms around my neck with enough enthusiasm to nearly knock me off balance.
