Page 89 of Ice Me Out

I wanted to call her stupid, but what I saw truly took my breath away. Hart has his side of the closet, of course, but on the other side, the rack was lined with velvet hangers. Some already held everyday outfits, and a few looked like they were meant for going out on the town. Below the rack were shelves with more tennis shoes, a few heels, and a pair of high-end rain boots that were absolutely necessary for Seattle.

I did a double-take when I noticed a floor-to-ceiling shelf holding designer purses, a new leather backpack, and a matching duffel bag. I plucked up a caramel Celine handbag with impeccable stitching and gold hardware and tried it on my arm in the mirror.

“So, I’m just gonna pack up your belongings and leave them by the front door. You can pick them up when that man gives you a chance to breathe.”

“Shut up,” I laughed, pulling a sticky note off the island drawer unit.

Open me.

Inside, I found an intimate drawer filled with silk sets: some were sleep shorts sets, and the others were tasteful nightgowns. The rest of the drawer was filled with everyday seamless underwear, lace sets, bralettes, socks, tights, and bonnets.

What struck me the most was the fact that Hart didn’t just buy me sexy things that he wanted to see me prance around in. There were no thongs, g-strings, or risque lingerie sets. He bought me comfort—outfits I could travel in, breathable fabrics I could lounge in, clothes that made me not want to return to my place.

Hart made it abundantly clear that he wanted me here.

***

At 5:50 PM, I dragged my ass out of the most luxurious bubble bath I’d ever experienced. I groaned when I wrapped the warmed towel around me and sat at my vanity. My phone vibrated with an incoming call from Hart.

“Hartford.”

“Verydian,” he responded smugly.

“Did you get my texts?”

“I did.”

“This… it’s a lot.”

“It’s convenient for both of us, and cuts down on the back and forth.”

“How did you get everything right?”

“I took pictures when I was at your place.”

“When did you have the time to do all of this?”

“I sent everything to a personal shopper.”

I nodded and reached for the bottle of lotion from the counter.

“Thank you, Sweet Hart. You went above and beyond, and I appreciate you.”

“You’re welcome, Sugar. I gotta go. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay. Good luck. Be safe. I’ll be watching.”

We hung up right as the doorbell rang for my food delivery. I slipped on a fluffy terry cloth robe, cinching it at my waist and met the delivery person at the door. The smell of Mediterranean spices assaulted me as soon as I opened the door, and I knew the only thing that would make the night better was a Warrior win and good sex.

By the time I dropped into my preferred corner of the sectional with my food, the robe had slipped off one shoulder, and I didn’t bother fixing it. I cracked the clear lid off the plastic container, and my stomach violently protested. I attacked the naan first and tucked my legs under me with a soft groan. I flipped on ESPN and tuned into the pregame commentary, catching the analysis mid-debate with Hart’s headshot filling half the screen. I rolled my eyes at his stupidly handsome smirk. It was cocky and lopsided, but I’d be lying if I said the man couldn’t back it up.

“Hart Myers has thirteen goals already under his belt with only a few weeks into the regular season,” one of the analysts said, tapping the desk like he was delivering a sermon. “If he keeps this pace, he could be the league’s top scorer this season.”

I felt my face warm from an involuntary rush of pride.

“That’s my man.”

Another analyst chimed in, but his commentary wasn’t appreciated. “Hot starts happen. The question is whether Hart can sustain it. He’s explosive, sure, but consistency wins scoring titles.”