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“Are you hungry? I made enough for both of us.”
“Yes, please. Shawnie is coming up. She’s demanding I go to her house to get ready.”
I pull out a barstool and take a seat at the island.
He’s flipping pieces of bacon, standing at the stove with his back to me and I stop myself from giving all six-plus feet of him a full scan without his noticing.
Seeing him like this—domesticated and making breakfast—somehow puts him in a new light. He’s not just a hockey player. I’m marrying him to help him get his green card.
He’s a roommate.
A luggage carrier.
A skilled cook.
And an underwear model.
And in a matter of hours… he’s going to be my husband.
It feels like the image I have of Ryker in my head and the way I feel about him is constantly changing by the day. I just hope the musical chairs stop at some point so that I can get my head on straight.
“Are we still going down to the courthouse together?” he asks, dishing up a plate.
He walks over with a plate of eggs and bacon and sets it down in front of me.
Seeing him this close-up, I realize he looks even better now than in that underwear campaign. Those few little freckles scattered along his pecks and that light patch of hair forming a happy trail aren’t photoshopped away.
I clear my throat when I realize I’m staring at his chest. There’s no way to pretend I wasn’t looking. But he said I was allowed to on top of Oakley’s two nights ago.
When I look up, he has a knowing smirk on his face. Is he doing this on purpose?
Avoidance is best used in these circumstances.
“I’m not sure. Shawnie is taking me hostage.”
He nods and then walks back to the kitchen. “Want ketchup with your eggs?”
“I’ll take some if it’s no trouble.”
He grabs a bottle off the countertop and flips it up, catching it casually back in his hand. If he’s trying to impress me… it’s already working.
Though I need to resist.
“No trouble for my bride on our wedding day,” he says with a cheesy grin.
I can’t help but smile back when he smiles like that at me.
He walks over to the island, squirts a silver dollar size of ketchup on my plate, and then returns to the stove to dish up for himself.
His helping size is more than four times what I could eat in a sitting but I’ve seen the man play a hockey game. I’m sure he needs every calorie of energy he can consume.
The nerves almost make me not want to eat but I know I should eat something.
He walks over to the island and sits down, his arm grazing gently along mine as he sits in the barstool closest to me.
“Are you doing that on purpose?” I ask.
He turns and looks at me, his eyes locking onto mine. “Doing what on purpose?”
