Page 52 of Ice Queen

The chicken starts to smell a little crispy, so I quickly turn it over, rushing to get more honey into the sauce so that I can pour it over the chicken before it dries out quicker than a beached sea sponge.

As soon as the sauce mixture hits the pan, it bubbles and jumps against the heat. A splash of it lands on the back of my hand, and I hiss at the contact. “Damn, this is a mess.” I laugh to distract myself from the pain.

Once the chicken is done, I realize it says to serve it with rice. How the heck do I make rice? I’d bet all the money in my bank account that a Spanish man doesn’t have those ninety-second, nuke in the microwave bags of rice.

I swipe at my face, completely forgetting that I spilled honey on it until my fingers meet the sticky rivulets. I pull a paper towel off the roll and wet it to try to clean myself up a bit. I look down at Maggie, who is sitting next to the stove, patiently waiting for something else to drop. “How do I make rice?” I ask her.

Her head tilts to the side, but only for a second until Markus’ bedroom door opens. She immediately hops up, and if I hadn’t already been sweating from the heat in here, this man walking down the hallway in sweats slung low across his hips and no shirt while he towel dries his hair would have done the damn trick.

His hips sway, not in an exaggerated way, but in a way that makes his abs pop with every step. He doesn’t notice me yet, and I take that as an invitation to drink my damn fill. He lets the towel fall, hanging around his neck as he reaches down and ruffles Maggie’s head. “Perrita bonita,” he says, his hands cupping her face and making her ears flop.

He smiles at her, and I swear my heart stops. This man is devastating in the best way. Chiseled from the hand of a master artist, his muscles have muscles, but it’s his gentleness despite how he looks that holds my attention. “The chicken is burning.” His voice pulls me from my thoughts. I jump, hurriedly rushing to the stove.

I could have sworn I turned the burner off, but clearly, I didn’t. Damn it. “I’m sorry, I was just trying to help.”

He sneaks up behind me, a hand landing on the small of my back, and I have to fight to keep myself from leaning into it. His hand spans the entirety of it, and I find that so incredibly attractive. “I appreciate it, Princesa. I’m sure it’s delicious,” he says, but as we both look at it, I know that’s no longer a possibility.

“I got distracted by all.” I turn, huge mistake, because I come face to face with this man’s bare chest. “This,” I whisper, my swallow so loud I’m sure you could hear it from Mars.

He chuckles before placing his hand under my chin and raising my face to meet his. “Honey.”

My brows furrow. That’s a new one. I’m not sure that I like it, but I mean, who am I to turn down another nickname from the man who’s hijacked my every thought?

“You have honey all over your face. It’s in your hair.” He laughs.

I grab the hem of my shirt, moving the material back and forth as my gaze falls to the floor. Of course, you idiot. You have honey everywhere, he isn’t calling you honey. You’re not his friend, remember.

“Right,” I say, stepping back and out of his hold. “I should go shower. I’ll clean up after, it’s my failure after all.”

Something in his eyes flares at the word failure. His jaw clenches, and he straightens to his full height. “No, you just learned what not to do next time.”

“Ogle the hot hockey player in the hallway?” I ask, surprised at how easily that came out.

He smirks, pushing against his lip ring. “You think I’m hot?”

“Oh, please, like you don’t already know you’re attractive.”

He hums, leaning a flattened palm against the island. “I do, but what good is all this if there’s no one to appreciate it?”

My head falls back behind me as a laugh tumbles from the depths of my soul. “I’m sure you’ve got a line of willing participants, Casanova.” I throw him a wink before I turn and head down the hallway. Stopping halfway, I turn and notice he’s drifting back into the defeated form I saw when he walked in.

“For what it's worth, I appreciate it. But I appreciate the heart on the inside more.” His head slowly raises, sad eyes look at me through his lashes. “You’re a good man, Markus Samuels.”

He doesn’t look away, doesn’t even blink, and once I realize he’s not going to say anything, I pad down the hallway, replaying that entire interaction over five hundred times.

It takes way longer to get all that honey out of my hair than I anticipated, and by the time I'm done, I don't even care what it looks like. I just need to eat, so I hop out of the shower and braid my hair, swinging the door open just as the doorbell rings. I freeze for a fraction of a second, then slam it shut before it even finishes chiming. If there are people here, the last thing I want is to be seen.

Being called a puck bunny this morning was more than enough human interaction for the day. The words hurt more than I thought they would, the insinuation that I’m still only good for one thing. Warming someone’s bed or looking good on their arm, it made me feel dirty. It also pissed me off to the point that my blood is still boiling.

No, I drag in a deep breath, I’m not going down this road again. I spiraled half the day over this bullshit, and I refuse to let some guy I don’t even know make me feel less than, just because he’s a jerk. If it’s him who just got here, I’ll give him a piece of my damn mind, and if not, I’ll let it go. It’s not like Markus agreed with him, but I can always take Abby up on her offer to stay with her if I need to. Decided and determined, I rip open my door and stomp down the hallway, coming to an abrupt stop as I see everyone who was at Scarlett’s house for book club mingling in the living room. Well, shit.

“I’m sorry about earlier.” A voice over my shoulder says, making me jump. I turn, meeting the eyes of the very man who called me a puck bunny. “I know him better than to think he’d let anyone in his house that he doesn’t honestly care about.” He looks down, clearing his throat before looking back up at me. “You were at book club, I know better. I was just frustrated and worried about him, but it wasn’t fair for me to take that out on you. I’d like to start over, if that’s okay with you.”

His hand extends toward me, and I hesitantly slide my hand in his. “Maverick Reed. These idiots’ captain.”

“Kaitlyn.” I want to argue with him, tell him that I don’t mean anything to Markus, but he continues.

“It’s been a rough season for him. And when he didn’t show up this morning, I thought we’d lost him. I shouldn’t have taken that out on you, though. That wasn’t fair. So, I’m sorry.”