Page 9 of Hot for the Hockey Player (The Single Moms of San Camanez: The Vino Vixens #2)
I shook my head and brought down two mugs. “No. I do not go to anything. I work until the kids get home, then I help them with homework and make dinner. We’re very boring here. But we like it.”
“Are the kids in extracurricular activities?”
“Laurel does a watercolor class at the art studio on Friday evenings. Damon plays videogames. I have offered for them to do more, but neither is interested.”
His frown mimicked one I felt in my heart. We got out of the cult we were part of before Laurel was born, with the hopes of embracing all the world had to offer, since none of that was allowed under the controlling thumb of my husband. And yet, my children weren’t interested.
“Watercolor, hmm?”
“She enjoys it. She goes with her cousin, Honor—Naomi’s daughter. We tried to get Sam—Danica’s daughter—to go to, but her anxiety spiked when we got there, so I brought her home.”
“Think they’ve got any openings?” he asked.
The kettle was at full boil. “Earl Grey okay?” I asked.
“Perfect.”
“Milk’s in the fridge.”
He went to the fridge and brought out vanilla soy, sidling up right next to me, until our elbows touched, and pouring a splash into each mug. I dropped in the teabags, then poured the water over top.
Picking up a mug, he turned it around in his palm, and held it out to me, handle first. I took it, and he picked up the other one.
With a playful smile dancing on his very full lips, he dipped his head a little. “To getting reacquainted with a family that meant so much to me.”
I swallowed. “To … getting reacquainted.”
He clinked his mug against mine, and we each took a sip.
“Gah!” he blurted out, setting the mug down. “Hot!”
I hadn’t actually taken a sip, because I knew better.
“Was it not too hot for you, iron tongue?” he asked, flicking on the faucet at the sink and sticking his mouth right under the cold running water.
“I didn’t take a real sip,” I said, stepping away from him because that incredible scent of citrus and forest that swirled around him like an invisible fog messed with my brain. “I knew it was going to be hot.”
He gave me a half-hearted glare before shutting off the water. “Well, aren’t you just on top of things,” he murmured. “I’m not going to be able to taste anything for a week.”
“The mouth is one of the fastest healing parts of the body,” I assured him, taking my mug out of the kitchen and sitting in my usual seat in the dining room.
A table between us was exactly the space I needed.
He followed me and sat down on my left, extending his legs out long beneath the table until his foot touched mine. I tucked my feet under my chair.
“Are there any other recreational classes I could take on the island? Cheese making? Is there a monger around?”
“We have nearly every artisan you could think of here; pottery, woodworking, glassblowing, an apiary, metalwork. You name it, we probably have it.”
“But do you have a cheesemonger?” he asked with cheek.
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, we have a cheesemonger. Fred Love owns and operates Fred’s Ched Shed, and I think he runs classes.”
His mouth dropped open. “Fred’s Ched Shed?”
I smirked and snorted. “This island loves its funky names. Beachin’ Ink Tattoos; One Fish, Two Fish; Dirt Flingers; That’s what I’m Taco-bout; Slice of Heaven Pizza; Go with the Flow Yoga; Hardwood Distillery. There are many.”
His chuckle was far too raspy and rough for a man not even thirty.
And it made my body do all kinds of traitorous things.
“I love it. It just adds to that small-town charm, you know? One weekend, when we didn’t have a game, I took a drive to the little town of Winter Harbor—which is just outside of Portland, like an hour or so—and they had loads of punny named stores too.
I think my favorite was the florist:Thorn Dogs. ”
I was blowing on my tea to cool it off, but snorted at the ridiculous name, thus jostling my hand with the mug. Of course, that caused scalding tea to spill onto my lap.
“Fuck,” I exclaimed, setting the mug down on the table. “God! Hot!”
Maverick was out of his seat, like he was ready to fight the boiling water for me. “What can I do?”
“Nothing,” I gritted out, standing up as my thighs screamed at me.
“I just need to change my pants and put a cold cloth on the burn. I’ll be right back.
” I didn’t look behind me before disappearing down the hall and into my room, closing the door.
I gently peeled out of my soaked, loose-fitting trousers, terrified I’d take off a layer of skin if I did it too fast. I worked from home, but since it was a workday, I tried to get into the work-vibe and dress semi-professional.
My cousins could work in their sweatpants or athletic wear—I could not.
A holdover from my days in the office at the law firm.
I glanced down at the tops of my thighs, which stung and were bright red, but thankfully didn’t seem to be lacking a precious layer of skin.
At least there was that.
“You okay in there?” Maverick called from just outside my bedroom door.
“Just fine!”
I did not have an en suite bathroom, unfortunately. So I was trapped in my room, with burning thighs and no way to get a damp, cold cloth without putting clothes back on. And I absolutely did not want to do that.
“Do you have a bathroom in there?” Maverick called.
“No.”
“Hang on.”
I glanced up at the ceiling, praying to a god I didn’t believe in, for the earth to just open up and swallow me whole.
This was not happening. It couldn’t be. I was obviously in a fever dream or something.
This kind of stuff happened to my cousins—particularly Raina and Naomi—but it didn’t happen to me.
I was the careful one. The cautious one.
I assessed the risk of everything before I did it, and definitely before I let my kids do it.
Life was too precious, our freedom was too precious, to play chicken with danger.
And apparently, a cup of tea, while sitting at my dining room table, across from a menacingly handsome man, was playing chicken with danger.
“Here,” Maverick said. “I got you a cloth and ran it under the faucet. It’s pretty cold.”
I grumbled, mostly under my breath, and opened the door just a crack, sticking out my hand, but hiding behind the door so he couldn’t see me. “Thank you.”
The cloth was pretty cold and even though it was only in my hand, I already felt the relief.
I closed the door again and sat down on my bed, carefully draping the damp, cold tea towel across my lap. Instant reprieve.
“Is that cold enough? I can get you some ice. I saw some in your freezer.”
“It’s fine. Thank you.”
Dear god, I didn’t even want to think about how this moment could get any worse, because at the rate I was operating—it would.
“You should probably run cold water over it, rather than just place the towel on it,” Maverick said, still on the other side of my closed door. “The burn will just heat the towel and make it sting. I’ve done quite a bit of first aid training.”
“I’m not coming out there in my underwear,” I said, probably a little too snippy.
“I can go outside. I’m more worried about it blistering than anything. I’ve dropped hot coffee on my lap before and it’s brutal.”
He was right. I had first aid training too, and even if I didn’t, my body temperature was working overtime to heat the tea towel.
“I’m going to step outside, okay? You do what you need to do to feel comfortable, but get yourself to the bathroom, sit on the edge of the tub, and let the cold water from the tap cool off your lap, okay?
” The authoritative edge to his voice should have sent alarm bells off in my head.
I should have been actively defying him, just because he was a man telling me what to do, and no man ever told me what to do. Not anymore.
But none of that was happening. No alarm bells. No red flags. No inherent need to do the exact opposite of what he was telling me to do. Since my divorce, that had never happened.
“Okay,” I practically whimpered, having to stop myself from slapping my own face at how weak my voice sounded.
“I’m leaving now. I’ll just be outside your front door … can you tell my voice is further away? I’m opening the door … Now I’m going to close it.”
I rolled my eyes, waited five agonizing breaths, then grabbed my robe off the back of my door, slid my arms into it, and wrapped it up before throwing open the door and racing to the bathroom.
I closed the door, drew back the curtain to the bath, and did just what he said.
I ditched my robe on the floor, sat on the edge of the tub, and grabbed the shower nozzle from above.
The cold water over my scarlet skin had me moaning like a porn star.
It was cold, and gooseflesh rippled down my shins, but I didn’t care.
Anything to take away the pain. The pain from the tea, the pain of embarrassment, and the pain of Maverick Roy—all man—disrupting my perfectly boring, perfectly safe, perfectly ordinary world.
I was perfectly in trouble.