Page 63 of The Grumpy Defenseman
I stepped closer.
“Then be honest.”
He drew a slow breath.
“I want you. I want San Antonio. I want a life that does not make me choose between the thing I built and the person who made me realize I had built it too small.” His voice tightened under the strain of saying it. “I do not know what happens with Seattle. I do not know what Walsh does. I do not know whether I can keep all of it. But I know I do not want to lie to you, or push you away, orpretend you are not already in the middle of it.”
The words settled between us.
Heavy.
Costly.
Enough.
Not everything. Not forever. Not a clean answer tied with a ribbon and handed over for my approval.
But enough for this moment.
Enough for me to choose what came next.
I touched his jaw again.
“Evan.”
“Yeah.”
“Kiss me.”
He did.
Not like Paramour. That kiss had been a surprise, a door opening in a wall neither of us had expected. This was different. This was a man who had told the truth and was standing in the cost of it.
His hand found my waist, not grabbing, just arriving there, his palm spreading heat through the fabric of myshirt. When I leaned into him, he pulled me closer, one slow inch at a time, giving me every chance to change my mind.
I did not.
His mouth moved against mine with an intensity that was controlled and consuming at the same time: the way he skated, the way he played, the way he did everything when he stopped pretending he was not all in.
I kissed him back with everything I had been holding. Every frame I had almost taken and stopped myself. Every night I had spent editing photos of him and pretending the tightness in my chest was professional interest. Every second of wanting that had survived the hurt because wanting did not always have the decency to leave when pain entered the room.
His hand slid to the small of my back. Mine found his hair. We fit together in the narrow space between iron and light, between what he had broken and what he was finally trying to repair.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against mine.
We were both breathing hard. His hand was still on my back, warm and steady, and mine was still in his hair, and neither of us showed any interest in moving.
“This is going to complicate everything,” he said.
His voice was wrecked.
I loved it.
“Good,” I said.
He laughed.
A real laugh. Low and startled, like the sound had escaped before he could file the paperwork to deny it.
