Page 25 of Icebound

I spin on my heel, leading him past a fern that's seen better days. I make a mental note to water it as we step into Gwen’s kitchen, which looks straight out of the 1950s with the mint-green fridge that screams retro-chic.

I glance at the fridge, wondering what I've got in there other than cold brew since he probably caps off his nights with a glass of scotch.

Opening the fridge, I grab a half-empty bottle of white wine. It's one of Gwen’s fancy ones. “Do you like…” I squint at the unreadable French label. “Uh, wine?”

“Thanks, but I don’t drink during the season. Can’t handle the hangovers anymore. I feel like once I hit my thirties, my body lost the ability to process alcohol. Think there’s a medical reason for that?”

Tell him. Tell him now, Nina.

“I think it has to do with your enzymes,” I say, grateful for that one biology class I took freshman year.

Being in college, I rarely meet anyone who’s sober—like me. Last year, I found out that mixing alcohol with my meds is as good of a combination as laxatives and white pants. After only one cup of punch, I ended up unconscious outside the Sigma Phi Epsilon house.

I’m forever thankful to that pledge who stood guard over me and called Gwen, but it was still traumatizing. Since then, I've avoided alcohol. Sometimes, I miss all the fun, but waking up hangover-free every Saturday morning is pretty fantastic.

I set the wine back in the fridge. “I have tea if you want that instead?”

“That works great.” When our eyes meet, he rips his gaze to the cabinets while I start the kettle. “Nice place, by the way. It’s like a jungle in here. Reminds me of this time I went to Costa Rica with my buddies during the off-season.”

Of all the things in this kitchen, I’m shocked he singles out the one thing that’s mine and not Gwen’s.

He opens cabinet after cabinet until he pulls out one of the turquoise vases I made in my pottery class. Rhode removes it, fills it with water, and puts the sunflowers inside.

I watch his long fingers arrange the bouquet before yanking my gaze away. I do not need to be imagining what else this man can do with those fingers.

“Alright, let’s talk,” he says. “Why’s it so hard to get you to agree to go out with me? I normally don’t have this issue with women.”

A flare of jealousy sparks in my chest. Thankfully, it’s easy to extinguish. I don’t want to go there with a man whose bedpost is scratched up with notches.

I’m sure his exes are all lovely, flexible people, but based on what’s said about him online, someone could write a dissertation on his dating history.

I dig through the boxes of tea, purposefully giving him my back. “Trust me, I know you don’t. I saw the Tenerife pictures. You were right. You’re very flexible.”

There’s a pause. “So you looked me up?”

I glance over my shoulder, flicking my eyes over his broad chest. “I was curious, and I did my research.”

He readjusts the sunflowers in the vase so they don’t droop, keeping his eyes on the petals like he doesn’t want to see my reaction. “There’s a lot of bullshit about me online, you know.”

The way he's fiddling with the flowers adds a charming boyishness to his rugged demeanor, which has my guard lowering. “I know, and I can’t imagine having my privacy invaded like that. It’s not fair to have your personal life splashed across the internet for everyone to judge.”

His blue eyes lift, and a layer of tension seems to melt from his features. “What else did you learn? Other than the fact that I’m a sexy hockey goalie that everyone wants?”

And there it is—that arrogance. “You’re exceptionally humble.”

He chuckles. “Keep going.”

“You’re six-three.”

“What the hell?” he demands. “Which article said that? Was it Sports Illustrated? I’m six-four.”

“You really need that extra inch?”

A corner of his mouth twitches. “Every inch counts.”

This man smiles in a way that makes me think he knows exactly what to do with that mouth. His glacial eyes flick down my body, and based on that look alone, there’s no doubt Rhode Tremblay knows how to treat a woman.

I can tell by the fluidness of his movements. It’s in the little ways he saunters instead of walks, grips a cup instead of clenches, leans instead of stands. I give him a once-over, noticing how he dangles the edge of his cup off his forearm like a little ledge made just for him.