Page 44 of He Has Charm (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
Fourteen
Harper
Next morning.
Waking early, I go out to do some grocery shopping while Knight sleeps in and I cook breakfast to have it ready for him when he gets up. Nothing crazy, I tell myself. His favorite is French toast according to social media and I’m too much of a stickler not to notice and do my best to please the client. Plus it’s easy enough to make. I’d do it for any of our clients. It’s strictly part of the job. So what if I’m wearing an apron like I’m playing house?
We said a very formal good night last night and I feel good that we’re finally on professional terms where we should be with all the game-playing behind us. I call Delaney and send her some photos from the restaurant and explain to her about Nora’s photo. She agrees with my hunch about the reporter’s motives and the strategy we brainstormed last night.
At eight a.m. the movers come. An hour later they’re gone, leaving a couple dozen boxes in the front hall. I vow not to unpack them, but it’s hard to let them sit there like unchecked items on a to-do list. When one of them catches my eye, labeledMemorabiliaI shut down the call of curiosity that piles on top of the need to have things orderly and get things done.
After brewing coffee on the stovetop in an old-fashioned coffeepot I found in the kitchen, I soak in the heavenly smell as I whip the eggs, sugar, and milk for the French toast. Nerves clang through my belly at the thought of how he’s going to behave when he gets up. Will he be the same old smiling, flirtatious Maddox, or will he be the distant, polite version that he was last night after our closet encounter, the one I’d supposedly been hoping he’d be to match our business-only expectations?
If truth be told, I can’t escape my secret desire for him to keep his sense of humor and the fun, albeit nerve-sizzling familiarity of his charming personality. Because that’s who he is, of course and I can’t expect him to change his actual personality for me in his own home, can I?
His post-kiss behavior last night worked because we were in public. Then when we got home, of course we were tired, so it made sense that we went straight to bed—separately. I stop whipping the egg mixture not a second too soon and scowl at the bowl of frothy liquid that was in danger of turning into meringue if I’d kept going.
Okay, so I admit it. Living with Maddox if we were to be strictly professional business partners would suck and wouldn’t make me any less nervous around him. I chalk it up to being spoiled by his good cheer and easygoing ways more than the flirtation. Mostly. He’s harmless, right? That’s what I told Delaney and I meant it. Even the kiss was… just a kiss, right? Staring at the bowl of almost-peaking egg froth doesn’t give me an answer.
All I know is there has to be a way two rational adult human beings can have a professionally, friendly, nonsexual relationship for a few months. And I’m—we’regoing to have to figure out how to do it.
Mom needs my help to pay dad’s gambling debts. It’s not fair for her to be left to take care of that financial burden all on her own. What’s also unfair is that I got to go to college and Charlie might not be able to if I don’t chip in.
And where is all this money going to come from? Bonuses from promotional deals if I can land them and a promotion. Also, that big fat bonus Jett promised me if I stick with this assignment. Maybe I should be thanking stupid Godfrey Collins for abandoning his responsibilities and leaving me with Knight to handle.
I dip the fresh baked bread from the divine bakery down the block into the mixture, lay the thick, soaked slices into a baking dish, sprinkle on cinnamon, and then shove it into the oven. Pouring myself a cup of that fresh coffee, I sit at the counter and look at my phone for the time, though there’s a giant round clock taking up most of one kitchen wall.
It’s almost ten a.m. and I’m wondering how late hockey players sleep when they’re sleeping in, when the rumble of his voice vibrates through my chest as if my heart’s engine has just roared to life. God, he’s so sexy. That’s my first errant thought as I look up at his rumpled hair and bare chest. I force myself not to look any lower, aware that he, thank god, is wearing sweats.
“That coffee I smell?”
The one expected thing missing from his appearance is his smile. But I jump to my feet and smile enough for both of us, overeager to start this day on a new positive footing and try for a new professional-yet-friendly relationship to clear the air now that we got the kiss out of the way..
“Coming right up.” I pour him a mug and hand it to him as he wanders around the kitchen island toward the stove, looking at the percolator as if it’s a contraption from outer space.
“Where the hell did you find this? I haven’t seen one of these since my great aunt passed away a dozen years ago.”
“One of the many great finds when you live in an old townhouse on Beacon Hill.” He gives me a once-over, still no smile, turns away and clears his throat. Sitting as far away from me at the kitchen island as possible, he takes a sip of his coffee and closes his eyes. I can tell by the look on his face that he likes it, truly appreciates it, and I wait for his approval, my grin and nerves anticipating his praise like a kid looking forward to a gold star.
But when he opens his eyes, he looks down at his cup, avoiding my eyes. I miss the gorgeous blue tease of his gaze, almost weep for it in this moment. I know that’s pathetic and all kinds of inappropriate and I wonder if this is how an addict feels and how long it’ll take me to wean myself off his addictive attention because—he interrupts my internal ramble.
“Is that French toast I smell?” I perk up like a puppy. Then I immediately calm myself, shaking my head. I need more poise with my professionalism and less of the friendly.
“Yes. I made a French toast bake. It’s in the oven and it should be ready in fifteen minutes.” He raises an eyebrow and nods. Still no smile. Not even a twitch. He stands, taking his coffee back to where he came from.
“I’ll take a shower in the meantime,” he tosses over his shoulder. Then he stops and turns. “That’s not an invitation,sugar buns.” He disappears down the hall and my mouth opens, wondering what to say, my heart thudding again. He didn’t smile, but… those were fighting words. Like the opposite of flirting. Well, shit. How do I turn that into professionally friendly terms?
Is he actually implying with the blatant reminder of my… lapse—though in my defense it was an accident that I happened to overhear him jerking off in the shower and calling my name —that I’m the unprofessional problem in this relationship?
Shit. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m just as guilty as he is. The oven timer goes off, and shaking my head, I get myself into business mode and check the oven. While I wait for the last few minutes of browning, I run down my mental to-do list for something I can do right now.
Keeping myself productive is the best way to get through my time here on this assignment. Forget about Maddox—well, I mean forget about interacting with him except as-needed. I’ll focus on doing my job. Just like I’ve asked him to strictly focus on hockey. If we both do that, we’ll be fine. The time will fly by and we’ll be successful and I’ll get satisfaction each day that I’m working toward my goal of eliminating my family’s financial burden.
Walking through the entry hall, I glance at the stacked boxes and decide I can unpack most of them. The box labeled Memorabilia looks personal, though, and even though I’m curious as hell, he should unpack this one. I lift it from the stack and bring it into the kitchen where I place it on the island so he can deal with it as he sees fit.
As I finish setting our place settings—because there’s no way I’m not enjoying some of this French toast whether I have to sit with him in silence or not—and plate a generous helping for him, he returns, all dressed up in a suit though his tie is hanging untied around his collar and his jacket is slung over an arm. His plentiful hair glistens and the one wave hangs low over his forehead, giving him that quintessential bad boy look. His blue eyes flash with pleasure for a beat as he meets mine, then he focuses on the food. I drag my eyes away but it’s hard because he looks so… edible, dressed up in a business suit, far more like a man who might be my type.
I set his place on one end while I sit at the other end of the island, two empty stools separating us. He says nothing though I see his Adam’s apple bobbing and his mouth practically watering as he takes his seat. He tosses his jacket onto an empty stool, puts his empty mug down, and digs into the food.
