Page 197 of Don't Fall for the Goalie
“That was fucking amazing, Pey,” he whispers before his lips find mine, kissing me long and hard.
Suddenly, the smoke alarm starts chirping, causing us to jump apart.
My eyes fly wide with horror. “Oh shit. The garlic bread.”
I run to the oven and pull open the door. Smoke rolls out, revealing a tray of charbroiled pieces of bread.
Daltyn tucks himself inside his boxers, then comes up beside me. “I think it’s a little burnt.”
I snort, waving the oven mitt, my eyes burning. “You think?”
He closes the oven, then grabs the mitt and waves it by the smoke alarm until it quiets.
He laughs, but then stops when he sees how upset I am.
Strong hands grip my hips, then he whirls me around to face him.
“Hey. Don’t be upset.” He gently places a kiss on my forehead, then my cheeks, before ending with my lips. “Let’s just order in. Watch a movie.”
I bow my head. “I really wanted to cook you dinner.”
His finger goes beneath my chin. His voice is soft, a hint of teasing in his tone. “I’ll take the blowjob over pasta any day.”
A laugh bubbles up, then slips out.
We both start laughing.
He pulls me in, hugging me tight before he spins me around. I’d forgotten about the music I had on while cooking, but as he pulls me into his arms again, humming along to “Nothing Else Matters” by Metallica, I suddenly don’t care about burnt bread or ruined pasta.
He dips me, then pulls me upright.
“How about you order the food and I’ll clean up the kitchen?”
I nod, a smile playing on my lips.
But then I grow serious. “You’re not mad?”
He shakes his head. “No way in hell.” His large, calloused hands cup my face. “I could never be mad at you, Peyton.”
My heart melts from the way he’s looking at me.
His stomach growls, and we both laugh.
He swats my ass lightly. “Order dinner. I’ve got this.”
As I head to my phone to order from the Italian restaurant we like, I glance over my shoulder, watching him dump the overcooked pasta, then pull the burnt bread from the oven.
Yeah, you’ve got this.
You always handle everything.
52
PEYTON
Thelma arrives, just like she does every Thursday morning, to clean the cabin while humming aggressively cheerful country music.
When the dryer beeps, I head into the laundry room to help her fold clothes, despite her protests.
