Page 22 of Hot for the Hockey Player (The Single Moms of San Camanez: The Vino Vixens #2)
“Are they bringing up the stuff we discussed earlier this week again?” I asked carefully, not wanting to open up that can of worms if I didn’t have to. “Did Brad Vasser say something again?”
He shook his head. “No … he was … he was just embarrassing around Mav. Said some really uncool stuff. And I could tell Mav wasn’t impressed.
He probably thinks I’m just like Brad because I hang out with him.
” He looked at me pleadingly. “There’s nobody else to hang out with.
There are like twelve freshman and maybe eighteen sophomores. It’s slim pickings.”
What did Brad Vasser say that would be embarrassing? I wasn’t sure how many more questions I could ask before my son shut down. I could tell he was teetering right on the edge, and I was already elated at how much he’d opened up and that he was sitting at the table talking to us.
“Do you have homework?” I asked.
He shook his head.
Against my better judgement, I said what I knew would be best for my child, but ultimately terrible for me. “You can invite Mav over now if you’d like. Seeing as he’s taking Laurel and Honor to watercolor later.”
His gray-blue eyes got a bit of that spark I loved and missed so much. “Yeah?”
I nodded.
But then his face fell. “I dunno … I … what if he’s upset with me?”
“Why would he be upset?”
“Because of my friends,” he said with exasperation, like he’d just finished explaining everything to me in extensive detail.
Why were men so cryptic? It seemed to be something from birth, something on the Y chromosome.
Because as hard as I tried to get Damon to provide me with even half as much information as his sister did, it never seemed to stick.
“Mav said he wants to talk to me. Have a little chat.”
Ah.
“Maybe he just wants to check in with you. See how you felt the meeting went. I don’t think he’s upset with you. Maverick doesn’t seem like the type. Text him. Best way to know for sure is to just rip off the Band-Aid and find out.”
Exhaling in anticipated defeat, Damon brought out his phone and shot off a message to Maverick. Maverick’s reply was almost instant. “He’ll be here in twenty,” Damon said. “Can I invite him for dinner again?”
Shit.
I was planning to go visit Danica while he was here. But if Maverick stayed for dinner, I couldn’t avoid him.
But my son came first, so I bobbed my head. “Sure.”
Damon got up from the table, a bit more of a bounce in his step than when he’d arrived, and he retreated to his room. I went to the bathroom to check on my hair and makeup, like a twitterpated teen, and chastised myself every second I primped and plucked.
The knock at the door shouldn’t have made me jump, but it did.
Not only that, but my whole body went up at least three degrees and sweat broke out between my breasts.
Definitely a hot flash. This was not normal.
This was more than just sexual attraction.
It was also too close to dinner at this point for me to go over to Danica or Naomi’s and avoid Maverick.
Fuck. My. Life.
I checked myself one more time in the bathroom mirror, rolled my eyes and exited, holding my head high, and maybe pushing my chest out just a little bit as I rounded the corner from the hallway into the dining room and living room.
Maverick’s blue eyes lit up when he saw me. “Hey!”
I shoved on a smile. “Hey.”
His brows wrinkled. “Did I see you at the grocery store today? I called to you, but …”
I lifted both shoulders and channeled my inner ditz, giving my head a little shake. “Oh really? I was there, but I didn’t hear you. Sorry.”
“Then I came by the house and knocked. Called out your name. But there was no answer.”
“Oh!” Another big, fake smile. “I often listen to a podcast or music when I’m working. I had my headphones in.”
Laurel and Damon both gave me a weird look. “No you don’t,” Laurel said. “You do when you’re cooking but not when you’re working. You say it muddles your brain so you can’t type as fast.”
I glanced at her, then chuckled, heading into the kitchen. “Well, I did today.”
Maverick didn’t seem convinced. If anything, he appeared hurt.
Crap.
I cleared my throat. “I, uh … I heard you went to Damon’s school today. That was really kind of you.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets as a flush of color raced up from under the collar of his long-sleeve black Henley. “Yeah. He asked, so …”
“Well,” I glanced at my son, who also seemed to be blushing, “I know he appreciated it.”
Damon shot me a look that clearly said, “Mom, shut up.”
“I’m going to go finish up some work in my office.
Would you like to stay for dinner?” I needed to keep things as platonic and professional as I possibly could.
Which meant proper English, full sentences, and the air of authority I’d perfected since leaving my husband, firmly lodged between Maverick and me.
“Uh … if that’s all right?” He scratched the back of his neck. “I feel bad. I’m eating all your food. You’ll have to let me buy y’all dinner soon. Order pizza or something. I heard the pizza place here on the island is really good.”
“It is really good,” I confirmed, doing my damnedest to keep my eyes on his and not roaming over his body and the way that henley fit him like it was painted on. But even looking in his eyes did all kinds of disturbing things to my belly and temperature.
“Well, let’s plan for me treating y’all to pizza next week, hmm?” He flashed a big, Maverick smile that had a spot between my legs throbbing.
“Yeah. Sure. Sounds good.” Then I was gone. Into my office, closing—and locking—the door behind me.
I plastered my back against the door, my breath coming out in ragged pants. I pressed my hand to my chest to feel it rise and fall rapidly.
Knock, knock .
“Gabrielle, are you okay?” Maverick asked on the other side of the door.
All my pulse did was pick up tempo even more.
“I’m fine,” I croaked, pinching my eyes shut tight at the way my voice cracked.
“Just have loads of work to do. You kids—” Oh gross, I couldn’t call him a kid.
“You guys just play your video games, and I’ll let you know when supper is ready.
” I glanced at my smart watch, which seemed to think I was running a marathon at the moment.
It was four-fifteen. “Let’s plan for a five-thirty dinner. Watercolor is seven to eight-thirty.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yep. Never better.” Glancing to the ceiling, I shook my head, ashamed of myself and my behavior. Something was clearly wrong with me.
“Okay …”
I waited several heartbeats until I knew he was gone, before I allowed myself to fully exhale and sink down to a crouch. I hugged my knees to my chest and ignoring the sting of my burns as the skin stretched in this position.
Get it together!
I smacked my cheeks a few times in both self-flagellation and to get myself to snap out of whatever twitterpated nonsense had taken over my body. It seemed to do the trick enough that I was able to sit down at my desk and take care of a few things on my to-do list.
At five o’clock, I quietly snuck out of my office and into the kitchen.
I didn’t dare glance into the direction of the living room, but the way my son and Maverick joked and teased each other as they played another round of NHL Hockey on the PlayStation, warmed my heart to no end.
I got to work cooking the chicken and throwing in the diced veggies, before finally adding the kung pao sauce and peanuts.
Everything smelled delicious and my belly rumbled, reminding me that I had skipped lunch.
“That smells amazing,” Damon called from the living room.
My head popped up from where I’d been busy dicing scallions for garnish, to find him craning himself around on the couch, facing me and smiling.
I met his toothy grin with a half-hearted one of my own. “Thanks.”
The fates meddled again, and their game ended just that moment, which gave Maverick the perfect opportunity to get up from his spot on the couch and join me in the kitchen.
Fuck. My. Life. Again .
“Do you need a hand with anything?” he asked, cocking his hip into the corner of my kitchen island. “I swear I’m not coming to ask you this at the very end on purpose.” He glanced at the dining room table. “Let me set the table.”
Before I could answer, he was already opening cupboards and pulling down the big, deep bowls I liked to use for these kinds of dishes.
“You really don’t—”
“Not a problem at all.” He unnecessarily walked close beside me, and our arms brushed.
I sucked in a sharp breath and stepped to the side.
“I remember these bowls from when I lived with you guys in Spokane. Ate many a delicious stew and soup in these puppies.” He tossed another confusing, heartrate-spiking smile at me as he opened up a bunch of different drawers until he found the cutlery.
He didn’t even have to ask what I wanted, and grabbed the chopsticks and spoons.
“Are these like a family heirloom or something?” He went to the table and started to make up the place settings.
I cleared my throat and shook my head. “Uh … no. I, uh … I bought them at a farmers market in Spokane. Came with a salad bowl too, but that broke in the move here to the island.”
He frowned. “That sucks.”
He kept trying to meet my eyes, but I refused. I focused anywhere but on his face—scratch that, anywhere but him —because the rest of him was like a freaking work of art that I’d gladly spend hours staring at and never grow bored.
He was back in the kitchen, back beside me, and I had to move to the right this time so our elbows didn’t brush again.
“Is the rice done?” He checked the rice cooker.
“Looks like it. Can I put it on the table?” Like he’d been in my kitchen a hundred times and not just twice before, he located the hot pads and oven mitts in the drawer with ease, and carried the rice over to the table.