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We were close enough that I could detect notes of cedar in his cologne. He wore a short-sleeved button-down shirt, jeans and cowboy boots, looking every inch the Beard native he was.
There was also an element of newness, though. He’d changed since leaving right after high school to play pro hockey. I felt a pull not just toward the boy I’d crushed on but the man he’d become.
“Hey, I have a favor to ask,” he said.
“Sure, hit me.”
The corners of his lips tugged up in a sheepish grin. “Spencer told me he wants you to teach him how to cook since his old man is so terrible at it.”
I laughed. “Is that true?”
“Entirely. When my ex-wife left, I was still playing hockey, so I had to hire a full-time nanny and she cooked for the kids. But once I retired, I wanted to take care of the kids on my own. We all learned some hard lessons that first month or so.”
“Ah, but you were doing your best, I’m sure.”
“I turned a bunch of white clothes pink because I didn’t know you shouldn’t wash a brand-new red hoodie with whites,” he said. “Spencer was pissed about his Science Camp shirt getting ruined.”
“I’m sure he forgave you.”
“I made spaghetti with undercooked noodles one night. We ended up putting the meat sauce on garlic bread and throwing out the noodles.”
I felt a tug in my chest as I imagined Holt trying to learn so much about raising children, cooking and taking care of a house all at once.
“That sounds delicious,” I said.
He grinned. “Not gonna lie, it was amazing. I’ve made just sauce and garlic bread for dinner a few times since then.”
“You want me to give you cooking lessons?” I said.
“If you can spare the time. I’ll pay you, of course.”
“Of course I have time, and you’re not paying me.”
His eyes were possibly locked on my lips, and I was more than okay with it. I was warm all over, and it wasn’t from the movement of dancing.
“I don’t suppose you want to learn to play hockey?” he asked with a wink. “We could trade lessons.”
I laughed and arched a brow. “I’m a Grady. I learned how to play hockey before I could speak in full sentences.”
“Ah. That’s right. I could probably still show you a thing or two, though. I’ve been told I’m an okay player.”
The thought of being on the ice with Holt and seeing him in his element was more than a little enticing. I’d watched his games on TV many times, and never had I even dreamed he’d offer me one-on-one lessons.
“I play in a rec league, so I’ll take you up on that.”
“What position?”
My mind immediately went to sex. I flushed as I fought the urge to blurt out something inappropriate.
“In hockey, dirty girl,” Holt said with a grin.
Oh God. I wanted to melt into the floor. He knew what I’d been thinking. And worse, my body temperature had just risen several degrees when he called me dirty girl.
“Usually defense. It depends on how many players we have. Sometimes I play O.”
O, as in offense, not orgasm, but again, my mind was like a runaway freight train of sexual thoughts. How could it not be, with my hand on the shoulder of Holt Sellers, our bodies just inches apart?
His eyes were locked on mine, his hand more on my back than my hip now. I imagined him sliding it beneath the hem of my shirt, his fingers grazing my bare skin.
