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I could barely take my eyes off her. She looked beautiful, the flush on her skin and the red lace peeking out from under the edge of the white terry-cloth robe.

"You look great."

The flush deepened, and she stood there for a moment, her hand on the door as if she were debating letting me in or sending me home. I could breathe again when she stepped back and held the door open wider.

"Come in. I'll open some wine."

I stepped inside, Cooper meeting me in the hallway, his whole rear end swinging. I crouched down and scratched behind his ears, and he groaned, pressing his head into my hand.

Her house was more beautiful than I'd thought. The colors worked well together, and it felt warm and co-ordinated. The kind of space that made you comfortable and want to stay.

She went into the kitchen and opened a bottle of red wine. Her back was to me as she reached up into the upper cabinet for the glasses. Her bathrobe shifted, riding up her thigh, revealing skin that was still pink from her shower. When she got the glasses down, her robe fell off her shoulder and exposed the red lace strap against her shoulder blade. I had to look away. My eyes went from her shoulder to Cooper and then to the shelves along the wall. My body was reacting to her in ways that if I didn't get myself under control, the reaction would be visible through my gray sweats.

She came into the living room and handed me a glass of wine. We sat on the couch about a foot apart, and Cooper settled on the floor at our feet, his chin on his paws, looking between us.

"Like the note said, I've been watching your games." She said. "You're really good, Marshall."

"I'm getting better with each week." I said.

"No, you are already good." She said, tucking one leg under her and turning toward me on the couch.

Her robe fell open at her knee, revealing more skin.

"I also looked up your past games. I saw your goal against Tampa. That was your first NHL goal. The commentators were losing their minds."

"You looked it up and watched it?" I questioned, shifting in my seat, turning toward her.

"Well, I googled it. I don't have any of those sports channels."

"No difference."

She smiled. "Okay, perhaps not."

I looked at her, sitting there sideways on the couch, her bathrobe falling open at the neckline. She held the wineglass in her hands, looking at me as if she had stopped fighting whatever this was between us and decided to let it happen.

"Why don't you come to the next home game? It's on Saturday. I will get you a seat in the team box."

She hesitated. I could see she was trying to decide how to answer and what her answer might mean if she went to the game and sat where the wives and girlfriends sat. Being there would publicly connect her to one player.

"Just so you know, you don't have to. It was an invitation, and it's fine if you wish to sit somewhere else. There is no pressure." I said, trying to reassure her.

"Okay." she whispered.

"Okay as in…"

"I'd like to go." She smiled.

"Great, I will get you a seat." I winked.

We both finished the first glass of wine, and then she poured us another.

"It's really good." I said, taking a sip.

"Thanks. My friend Mila recommended it. It's a Malbec, from Willamette Valley Winery."

"She has good taste."

Our conversation drifted from one topic to another with ease. First it was hockey, then her business. She told me about the Henderson project and then about the boutique hotel she'd pitched but still hadn't heard from yet. She then told me all about the curtains in her bedroom she'd finally replaced.