Page 38 of Fighting Chance

“I know, but I asked what your favorite food is.”

I huff out a laugh at his stubbornness. “Pasta,” I admit. “I’m a sucker for pasta and garlic bread.”

“Pasta it is,” he declares with a lopsided grin. “Want to help a guy out and let me know what type of pasta?” He hands me his phone, a delivery app open on a local Italian restaurant.

Our fingers graze as I take it, that odd tingly sensation running up my arm again.

Swallowing thickly, I avert my eyes to the phone, not entirely aware of what pasta I pick because I can feel his gaze on me like a hot brand. You can never hide from Kieran Ashford; he sees everything, and right now, I’m holding his attention.

Kieran’s fingers linger as he takes the phone back as slowly as he can, his knee still pressed against my thigh.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I peer over my shoulder at the living room, giving myself anything else to think about besides the wildly attractive hockey player watching me as I sit on his couch in nothing but his oversized hoodie.

I knew all about Kieran before I met him. Saw the many posts and rumors spread from puck bunnies. He’s the most infamous on the team for how he only spends a single night with women, and yet it only takes a night to get them hooked.

I looked at photos of him, but it wasn’t until I met him that day at the adoption event that I truly understood why women throw themselves at him. It wasn’t just his looks, it was the air in which he held himself, that cocky and yet downright playful personality. The charisma that rolled off his tongue, the way his eyes, as deep as the Atlantic Ocean, seemed to sparkle as he stared through me, all the way down to the trenches of my soul.

Bella teased me endlessly about myfirecrackerside, as she called it, that came out around him. He pushes my buttons, yes, but if I’m honest with myself, it’s because I’d be like every other girl and fall for his charm if I let him in and I don’t want to be.

I don’t want to be a single night.

I don’t want to be a notch on his bedpost.

Not when it leads to heartbreak. Not when it will leave me feeling used and discarded.

“Layla?”

His soft voice draws me away from my thoughts. “Hmm?”

He pauses before asking, “Do you want to go over my schedule?”

Our gazes lock and hold, his trying to peer through my soul, mine trying to keep my walls high. Nodding, I pull out my phone, opening up my calendar and shaking off the feeling of my heart gettingfar too excited.

Forty-five minutes later, with one jam-packed schedule noted, emergency contact numbers exchanged, routines written down, and an extremely hefty salary spoken into existence, Kieran and I are devouring pasta and garlic bread.

I moan around my spoonful. “My god, is this good.”

Apparently, I picked well while in my Ashford haze.

I never would have been able to eat this last year, would have had to excuse myself and leave early to eat the extremely bland, anti-inflammatory meal I ate on rotation. Food is the one thing I am endlessly grateful I don’t have to stress over anymore. I don’t have to wake up in the middle of the night cupping my extended stomach through scream-worthy cramps.

Kieran turns to face me fully, his bowl of pasta resting on his knee. “I was thinking that you should come with me to Emmy’s first speech therapy session. You’d have to wait outside for the majority of it, but when it comes to the end, I’d love for you to be there to hear what the therapist thinks is the best approach for her.”

Kieran’s eyes never once leave my lips as I chew my penne, and they seem to flare more as I lick them.

“Of course, I think that’s a great idea. I don’t want to say or do the wrong thing and have her regressing.”

His lip twitches. “Good. I’ll text you the details when I book it.”

He continues to stare, not eating, and I finally ask, “What? Do I have sauce on my face somewhere?”

“No, it’s just—” He stops abruptly, chuckling.

“What?” I whack his shoulder as he continues to laugh. “Stop laughing at me!” I wipe at my face despite what he said, and my fingers come back with no sauce.

He bites his bottom lip. “I’ve just never seen someone love pasta so much.”

“Oh.” My cheeks flame and I can’t help it, my eyes dart away, a flurry of embarrassment and insecurity swarming me.