Page 105 of Play Along With Me
"Scientific testing of furniture resilience," she murmurs, tilting her head to give me better access. "Very practical. I approve."
"I thought you might," I say against her skin, my hands finding the hem of her borrowed hoodie. "It's important to be thorough."
"Thoroughness is your specialty," she agrees, her fingers threading through my hair. "Very detail-oriented."
Further conversation becomes unnecessary as we make our way back to the bedroom, leaving a trail of borrowed and reclaimed clothing in our wake.
Later, as Audrey dozes against my chest, her breathing deep and even, I find myself studying her with a sense of wonder that feels both unfamiliar and entirely natural. The scatter of freckles across her nose, the curve of her cheek, the way her eyelashes fan across her skin—small details that I'm already committing to memory.
There's a softness to her in sleep that she rarely allows to show when awake, her usual armor of quick wit and deflective humor temporarily set aside. This unguarded version of Audrey is breathtaking in its vulnerability, in the trust implicit in falling asleep in someone else's arms.
Something shifts in my chest as I watch her—a settling, a recognition. This isn't just attraction or chemistry or convenience. It's not just a mutual deception that evolved into something physically satisfying. It's the beginning of somethingdeeper, something with roots that are already finding purchase in the carefully maintained soil of my life.
I've always approached relationships the way I approach my career—careful, measured, with clear objectives and boundaries. Romantic connections were pleasant but secondary, never allowed to interfere with my primary goal of NHL success.
But watching Audrey sleep in my arms, feeling the weight of her trust and the lightness her presence brings to my usually regimented life, I realize that some things can't be carefully planned or controlled. Some connections demand their own space, create their own importance regardless of timing or convenience.
I press a gentle kiss to her forehead, careful not to wake her. Whatever this is becoming, whatever we are to each other, it matters in a way I wasn't prepared for but can no longer deny.
When she finally wakes an hour later, stretching like a contented cat before blinking up at me with a sleepy smile, she looks different somehow—a subtle glow that has nothing to do with the morning light and everything to do with the ease between us.
"Hey," she murmurs, voice soft with sleep. "Sorry for passing out on you. Apparently multiple rounds of athletic activities followed by pastry consumption equals instant coma."
"I don't mind," I assure her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You're cute when you're unconscious. Less sarcastic."
"A brief respite for your ego," she agrees, pressing a kiss to my chest before sitting up. "But now I'm awake and fully armed with witty commentary once again. Be afraid."
"Terrified," I assure her solemnly.
She stretches again, the movement drawing my eyes to the elegant line of her neck, the curve of her spine, the small birthmark on her left shoulder blade that I discovered last night. Everything about her fascinates me, from the physical details to the quick mind behind her expressive eyes.
"I really should go home," she says reluctantly. "Much as I'd love to continue this tour of your minimalist paradise, Mr. Darcy has probably already called Cat Protective Services to report my neglect."
"I understand," I nod, though I'm surprised by how reluctant I feel to let her leave. "Can I drive you?"
"Uber is fine," she says, climbing out of bed and beginning to gather her scattered clothing. "Though fair warning—I'm going to look like the textbook definition of 'walk of shame' in yesterday's dress and your hoodie."
"Keep the hoodie," I tell her, enjoying the sight of her wrapped in my clothing far more than I probably should. "It looks better on you anyway."
She glances down at the Saints logo across her chest and grins. "Hockey girlfriend aesthetic achieved. Your mother would be so proud."
We move around each other with surprising ease as Audrey gets dressed and I call her an Uber. There's none of the awkwardness I've experienced with previous morning-afters—no stilted conversation, no subtle hints about needing to get on with the day, no careful negotiation of when or if to see each other again.
Instead, there's a comfortable familiarity, as if we've been doing this for months rather than having just spent our first night together. Audrey borrows my comb, uses my mouthwash, steals one of my protein bars from the kitchen with a wink and a"carb-loading for later activities," and generally makes herself at home in my space in a way that feels right rather than invasive.
When her Uber arrives, I walk her to the car door, suddenly reluctant to see her go despite knowing we'll see each other again soon.
"So," she says, pausing at the threshold. "That was..."
"Yeah," I agree, understanding her meaning without needing the words spelled out. "It was."
"Call me later?" she asks, a hint of uncertainty in her expression that makes me want to pull her back into my arms and never let go.
"Definitely," I promise. "After practice. Maybe we could have dinner? A real date, no parents, no surprise interruptions."
"I'd like that," she smiles, rising onto her tiptoes to press one last kiss to my lips. "Though after this morning, I'm not sure anything could surprise me anymore."
"Challenge accepted," I murmur against her mouth, making her laugh.
