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That probably would be for the best. “Well, you handled the questions about Coen very well. You’ve got a natural gift when it comes to genuine talk.”
Today, the filmmakers interviewed Gage for the documentary. One of the producers asked the questions off camera, and it was directed in such a way to appear Gage wasn’t being interviewed but rather telling a story. They asked about a lot of the players on the team, including the incredible journey Baden has undertaken from paralysis to coach. When they asked Gage about Coen and the fight in Detroit, he deftly couched it in general terms about trauma, suffering, and healing.
There but for the grace of God go I is how he ended it, prompting no follow-up questions to delve into sordid details.
Gage turns away from the sink, drying his hands on the towel before tossing it on the counter. “All done.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I admonish with a teasing smile.
“But I wanted to. You cooked such a great meal, I wanted to do something for you.”
I take another sip of my wine and study him over the rim. “You know the age-old rule, he who cooks does not do the dishes, and he who eats, does? That relies on the concept of fairness. Equality. A partnership.”
Gage settles against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not following.”
I shrug. “You didn’t say you did the dishes because it was fair. You said you did the dishes because you wanted to do something nice. It’s a world of difference.”
Gage chuckles and nods. “I suppose it is. I like doing things for you.”
“I like doing things for you too,” I murmur almost shyly, ducking my head for another sip. The wine is relaxing me.
“I didn’t mention it earlier, but I really like your sweater. It’s pretty.”
The blush comes hot and fast, and I almost choke on my drink as my eyes fly to meet his. While his gaze stays level with mine, I’m sure at some point he took notice of the V that doesn’t dip quite low enough to show cleavage but it’s close.
“It means a lot that you’re sharing yourself with me,” he says softly.
And he’s not talking about cleavage or the style and fit of my clothing.
He’s talking about the fact I’m not covering my scars.
I smile, very much okay with him bringing up the subject. After all, I intentionally wore this sweater without a scarf to show I feel comfortable enough with him to do so.
“It’s hard,” I admit with a small smile. “But you’re the first person outside of Emory to not let me hide. To force me to examine things about myself and take risks.”
“I’m glad that you trust me enough to do so.” Gage uncrosses his arms and presses his palms on the edge of the counter beside his hips. “Listen, my sister Marianne and her husband are coming in week after next to visit and catch a game. I’d really like you to meet them.”
Wow. Okay, that’s big. And fast. And yet I’m so flattered, I want to cry.
To ensure the tears don’t come, I make a joke. “I’d love to. I’m glad you find me worthy.”
Gage pushes off from the counter and stands before me. I straighten but still have to tip my head back to meet his turbulent expression. “It’s got nothing to do with you being worthy.” He takes the wineglass from my hand and sets it on the counter without breaking eye contact. “It has everything to do with me being worthy.”
“Excuse me?” I say, my voice hoarse with emotion.
“You… sharing yourself with me, scars and all, means you find me worthy to be let in. That means something to me. It means enough that I want to share something back with you, and the most important thing is my family.”
Cupping my face with his hands, he peers down at me. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
A quavering breath escapes my lips, and my heart kicks into a staccato drumbeat of nerves, excitement, and… desire.
Yes, desire.
Gage touches his mouth gently to mine. I push off the counter and rise up to meet the kiss, my hands going to his chest where I can feel his own heart thrumming under my fingertips.
The gentle pressure of his mouth becomes more insistent, and I let him in. Gage tilts his head and kisses me harder.
No… he claims my mouth with his. Shows me just how hungry he is.
I get swept away in a maelstrom of sensations and emotions, and my eyes flutter closed. One of his hands curves around the nape of my neck to grip my hair. It’s a move of domination, and an ache forms between my legs.
Tugging on my hair, he forces my head back, allowing him to layer kisses over my jawline and neck.
