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There’s something about him that draws me in. It’s the same something that pulled me in when I was a girl.
I want to understand how he can be so sweet with me and so hard on the ice. And why his reputation is so incredibly deplorable. I want the rumors not to be true, even though I know they must be. At least some of them. But it doesn’t make sense with how averse he is to touch.
I don’t ask any of those questions, though, because I don’t want to ruin the perfect bubble we’re in right now.
“Would you like me to order wine?”
He keeps brushing his lips across my knuckles. My stomach is fluttering so much it’s hard to focus on anything but the feeling. “I’d have a glass.”
“To go with your Shirley Temple?”
“Are you making fun of me?”
He uncurls my fingers and drags the index one across his bottom lip. “I think it’s precious, just like you.”
That name sends a sweet shiver down my spine and raises goose bumps along my arms. “You’re full of lines tonight.”
“You think I’m feeding you lines?” I see his hurt even though he’s still smiling.
I hate that I don’t know whether to trust my gut with him. I want to. But I’m not sure what he wants out of this. “I don’t know. Are you?”
He releases my hand, setting it on the table and propping his fist under his chin, as though he’s contemplating my comment. “Why would you think I need to feed you lines?”
“I don’t think you need to do anything. I think you’re used to getting whatever, or maybe whoever, you want.”
“But you’re not whatever or whoever, Poppy. You get that, right?”
“I’m not?” I’m pushing now, but I want something from him. Some kind of reassurance that he’s not going to play me like he does other women.
He takes my hand again and presses my palm against the side of his neck. I feel the heavy thud of his pulse beneath my palm. “I want this. You.”
“Why?” I still don’t understand why me. What makes me so different from everyone else? What makes me special?
“This.” His fingers caress the back of mine, still pressed against his cheek. “Feels nice.” He opens his eyes slowly. The weight of them on me is almost suffocating. “It’s never felt nice before.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s never been you before.”
“But it has been me before.”
“You mean in the closet?”
“Mmm. Was it nice then?” I remember the sound he made when he kissed me, the way his arm tightened around me, the hard lines of his body as he pulled me closer and his tongue swept my mouth.
“It was. So I had to work really hard to forget it for a long time.” Lance flips the wine list open.
I want to ask why he wanted to forget something I spent most of my teen years replaying over and over like some kind of dirty Disney love story, but he seems to be done talking about that.
“Do you like red or white?” he asks.
“I prefer white.” Of all of the alcohol options out there, white wine is the one that doesn’t give me an immediate hangover.
“And you’re sure you’ll have a glass if I order a bottle?”
“Yes.”
“Because you want to or because you’ll feel obligated?” He’s reclaimed my hand and is kissing the tips of all my fingers now. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as his tongue touches the pad of my thumb.
“Both.”
He smiles. “I like how honest you are. Why would you feel obligated?”
“Because this is a date, and that’s what people usually do on dates.”
“So you want to drink wine because it’s conventional?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because I’m nervous.”
Lance frowns. “Why?”
“Why?” I echo.
“Why are you nervous?”
“Because you’re you.”
Lance blinks a few times, releases my hand again, and leans back in his chair. The floor vibrates with the bounce of his knee. “And what exactly does that mean?”
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I’m not offended. I’m curious.”
The waiter chooses that moment to return with our Shirley Temples. He gestures to the open wine list. “Have you made a selection?”
Lance gives me a tight smile. “I think we’re okay for right now.”
At my murmur of agreement the waiter turns back to Lance.
“Would you like to start with appetizers?”
“We’ll need a few more minutes, please.” Lance’s voice is as tight as his expression.
The waiter leaves us alone again. I don’t like the sudden change of mood. Lance has gone dark.
“You’re a professional hockey player; I’m just a massage therapist.”
“You’re not just anything,” Lance replies.
“You know what I mean. People know who you are, even if they don’t actually know you. No one knows who I am.”
“I do.”
“To a certain degree, yes, but we only give the part of ourselves we’re comfortable with, right?” I motion between us. “Being here means we must be willing to give a bit more, doesn’t it?”
