Page 67 of Canadian Boyfriend

Suddenly I was blinking back tears. In some ways, I felt like I’d learned more about ballet from Taylor and Abby and the senior ballet girls in one day than I had in years of study.

So yeah, things were good on the work front. The other work front, too. Since the breakthrough at Christmas, Olivia and Mike Martin seemed to be doing better, both individually and as a unit. Olivia was still a brat sometimes, but it seemed more like normal tween bratdom. Homework was less of a battle, and we had fun when Mike Martin was away. And when he wasn’t, we went to some of his games, always sitting near the glass. Lauren joined us sometimes, and it was fun hearing about her ultrasounds and nursery decor plans. Olivia was excited to meet the baby and had declared herself honorary big sister.

And Mike Martin. Oh, Mike Martin. He was just so… him. The dude was the full package. He was funny and sweet and handsome, and I could not stop staring at his lips, even though it had been months since they had touched mine. It was as if that period of making out had ignited a strange lip-awareness in me. It used to be his eyes. And his dimple-igniting smile. Now it was his lips, too. So basically his whole face.

Despite my face ogling, nothing was awkward between us.In fact, I’d say we were true, genuine friends. More than that. It sort of felt like we were partners. Not in a life-partner way, but in that we were united in managing Olivia, both logistically and emotionally. We had joked a few times about how to label our relationship. We remained difficult to categorize, but it didn’t feel like it mattered. We trucked along well, we liked each other, and I was making a huge dent in my debt since I had zero life expenses.

I did miss the kissing part, but a girl can’t have everything.

Sometimes, though, and increasingly, I was starting to get the sense that he might miss the kissing, too, even though he was the one who’d put a stop to it. It wasn’t anything overt, just a sense of… awareness in the air around us. But then I’d tell myself I was imagining things, that wishful thinking was clouding my perception.

“Hey,” Mike Martin said when I let myself in after my confab with Taylor and Abby. He was cleaning the kitchen, and I could hear the sounds of Olivia’s favorite iPad game coming from the sunroom. “How was it?” His brow knit slightly. He knew I’d been subbing for a new ballet class tonight, and he was worried about me.

“It was good.” I thought about my after-class chat. “It was great, actually.”

He did the smile. The dimple did not appear, though—because he had a beard.

The Lumberjacks were in the playoffs. They’d advanced through the first round, but were down 0–3 against St. Louis in the second. The team had a tradition of growing postseason beards.

But yeah, the beard did cover up the dimple.

“You want some food?” he asked. “There’s leftover pasta in the fridge.”

“Thanks.” I got myself a bowl, and we did a little dance. I’d headed for the microwave and, in so doing, blocked his reach into the cabinet he was aiming for as he unloaded the dishwasher. We did the side-to-side thing, each moving to try to make room for the other.

This was what I meant about the tension. That wasn’t really the right word, but lately, the air between us felt charged, clumsy-making.

He laughed and pointed with a fork. “You go that way.” As we successfully executed our pass, I noticed he had something stuck in his beard.

“You have some food in your beard, and judging from the look of that pasta”—I pointed at the microwave—“I think it’s highly likely that it’s Alfredo sauce.”

“Damn it.” He grabbed a paper towel but only managed to smear it around.

“Nope, it’s more over here.” I pointed at the corresponding spot on my cheek, and he smeared some more. I tried not to laugh as I shook my head.

“I hate this damn beard. Not only does it itch, it’s disgusting.”

“Here.” I tore off some paper towels, dampened them, and approached. “May I?”

He held his hands up as if surrendering. “Please.”

I used one hand to hold his face in place, and honestly, it caused a stupid little spike of desire in me. I hadn’t physically touched him since Christmas. I wondered if he was experiencing something similar, because he took a sharp inhalation I would have said was a gasp except I don’t know if you’re allowed to call it that when it’s a big beefy hockey dude doing it.

I kept my cool—on the surface; there was a lot of secret roiling going on underneath—and got the gunk off his beard. Iwas about to pull away when his hand clamped down on mine, keeping it there. He was beaming those green lasers at me. My stomach lurched. Was he going tokissme?

The microwave started beeping, and we jumped away from each other.

I wanted to flee, to take my pasta downstairs to eat, but I also didn’t want him tothinkI was fleeing.

How had I just been thinking how easy and not-awkward our relationship was? I searched for something to say as I sat at the island. “I always thought men liked growing beards because it was the path of least resistance. I thought you welcomed the break from shaving.”

He blinked rapidly, and as I was about to repeat myself—or to actually flee; the jury was out—he unfroze and resumed unloading the dishwasher. “I don’t get that. If you shave every day, it’s fast, and beards are the worst.”

“Well, you’d better hurry up and lose, then.”

“Or, I’ve been thinking, I could just tell the guys that the presence or absence of facial hair has no actual impact on the outcome of a game, and shave.” He smirked. We were back to normal.

“No, no. You can’t do that.”

---