Page 17 of The Rival (Looking to Score 2)
People usually assume that hockey is my entire life. Because how dare I have any interests outside of the sport that’s made me wealthy and successful?
But the truth is, I think about this topic a lot. I know I won’t play hockey forever. And I know there’s a lot more to me than who I am on the ice, even if others don’t care to see it. Aspen does. So her question and her interest startles me for a second.
I meet her eyes. “I guess it would revolve around cooking. I like making food—for myself, and for others.”
“Hmm. Suits you,” she says with a knowing smile, swirling the wine in her glass.
“And I’m pretty good at it.”
“I’d say you are.”
And just because things are starting to feel a little too date-like, which according to Saint is going to lead to unwanted ass tattoos, I let out a large belch as I rise from the table.
“Gross.” Aspen laughs, shaking her head at me.
Smooth, Braun.
It’s official. I’m an idiot.
When she stands to clear our plates, I take her hand. “I’ve got these.”
“No way. You cooked. I can clean up.” She stacks the plates and carries them to the kitchen.
I follow her. No way she’s cleaning up all the mess on her own. I’m a messy cook. The kitchen typically looks like a bomb went off when I’m done.
“My turn to ask a question,” I say, rinsing our dishes and stacking them in the dishwasher while Aspen replaces the salt and pepper in their resting place by the stove. “Before, when we were swapping battle scars. Did you drop the h-bomb?”
“The . . . w-what?”
“Harvard.”
She chuckles. “That’s your big question?”
I don’t even want to know what my face looks like right now. “Uh, yeah. It’s impressive as hell.”
“Yes.” She rolls her eyes, but her smile stays fixed between her rosy cheeks. “Does that intimidate you? That I’m smarter than you?” Her mouth twitches.
“Honestly? A little.”
Aspen narrows her gaze at me, assessing. “I won’t apologize.”
“I’d never expect you to.”
We grin at each other, the air between us buzzing with the joy of good conversation, delicious food, and great wine. I don’t remember the last time I felt this at ease. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever—
“All right, Braun,” she murmurs, placing one hand briefly on my shoulder before pulling back. “I think it’s time for me to turn in for the night.”
“What? It’s only just past seven.” I laugh in disbelief, checking my phone.
Her gaze drifts from mine over to her book, where it sits on the kitchen island. “I like to read before bed. Thanks for bringing my book back in, by the way.”
I can’t help but wonder if she feels the snapping chemistry between us like I do. Is that the reason she wants to extricate herself from spending more time with me? Maybe she knows drinking a second glass of wine together could lead us into dangerous territory.
Conceding, I sigh. “I’ll walk you up.”
Once the counters are wiped down, I sling my duffel over my shoulder and lead the way up the stairs. Normally I’m a “ladies first” kind of man. But I’m not about to play that game where I try not to stare at Aspen’s ass in those shorts. This time, it’s not just out of common decency. It’s out of self-preservation.
Just as I’m about to say good night, Aspen pauses at her door, a contemplative look in her eye.
“Why did you stick your neck out for me?” she asks, holding her book tightly against her chest. “Granted, it was super thoughtful of you, but I just want to understand. Why me?”
I lean against the door frame and cross my arms so I don’t have to worry about what to do with my hands. “Well, it was gonna be me. Not as a caretaker, per se, but I needed a getaway. I was going to be the one here all summer, doing the chores as a favor for Saint letting me stay here. But then you told me that you were practically homeless and . . . I don’t know. It just clicked. Seemed like the right thing to do.”
She blinks at me, her pretty mouth opening and closing as she weighs my words against some inner dispute. Aspen strikes me as the kind of woman who doesn’t accept favors easily—from anyone. She’s obviously got an independent spirit, and I respect that. But I’m also glad she let me help.
“Thank you,” she eventually says with a curious tilt to her head, like she’s trying to read me.
I want to point to the book in her arms and say, You’ll have better luck solving that mystery. Instead, I just stare at the enticing line of her cleavage peeking over the pages.
“That was a weird night, wasn’t it?” She laughs a little breathlessly.
