Page 3 of Never Pucking Ending

“Have you eaten yet today?” he asks, dark brown eyebrow arching. “When I left for practice this morning, you were in the same spot staring at your laptop.”

I wince before I can stop myself. “Uh…”

He sighs, offering me his hand and wiggling his fingers for me to take them. “Bells, you can’t skip eating.”

“I forgot,” I whine like a child, accepting his hand. “I’ve been on the phone all morning fielding calls, and don’t get me started on the emails. I lost track of time.”

Jesse pulls me up and doesn’t let go as he walks us into the kitchen across the hall from my home office. Our fingers interweave effortlessly, making my heart skip a metaphoric beat. I silently will it to calm its ass down, but it’s no use. It’s reacted this way since I saw Jesse Clarkson walk into study hall when I was in seventh grade twenty-two years ago. And despite the two decades since, it hasn’t let go of that schoolgirl crush.

Not that I can blame it. I’ve tried reasoning with myself—that it’s an innocent feeling. Who wouldn’t have an infatuation with the six-foot-three hockey player who’s carved with lean muscle and thick thighs? Physically, he’s a ten out of ten with a tan, masculine face to match that athletic, broad body. His brown hair has gotten long on the top, and I can tell he’s dragged his hand through a time or two today. Watching footage with the team must not have gone well, because he only does that when he’s irritated.

Then there’s the scar that stretches across the left side of his cheek that makes him oddly hotter. And it’s not just me who thinks so. That scar has its own fan page, where people have often wondered what it tastes like.

So, yeah. Having a twenty-year crush on him is totally justifiable, and nobody would fault me for it. They would, however, judge me. Because thinking your stepbrother is hot is probably deemed weird by most of society. But I can look, even if I can’t touch.

It feels like a loss when he lets go of my hand. That is, until he grabs ahold of my hips to pick me up and set me onto the counter. I stifle a giggle when his fingertips dig into the fleshy part of my waist that’s ticklish, managing to keep my composure.

“What do you want?” he asks, turning to the fridge. It’s a good thing he does, because that loaded question paired with the romance that I listened to for the last two hours conjures up some very creative answers.

I want you to touch me. Preferably my boobs.

I want to know what your scar tastes like along with the eight hundred thousand other people who follow @JClarksonsScar.

I want you to make me soup and then bend me over the table—

Nope. Better not finish that thought, or my flushed face will be a dead giveaway for what I’m thinking. Which has nothing to do with food at all. Although, soup in this cold January weather would be kind of nice.

“I can make you a sandwich,” he goes on when I don’t answer, ruffling through the groceries I picked up the other day. “Or I can cook us chicken and—”

“No,” I blanch, snapping out of my dirty thoughts. “Then you’ll make me eat it grilled with broccoli and no carbs on the side. What kind of heathen makes somebody a meal with no carbs?”

Jesse rolls his eyes when he looks back at me, an amused smile curling half his mouth. “The kind of person who has to stay in shape for the hockey season.”

I wave my hand away. “I’m certainly not training for anything. Unless you’re going to make me chicken cutlets fried in olive oil and coated in only Italian bread crumbs, I’ll take the sandwich. With chips.”

He tries to act put off, but he fails. His lips waver upwards as he digs through the refrigerator for all the ingredients. “Is there anything else you’d like?” he calls out from over his shoulder.

I bat my eyelashes at him when he sets the deli meat and toppings onto the counter next to me. “A pickle. Only one, served on the side. But it has to be—”

“A dill pickle,” he finishes for me knowingly, already holding the jar in his hand. “And a spear, not the pickle chips.”

I grin, playfully patting his damp hair. He said he was going to do some weight training at the facility gym after they were done watching footage, so he must have jumped in the shower afterwards. Knowing him, he got into a competition with his teammates on who can do more reps with the most weight. “I’ve trained you well.”

He snorts as he begins putting together my lunch, and I don’t miss the way he skimps out on the potato chips even though I specifically buy the ones made with avocado oil to be healthier.

“How are the guys?” I ask, swinging my feet back and forth. The advantage of being five-foot-two (and a half) is that I can fidget and squirm without my feet dragging on the ground.

The downside of being vertically challenged is…pretty much everything else. Weight distribution that makes my hips stick out wider than I’d like them to, but also makes my boobs fuller. Not being able to reach the good snacks that Jesse keeps hidden in the cupboard above the stove. Scratch that. Not being able to reach anything on the top shelf without needing help. And probably worst of all, getting seated behind tall, drunk idiots at hockey games who never sit down because they’re too busy sloshing their beer around and yelling at the jumbotron. That’s a perk of being in the friends and family suite, I suppose. I just don’t always love the people that are in there with me.

“The team has gotten along better since Moskins pulled his head out of his ass,” he tells me, passing me the plate. “Although, he and a couple of the guys got into it while we were watching footage. What do you want to drink?”

“I’ll have a—”

“Actually, never mind,” he cuts me off, pouring a glass of water and sliding that over to me too. Rude. “Don’t look at me like that. Have you had anything other than coffee today?”

I start to answer, then press my lips together. I have, in fact, not had anything else. And I will not be sharing that I’ve polished off an entire pot of regular dark roast all on my own. Light on the milk and heavy on the sugar.

“Thought so,” he mumbles. “Drink that.”