Page 72 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“Same thing you are, evidently. Sneaking out before weights to see Gramps.”
“Right. The weights can wait.”
He grins at my bad pun as I meet him by his back door. I look around nervously, but there’s no one around, just a few birds and us.
“It’s really good to see you. I know why you’re home.”
My sigh is deep and long. “Maggs—”
“Levi. He thinks you have a Joan of Arc complex.”
I laugh. “It’s nothing compared to your Superman complex.”
“Touché.”
“You keep saying that.
“You keep getting the better of me in the verbal sparring department.”
“I’ll take it. What other departments do you have?” And I could bite my tongue off because that just crossed the line into serious flirtation. The danger zone, the red-hot, ripe-for-rejection zone. But he doesn’t reject me, or even look confused. He smiles, one of those slow, real, heart-melting smiles. The kind that send my heart racing like I’m running for my life, because I sort of am. Taking a big chance.
His eyes blaze and bore into me, remind me of the way he looked at me that night of the wedding, the way he looked while we made love—correction, had sex. And just as my panties are getting hot and creamy, I pull myself back into reality. This is Ryan the superstar, not Ryan the boy next door.Don’t kid yourself, Chelsea Wilde.
“I have anotherdepartment,though I’ve never heard it called that before. Care to test it out? I’ve been wanting to see you—aside from the lawsuit business or family drama.”
“Well, here I am,” I say as if I’m ready to jump in bed with him now. He full-out grins, reaches out and touches my face. For a second I think he’s going to kiss me, but he doesn’t, he just caresses my cheek with the back of his knuckles. I don’t know why, but it makes me shudder with pleasure.
“I want more than a chance meeting and a back-stoop conversation,” he says.
I remain mute.
“I want a . . . date,” he says.
My gut clenches. His smile is gone, he’s edging away, less sure of himself, but he has me confused now. Because I know he doesn’t date—not unless you count public appearances with celebrities or supermodels. Which I don’t and which I know he doesn’t.
He rushes his words. “As close to a date as I can make it given the current state of media hyperattention.”
“A date?” I scoff. I don’t trust him, in spite of his flashes of tenderness, in spite of all our chemistry, because I’ve had four years to hone my disillusionment, haven’t I?
“Yes. We have something. I want more.” He stops and waits, for me to say yes, I suppose.
“I thought we weren’t taking Gramps’s advice seriously.”
“That was you, not me. Come on, Chels, humor me.”
“Humor you?” I laugh. “Way to go on how to sweet talk a girl, O’Rourke.” He has the good sense to look chagrined.
“You got me. Okay. Here goes. The real pitch.” He moves in closer, puts one hand on my hip, lightly, almost gentlemanly, but enough to entice me with the sensual promise of more. His other hand goes up to my face and he moves a lock of hair from my cheek. He has such a gentle touch and the barest brush of his thumb against my skin sends a trill of nerves lighting up like it’s Christmas to my girly parts. He has me vibrating with excited chills, hot with anticipation about what he’s going to do next, say next.
“Chelsea, I . . . I want a relationship with you that’s more than friends, more than . . .” He trails off and his eyes are on mine, showing his need, his want, and his vulnerability, his uncertainty. I know he’s trying to be brave and I know all too well how hard it is to acknowledge feelings, let alone share them, voice them. So I help him.
“More than a hookup?”
He nods, moving closer. I hear a car go by in the street and I jump, but he doesn’t move away.
“Fuck the public. Tell me you’ll go on a date with me. A real one.”
“Unlike the dinner date on Nantucket?”
