I gather up my work, straighten my desk, and get ready tohead out as well. I told Ellie we’d be home for dinner tonight. Once I’ve locked my office, I head down the hall to Jordan’s office, but it’s already dark and locked up as well. I check my phone and notice a text I missed from him about thirty minutes ago.
Jordan
Down at the arena. Come get me when you’re ready to head home.
Jordan could head back to Ellie’s anytime he wanted, but it warms me that he waited. That he wanted to come home with me. Maybe it’s about this act for my sister, but I don’t think she’d question us coming home at different times. She and Will do it all the time.
I head down to the arena, and when I reach the concourse that runs around the top of the seating, I stop and lean on a railing, smiling. Jordan is down on the ice by himself. Him, a hockey stick, and a puck.
The arena is small, probably only about ten to fifteen rows of seats, so from here I can see the grin on his face. He sprints from one end to the other, bouncing the puck back and forth as he goes. The man has still got it. He’s smooth and controlled, and he glides along like it’s second nature to him.
It probably is. He’s been playing most of his life.
After I watch him for several minutes like some creepy stalker, he turns and catches me. His face brightens, and he waves at me. “How long have you been up there?” he calls.
“Not long. You’re good, Atkinson. You looking for a spot on a minor-league team?”
He laughs, coming to a stop against the boards nearest me. “You have me confused with someone else. My last name is Bennet.” He winks.
I wag a finger at him, but my eyes likely belie the sternness I’m trying to project. “It sounds like you’re flirting with me, Mr. Bennet.”
His smile, unwavering, shows zero concern for that accusation. “We’re in public, Mrs. Bennet. Anyone could happen upon us at any time.”
“You like toeing the line, don’t you.”
“Come skate with me, Lib.”
I burst into laughter, straightening from where I was leaning against the railing. “I don’t skate.”
Still, he beckons. “Let me teach you.”
“That sounds dangerous.” In more ways than one.
“Come on, Libby. You own a hockey team. You should learn to skate.”
He’s not wrong, which is why I let myself head down the stairs to him.
Definitely not because letting Jordan hold my hand or wrap his arms around me is something I want to do if I have the excuse to.
He disappears through the door that leads to the locker rooms and the equipment room while I make my way down to him. I’m sitting on the White Wolves bench when he comes back, skates in hand.
“What size?” I ask.
“Seven and a half,” he says, raising his eyebrows at me.
I can’t help that mine jump in surprise. “How do you know my shoe size?” I toe out of my slip-on sneakers.
“You’re my wife, Libby. Of course I know your shoe size.” He kneels down in front of me. Oh dear, we’re going to add a Cinderella moment to this?
“Fake husband,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t sound as upended as I feel with his large hands cupping my calf as he slides my foot into the skate.
He looks up at me. His eyes have always been so striking, and now they’re shining with excitement. “That license says you’re my for-real wife.”
I wave a hand in front of me, trying to dismiss the way myheart has started racing. My physical attraction to Jordan is way easier to overcome than the little things like this.
He knows my freaking shoe size.
“You know what I mean,” I say.
