Page 8

CHAPTER 8

REESE

“What?” I say out loud even though I’m totally alone in my room, watching the live post-game interview on my phone as I get ready for the night.

Nash confirmed our date last night, and after tonight’s win, I’m riding a little high.

His comment about big plans for me sent my nerves flying.

I brush my teeth and finish putting on my makeup, slipping into a warm pair of leggings and a cream sweater, sliding on my boots to help ward against Maine’s chill.

I can’t help but wonder if the smile he’d worn was for the cameras or if he was really that excited thinking about whatever he has planned for us tonight? And did he make these big plans for us because he knew it would look good on camera?

I hate that I don’t know.

I hate that I care.

I shouldn’t. That’s not what we agreed to.

But ever since Anaheim, something changed. At least for me.

I think before that, if I’m being honest.

I can’t deny how much I like spending time with him, and our once snappy disagreements have turned into laughable situations. Like the other day, he’d tried to tell me traditional wings were better than boneless because of their juiciness, even though I countered saying boneless were just as flavorful and less messy. We’d argued about it for twenty minutes.

And I’d never had more fun.

Okay, that’s not true. Having his handsome face between my thighs was certainly more fun than arguing with him over pointless details, but still.

Anticipation curls in my core, making my heart flutter as I look at the time.

He’ll be here in less than ten minutes.

I don’t ever remember being this excited or this nervous for a date. And this one is fake . Most likely.

I mean, all our other interactions have been prompted by the need to perform for the camera, but that night in Anaheim…

We weren’t filming.

But…maybe that really was just sex to him.

Even though we didn’t actually have sex, it was pretty damn close. Honestly, with his reputation, that could’ve been a normal, post-away-game ritual for him, and I just happened to be the girl of the night.

Ugh, I hate not knowing and hate that I want to define things I shouldn’t.

We made this agreement with clear boundaries of not falling in love, so why the hell does it seem like I’m catching feelings for the man?

I shake off the nerves, shoving all those annoying little questions down. It doesn’t matter what I feel. I need to focus on the facts.

We have fun together.

We make each other laugh.

And our chemistry is off the charts.

Who cares if there is a real or fake label to that?

The world may end tomorrow, so in the grand scheme of things, forcing a definition on something this fun would be a crime. I need to let go and just have fun, like my girls keep telling me to as long as my heart is safe.

I take a deep breath, closing my eyes to check.

Is my heart safe?

I look inward, cringing against the very big spot that has a whole lot of Nash freaking Stokehill occupying it.

I do my best to shrink that spot down.

I’ve watched his career the last three years. I know what type of man he is. He loves to hop from date to date, and he’s never told me any different. He’s only been so focused on me because of the deal we struck and that’s totally fine. I’m benefiting from this situation as much or more than he is. Because not only is my career thriving, but I also have this fun, confident, sexy ass NHL player planning dates for me and kissing me like I’m the only person that matters in the entire world.

That’s too good of a world to shatter with labels and definitions.

A knock on my door has me snapping my eyes open, the breath whooshing from my lungs.

He’s here.

Ohmigod, why am I so nervous?

I swing open the door, hoping I look calm instead of chaotic.

Nash is there, looking too handsome for words in a blue Henley that matches his eyes, his hair down and wild, his eyes widening as he looks me up and down.

“You look amazing,” he says, leaning in to kiss me quickly. “You ready for tonight?”

I grin, my stomach flipping from the kiss. “This is the first Valentine’s Day in a few years that I have a date, so yeah, I’m ready.”

“Really?” he asks as we lock up my apartment and get into his car.

“Why do you always sound surprised?” I ask as he drives.

“I don’t know,” he says, getting onto the highway. “I feel like any man who is lucky enough to be with you would be excited to plan dates for you.”

Well, that concept is just too cute for words.

“The few times I’ve actually been dating someone around Valentine’s Day, it wasn’t serious, and each of them broke things off before the big lovey-dovey day.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” I say, shrugging. “I’ve had some horrible dates too,” I continue. “Some I thought were heading in a serious direction only to find out I was the side-chick to their serious relationship.” I swallow hard. “I kind of backed off dating since then.”

“Fucking hell,” he says, shaking his head. “I knew you’d mentioned it before, but damn. I hate that anyone would treat you like that. Let alone not plan dates for you? Cowards .”

I can’t help but laugh. “Says the man who’s never in a serious relationship.”

“Hey, at least I’m up front about that,” he says, navigating the roads. “Everyone I date knows that. It’s not like I hide it, and I don’t lead them on just to call things off before a holiday.”

“That’s fair,” I say. “And besides,” I continue. “This isn’t a real thing anyway. I’m sure you picked this date because it’ll look stellar on camera, and I honestly appreciate that.”

I did. The social media page’s performance has been great for both of us.

I pull out my phone, aiming the camera at him both in an effort to get content and to remind myself of exactly why we're doing what we're doing. Sure, I may be enjoying the hell out of it, but in the end, this is a job for both of us.

“This may look awesome on the camera," he says. “But I picked it for you."

Butterflies take off in my stomach, a spark flying through me at his words.

Nash catches me recording and flashes me a smile that has me totally melting. It's all I can do to capture it before he returns his focus to the road, and I lock my phone and put it back in my bag.

“Are we going to a late-night boneless wing dinner?” I tease him.

“That definitely would be a date for you,” he says, smirking a little. “But no, this has something to do with one of your other passions.”

I wonder what we could possibly be doing and what he’d picked up in our conversations over the last month and a half that would make him choose it. And it isn't until he pulls off the highway and navigates his way through the University of Maine that I gasp.

“You didn’t,” I say, completely unbelieving as he parks near the astronomy center.

Nash’s smile is wide and effortless as he hurries out of the car, opening my door for me before I can even reach for it. He offers me his hand, and I take it, quite literally feeling like I'm being swept off my feet.

And here I thought his late-night date was due to the game and the post-game interview, but in reality, he’d planned this.

“I heard you telling Monroe a couple of months ago that your idea of the perfect date would be spending an evening at the observatory, right?” he tilts his head. “Fuck, I hope I heard that right.”

“You did,” I quickly answer. “I've always wanted to come here,” I say, still a little flabbergasted as we walk toward the center’s doors. “But it's like crazy expensive to rent it out for a night and they book out weeks in advance.”

“I know,” he says, holding the door open for me and ushering me inside. “I didn't know if I was going to be able to pull it off, but a few weeks ago, I started calling every single day until they had a cancellation. I scooped it up immediately.”

I look up at him, unable to stop myself from studying him. There’s nothing but pure joy and pride in his eyes, as if seeing me this happy is all he ever wanted out of the night.

“I don't know what to say,” I say, shaking my head as we turn down a couple hallways until we run into a middle-aged man who totally looks like a professor waiting for us.

“You don't have to say anything,” Nash whispers in my ear as we approach the professor. “Just enjoy yourself.”

I don't have time to respond before the man is welcoming us to the observatory and going over the rules for the night. After signing several waivers and getting a quick crash course on the section the telescope is set up in, the professor leaves us to it, and we have the telescope to ourselves for an entire hour.

We can't change the coordinates, but as I step up to it and look through the lens, I know I’d never want to.

“Ohmigod,” I say as I take in the sight of the stars with something as powerful as this telescope magnifying them. “It's beautiful,” I say. “This view is absolutely breathtaking.”

“It definitely is,” Nash says.

I draw away from the massive telescope and look down where he’s standing, slightly leaning against the stairs as he stares up at me.

“You can't even see it,” I say.

He climbs a couple steps, towering over me, his eyes scanning the lines of my face. “I don't need to see it to know it's breathtaking.” His eyes fall to my lips. “Your smile says it all.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks, and warmth trickles beneath my skin. His words feel genuine, especially since I’ve been too busy gushing about this date to even think about recording.

“I don't know how to thank you for this,” I say. “I don't... I can't believe you remembered this.”

“I remember tons of things about you,” he says.

“Let me guess,” I say, cringing a little. “Like the time I chided you when we played Cards Against Humanity?” So much has changed about our dynamic since those early days of interaction between us. I like this version of us better…whatever that us may be.

Nash grins. “I do remember that night with vivid clarity,” he says, smoothing a hand down my cheek. I called you Reese’s Pieces and told you I had a sweet tooth.”

“And I was…a brat,” I say.

His grin deepens. “You were adorable,” he assures me. “But that wasn’t the memories I was referring to.”

“Then what?” I ask, curious.

“I remember you like your matcha with a little lavender in it. You prefer showers over baths. The Taylor Swift song you're listening to tells me everything about your mood, and you buy those complicated coloring books because they help calm your mind after a long day.”

My lips part, and I can't help but look to see if he's holding his phone, recording his grand romantic speech.

He's not.

Neither am I.

And I don't know how to feel in my own body.

He's been paying so much attention, when all this time I thought this was just a fun new game to shake things up for him.

“If I swoon are you going to catch me?” I joke, but actually feel a little unsteady on my feet.

Nash laughs, the sound real and delightful as it skitters across my bones. He opens his arms, waiting. “Only one way to find out, Reese’s Pieces.”

I can't stop the smile that spreads across my lips, or the dramatic way that I spin and fall straight into his arms, the relief that he actually does catch me instead of letting me plummet to my tragic demise a palpable thing.

“Got you,” he says, his mouth hovering just an inch above mine.

Trust .

This is what actual real trust feels like.

I span the distance between our mouths, kissing him, not in a passionate frenzy but in a slow and compassionate, gratitude-filled way.

It's almost sweet, and he matches the pace, the heat streaking through my veins no less hot because of the softness in it.

Anticipation curls in my core, maybe a bit more than when we’re frantic for each other.

I don't know what it means.

I don't know what any of it means.

Except for the fact that Nash Stokehill is more surprising and perceptive than I've ever given him credit for.

I pull back, smiling at him as he shifts to steady me on my feet. “Come on,” I say nodding toward the viewing lens. “You have to see Cassiopeia,” I say. “She's stunning.”

An hour and a half later, we've grabbed coffee and are contentedly drinking it outside of my apartment, leaning against the hood of Nash’s car as we continue to chat and glance up at the sky.

“I don't think I'm ever going to be able to look at the stars the same way again,” Nash says.

“I know right? After seeing it through something so powerful?” I ask, glancing up at the sky. “I mean, they’re still beautiful, but there’s something about having that kind of instrument at your disposal. Feels like you're getting a glimpse of something few people do. It's special,” I say drawing my focus back to Nash. “Thank you again.”

“You don't have to keep thanking me,” he says. “I had a great time too.”

“We had too much fun,” I say, shaking my head as I take another sip of my coffee. “I only managed to record a few clips.” I was too distracted pretending Nash was my actual boyfriend who’d gone out of his way to plan something so special for Valentine’s Day.

“Isn't that a good thing?” he asks, taking a drink of his coffee. “Having such a great time you forget about work?”

I nod but can't help the concern threatening to steal all my postdate bliss. “You're not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“I don't know,” I say, shrugging. “Because this whole arrangement is about getting content for the page. To keep the followers happy. Keep them coming back and interacting so we can maintain attention from those big corporations offering deals.”

“I know exactly why we started this,” he says. “And I’ve gotten an amazing deal, thanks to you. Who cares if you got lost in the moment and didn't record every single second of this date? That wasn't the point of any of it. I genuinely wanted to do something that I knew would make you happy.”

Emotion clogs my throat, and I can't stop my heart from screaming out for him.

What is happening? Am I doing the one thing I'm not supposed to do, which is fall for this man? The sexy player of the Bangor Badgers?

I clear my throat, looking down at my coffee cup. “Well, thanks,” I say again because I honestly don't know what else to say. He's been so kind and genuine all night, and we haven't had one debate. Not one spicy little argument that would keep me up at night to think of the perfect retort for later.

I'm on uneven ground, and it's exciting and terrifying all at the same time.

We finish our coffees, having idle chitchat as we recount the night before he walks me to my door.

“I'm really glad we did this,” he says as he leans against my open doorway.

“Me too,” I say, my nerves tangling beneath my skin.

“It's pretty late,” he says, some sort of battle happening in his eyes. “I should probably take off.”

Tension coils between us, and my words get stuck in my throat, somewhere behind all the worries and doubts because I really want to ask him to stay.

Scratch that, I want to beg him to stay.

I don't want this night to end. I don't want this feeling to end, regardless if it's real or temporary. I just want more of him.

He bends down before I can respond, pressing his lips against mine in a soft yet still toe-curling kiss. He pulls back, grinning at me before he heads back toward his car.

My heart races in my chest, adrenaline crackling through my veins as I close the door, hating that something inside me is screaming at me to open it back up and chase after him.

I do my best to shove all the insecurities aside, telling myself who cares if it's temporary? When am I ever going to feel like this again?

What if I don't?

What if I don't do everything I can to hold on to this feeling, and I regret it for the rest of my life?

Fuck it. I'm not one for regrets.

I swing open my door, heading out of my apartment complex and catching up to him just as he's opening his driver side door.

“Nash!” I call after him, my chest heaving as my nerves mount.

His eyes meet mine, his head tilting slightly.

I shake my head, stopping just at the front of his car, not wanting to force his hand by falling into his arms again.

“I don't want this night to end,” I admit on a released breath.

“Thank fuck ,” he says, shutting his car door and spanning the distance between us, his mouth on mine in an instant.