I’m nervous that I’ll say or do something stupid, like I don’t know, accidentally trip and fall head first into his lap. Or say something like . . . can I s**k your c**k as an appetizer?
Urgh, I bet he has the most delicious penis ever. Thick, but not too thick, veiny . . . pierced. If he’s not pierced, I would be so freaking shocked.
The elevator dings, and I step off and head to his door. I’m glad his apartment isn’t one of those places where the elevator opens up into the actual apartment. I like knowing there’s a barrier.
I walk up to his door, and even though I have a key, I knock. As I wait, I glance down at my outfit. I chose a pair of black leggings, thick poofy socks to wear over them, and his sweatshirt because it’s chilly out today, and it’s really comfortable.
The door unlocks and opens, and when his eyes meet mine, I feel a sense of belonging. It’s odd. Like this man completely understands me despite him not knowing everything.
His dreamy eyes scan my outfit before locking gazes with me.
“Nice sweatshirt.”
“Thanks.” I smirk. “Someone left it in my dorm, and as I like to say, finders keepers.”
“It’s quite big on you.”
“The way I like it.” Gripping the straps of my little backpack, I say, “Are you going to let me in?”
“Sure,” he says as he takes a step away from the door, and that’s when I notice he’s wearing black joggers with no socks and a heather slate-gray shirt that clings to every contour of his body. It’s a simple outfit, yet for some reason, he still looks incredibly hot, especially with his hair still w*t from a recent shower, showing off his eyes.
“What is that heavenly smell?” I ask as I take my shoes off.
“Got some lasagna and garlic bread from one of my favorite places.” He shuts the door, and as he walks by, he leans in and says, “And I got some for you, too.”
“Why are you so nice to me?” I ask in a joking manner, but he just shrugs and leads me to the kitchen.
“Help yourself,” he says as he pulls the food out of the oven where he’s kept it warm.
We each serve ourselves a plate and then we sit at the dining room table—which is nice because I’m usually eating on my bed or at my desk. I like my place, but sometimes a table is a nice change.
I dig my fork into the lasagna, but before I take a big bite, I say, “Thank you for this. I’m starving. All I had was a protein bar today and an iced latte.”
He glances up from his plate with a stern look on his face. “Why? That’s not enough, Ollie.”
“I was really busy. Classes and then I put in a few hours at my internship, then came here.”
“No excuse. You need to eat more than that.”
“You worried about me, Taters?”
“I am. Can’t have you fainting at events.”
“Do you have any events coming up?”
“I have a sponsorship party on Friday, but I don’t think it’s something you have to go to. I’m sure you’d rather go out.”
“But do you need me there?” I ask.
“I don’t need you there since Pacey and Holmes will be there. I can just hang with Holmes since he won’t be bringing anyone.”
I pause, slightly confused. “Is something wrong? Did I do something wrong?” Insecurity laces up my spine as I think about our last interaction and how I taunted him with my vibrator. Did I . . . did I scare him off? We haven’t hung out since then. And he’s checked in a few times, but if I truly think about it, he’s pulled away a touch.
“What?” he asks and shakes his head. “No, you’re good.”
“Okay, well . . . I’d like to go to the event if you want to take me. I feel like you do a lot for me, and I need to be able to be there for you in return. If you’re worried I’ll embarrass you, I can—”
“I’m not worried about that.” He picks up a piece of garlic bread and takes a bite.
I pause for a moment to study him. “I feel like you’re acting weird. Like I did something, and you’re not telling me.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Oliana.” The way he says my real name in such a serious tone penetrates right to my heart.
“Okay.” I pierce a saucy noodle. “Well, I’m free.”
“It’s really okay,” he says. “You’ll be bored.”
And there it is again, him brushing me off. I don’t understand. Then again, he never likes to be vulnerable, and I fear if I keep pushing him, he won’t want to open up at all, so instead, I decide to change tactics. I’ll take care of the Friday event myself.
“Do you know what was boring? My class today on data journalism. I nearly passed out in my own lap.”
He scoops up a pile of lasagna. “What is data journalism?”
“Just what it sounds like, learning how to properly use data to write accurate articles.”
“You need a class for that?”
“You would be surprised,” I say. “What did you major in?”
“Kinesiology.”
“Did you plan on doing anything with that?”
“Not really,” he answers while picking up his glass of water. “The goal was to play hockey professionally. I didn’t have a backup plan, didn’t want one. I studied kinesiology to educate myself on my body and understand how to take care of it so I could reach my goals.”
“That’s actually really smart,” I say while taking a bite of my garlic bread. “Do you think it’s helped?”
He nods. “Very much. I understand what parts of the body I need to focus on to stay healthy. I understand the recovery process, and I honestly believe it’s one of the main reasons I haven’t suffered any major injuries.”
“That’s imp**ssive, actually. How much longer do you think you’ll play?”
“Not sure,” he says. “I still feel really strong. I can keep up with the younger guys, and my legs don’t die out toward the end because I continue to train through the season. It’s something I take great pride in.”
“I can tell. Do you ever give your body a break?”
“During the summer. That’s why I was so sore the night of the family skate event. I go at it hard during the preseason, and my muscles have to get used to the demand again. And with every new year, it seems to get a touch harder.”
“How are you feeling now?” I ask.
“Better. I’ve been able to do some great recovery and focus on what I need to focus on. Lots of ice baths and walks on the treadmill to flush all that lactic acid buildup.”
“Are the other guys as smart as you?”
“Not the young ones. They’ll learn quickly, though.” He points his fork at me. “What about you? Are you feeling sore with your new workout space?”
“I was a little sore in my inner th**hs the other day, but for the most part, I feel pretty good. I used your sauna again. I hope that’s okay.”
“What’s mine is yours.”
“Which seems incredibly unfair.”
“It’s not,” he says. “We’re friends, right, Ollie?”
I tilt my head, studying him. He might not like to show his vulnerable side, but here, at this moment, I can see it. His question, sort of wondering where we stand. Maybe that’s why he’s been so distant lately. Maybe he doesn’t know, especially after we shared the almost k**s. So to reassure him, I say, “Yes. We’re friends.”
“Good,” he answers. “That means we don’t owe each other anything. You ask, it’s yours.”
“Okay, then the same would go for me. I don’t have much to offer, but if you ask, it’s yours.”
“You have more to offer than you think,” he says when he glances up at me, causing the back of my neck to break out in a cool sweat.
“Oh yeah, like what?” I ask playfully.
“You’re cool,” he says, surprising me. “I love hanging out with my guys, but sometimes it’s nice to see a different face, and you’re fun to hang out with.”
I p**ss my hand to my chest. “Silas Taters, I can’t believe you’re offering me such a compliment. Coming from the man who nearly had a coronary when I talked about him perverting over donkeys.”
“For f**k’s sake, I thought we dropped that.”
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.
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