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Coen smiles. “I assume you make more money on the canvas than the cups.”
“You’d be right about that.” I laugh. “And I obviously get more enjoyment when people buy my work to hang on their walls rather than stuff in their cupboards.”
“I bet,” he muses. “Is it a good living?”
“Yeah,” I say with a soft smile. “I mean… I’m not swimming in luxury clothes or sports cars, but I pay my bills, have a savings account, and I even put a little into a retirement each month.”
“And you’re from this area?”
“Born and raised, same as my parents.”
“And where are they?”
“They passed away a year and a half ago. Car accident.”
Coen winces. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” His expression softens in a way I haven’t seen on him, and it warms my chest. “Were you close to them?”
“Extremely.” I push back the sadness creeping in and focus on the good. “They were both artists, so I come by it naturally. Dad was a painter, but my mom created amazing metal sculptures.”
“You have one in your front yard,” he says. “A rabbit riding a bicycle.”
I beam at him, surprised he noticed it. “That’s right. I have a bunch of her work in storage. I plan on putting some of it out along my trails so when I’m out there, I can see it.”
Coen smiles and nods.
“What about you? Where are you from?”
His mouth draws into a flat line. “Connecticut.”
“Don’t like it there?”
“Not close to my family, so I don’t go back.”
His tone breaks my heart. It’s not said with bitterness or anger, more like flat acceptance. And while I know the man hasn’t been all that nice to me, or to the sport of hockey since the crash, I’ve also read enough about him to know he hasn’t always been like this. He’s been described as fun-loving, cocky with a humble edge, and generous to a fault, working with many Pittsburgh charities. If he has emotional baggage from hisfamily, I’m not sure if he was carrying it around prior to the crash.
However, if he wasn’t close to them before the plane went down, chances of them being a good support system are nil.
Coen reaches out and runs his fingertip over my thigh. The touch is featherlight, but I feel it straight between my legs. My eyes snap up, and he’s got a devilish smile on his face. “Are you going to invite me back to your place when we leave?”
My heartbeat thunders at the request. “I don’t know.”
“Tell me why you’d say no.” His entire palm presses on my thigh, and he squeezes. “Let me talk you into it.”
“Maybe you can’t,” I suggest.
His thumb grazes my skin before his hand falls away. “Remember what it felt like when my face was pressed between your legs?”
“Oh God.” I look around to make sure no one can hear us.
“I want to do that again,” he says, his voice gruff and thick with promise.
“Oh God,” I whisper, unable to come up with anything better.
“Say you’ll invite me home with you.” Coen pushes up from his lounging position to lean on his hip. His face is close to mine, and I can’t tear my eyes from his. “You won’t regret it.”
I’m sure I’ll regret it because there’re a million reasons why this is a bad idea.
And yet, I can’t help but answer, “Okay.”
