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“Not sure that those words have ever been uttered in my kitchen before, but I’m willing to have a go if you are?”
My cheeks burn as I imagine Nate bending me over his kitchen island, hiking up my skirt, and having his dirty way with me.
Where did that thought come from?
“Good,” I stammer, trying hard to keep my imagination in check. “You take care of dinner, and I’ll start on dessert.”
He gives me another one of those shy smiles before turning around to dig up the pots and pans he needs. I let out an exhale and do the same, thankful for the little reprieve of keeping my hands busy.
We spend the rest of our Sunday afternoon aimlessly talking and cooking. Nate makes some tomato sauce for the spaghetti while I concentrate on the tiramisu. He tells me about his team and his teammates. About his transition from Brooklyn to Boston. But anytime we broach the topic of his childhood, he evades my questioning, not giving me much of an insight intohow he grew up. It seems as if he only started living when he joined the Boston Guardians.
There’s no question that his team is his life.
That hockey is his life.
Which only amps up my willingness to help him keep his spot on the team.
I shudder to think what would happen if Nate somehow lost his spot.
I’m not sure he’d be able to take it well.
By the time we’re done, the sun has set, and I realize that we spent the majority of our time laughing and just enjoying ourselves.
But as I’m setting up the table for us to enjoy the fruits of our labor, Nate’s phone begins to ring, his easy demeanor changing right before my very eyes when he grabs it off the counter.
“You can answer that if you want,” I tell him, curiously watching as he scowls, staring at the caller ID as if the devil himself were flashing on the screen.
“It can wait,” he replies, sending the call to voicemail before switching off his phone.
Since I don’t want to pry, I don’t say anything on the matter. However, I have seen him doing this a lot—the phone rings, and he either pretends he doesn’t hear it or just switches it off altogether.
And as we have our dinner, it’s hard to pretend that the mood around us hasn’t changed.
Thathehasn’t changed.
Though I try to coax him into light conversation, all I get in return for my efforts are noncommittal grunts.
I wonder who could be calling him that could affect him so much.
“Thank you for the lovely meal, Nate,” I say as he walks me to the door an hour later. “I had fun today.”
“Me too,” he retorts, towering over me.
“I’m glad. Well… goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Lottie,” he all but whispers.
And then he shocks me to my core when he leans down and plants a tender kiss on my cheek.
I try to hide my surprise by putting on a smile and quickly rushing down the small flight of stairs in the direction of my car.
As I wave him goodbye before opening my car door, I see a flash of sadness coating his gorgeous eyes—one that ends up piercing through my chest, leaving a permanent mark on my soul.
It’s the same forlorn hue I’ve been obsessing over since the day Piper showed me that awful video.
And that’s when it hits me.
Why his sad, lost gaze speaks to me on such a visceral level.
