Page 4 of Pucked Mountain Man (Cold Mountain Nights #6)

FOUR

GRADY

I don’t mention the kiss again.

I also don’t stop thinking about it. Instead, we steal look at each other’s mouths when we think the other isn’t looking.

It’s all very high school. But damn, if I don’t want to relive that moment again and again.

After tossing and turning for most of the night, I’ve mostly decided it was a fluke.

Something that happened because a storm raged outside and we were hopped up on air-hockey endorphins.

When I find her in the kitchen humming “Landslide,” all excuses leave my head. I kissed her because I wanted to. It’s as simple as that.

As if simple could be used to describe anything involving Stevie.

“Want to talk about our schedule?” she asks.

“Sure.”

“How about PT, food, nap, more PT, movie?”

“Lose the nap.” Add in kiss your caretaker between food and movie.

“Someone is going to get cranky,” she says, smiling into her mug.

She’s right about that. The longer I go without kissing her again, the crankier I’m going to be.

We do the dance. I stretch. She corrects my form. We both act like our hands didn’t feel more of each other’s bodies last night.

The storm keeps rattling the windows. By afternoon, we’ve exhausted the other activities in the game room.

Which is how I end up in the hall with a balled-up sock and a broom handle.

The strip of wood is perfect. Baseboard goals if you squint. Tap-tap-tap. My knee holds steady. My heartbeat changes tempo as I pull back the stick and line up my shot.

“Absolutely not,” Stevie says behind me.

My arms fall to my side. “It’s a sock.”

“It’s a bad idea in a sock costume.” She stomps toward me, planting her fists firmly on her shapely hips. “You want to explain to your coach how you re-tore your ACL playing hallway hockey?”

“Actually, it’s called sockey,” I say. “Trademark pending.”

“Grady.”

“You can’t take everything from me.” It comes out whinier than I care to admit. “Please, just ten minutes. I’ll go easy.”

She sighs, vanishes into the linen closet, and returns with two rolled towels. She drops them on either side of the doorframe. “Goals. And you do not plant on that left leg. Glide. No hero stops.”

“Yes, coach.”

She steals the broom. “Faceoff.”

“You’re about to embarrass yourself, Rockstar.”

“Try me.”

We lean over the sock like it’s a puck.

Tap-tap-tap—go.

She moves with more speed and expertise than I counted on. Though, I should have expected it. She might not play hockey professionally or recreationally. But I’d guess Thatcher dragged her out on the ice more than a few times when they were younger.

Her hands are quick. I trail, carefully, letting my arms do most of the work while my feet—and knee—stay steady.

“Nope,” she says as I try to move past, giving me a playful nudge in the ribs.

“Illegal hit.”

“Two minutes for whining.”

We fight for the sock, careful not to throw any elbows—or test my knee too badly. It’s such a joy to see her having so much fun, I pull back. She winds up, takes a shot. The sock sails past my towel.

“Yes!” She throws her hands up, triumphant. “Yes, yes, yes.”

She does a little dance. But her sock foot catches on the floor and she slips. I reach forward, catching her around the waist. My knee twinges—a light pain, but nothing damaging.

I straighten her, hands full of heat.

“You let me,” she accuses, breathless.

“I absolutely did not,” I lie.

Her eyes drop to my mouth. Mine do the same, because we’re stupid. “You’re insufferable,” she says softly.

“You’re terrible at backchecking,” I return, just as soft.

We reset. Second shift, she’s smarter. Third, she tries to pivot around me; I block; we tangle and go down in a graceless knot on the runner.

Two things: the warm weight of her thigh across mine and the quiet throb in the knee that says You’re a moron, but I’ll allow it.

“Okay?” she asks instantly, palm on my chest, scanning my face.

“Okay.” I mean it. “You?”

“Ego bruised. Otherwise intact.”

We don’t move. Hair messy, freckles bright, gold-flecked eyes too close. My hand is cupping the back of her knee where her leggings rode up. I should let go. I don’t.

“Grady,” she breathes—warning, question, prayer.

“I know,” I say, not sure which rule I’m answering. What comes out isn’t that. “I don’t know who I am if I can’t play.”

Her expression softens. “You’re you,” she says simply. “The guy who made towel goals because we needed rules. The guy who laughs when he pretends not to. The guy who cooks when he’s trying not to grab me.”

I huff a laugh that hurts. “That obvious?”

“Painfully.” Her thumb traces my jaw like she’s been wanting to know how it feels. “You’re allowed to hate this. You’re allowed to be scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

She just looks.

I close my eyes. “I hate feeling weak.”

“You’re not weak,” she says, steady. “You’re recovering. From the inside it looks like weakness. From the outside, it looks like strength.”

“Practice that on all your patients?”

“Only the stubborn ones. And the ones I like.”

Something violent happens inside my ribs. My hand tightens on her knee; she inhales; the hallway gets too small for both of us and our restraint.

“Stevie,” I say like a soft swear. “Come here.”

She does. The kiss isn’t a mistake now—it’s a choice, then another.

My mouth learns hers; hers learns mine. It gets messier, handsier.

My fingers find bare skin under her sweatshirt; her palm slides under my hoodie to my chest; when her thumb brushes the edge of the cross tattoo, I have to breathe her in like oxygen.

The knee complains when I shift. I don’t push. She feels the flinch, steadies me without making a thing of it, and I don’t know whether to thank her or drag her closer forever.

We surface, foreheads touching, breath rough.

“I’m making you dinner,” I say, voice shredded.

She smiles like she knows exactly what I’m doing and likes me anyway. “Pretty sure the loser was supposed to make dinner.”

“It was a draw.”

“Exactly.”

I stroke the back of her neck once. “Call it selfish. I need something to do with my hands that isn’t…” I let the sentence die. Her pupils blow.

“Cooking,” she says primly, voice not fooling anyone. “Very safe.”

“Debatable. I’m dangerous with garlic.”

She laughs, soft and pleased, and pushes up. I miss her heat instantly and hate how much. She offers me a hand; I take it, using her leverage and my good leg. The knee twinges—manageable. Not the enemy if I respect it.

In the kitchen I pull a skillet and far too many ingredients.

She leans against the counter, watching like it’s live theater.

Every time our eyes catch, something bright and stupid fizzes through me.

I chop, sauté, and try not to memorize the way she tucks a stray curl, the way she hums when she’s happy, the way she looks at me like I’m more than a broken version of myself.

“If you keep letting me score and feeding me dinner,” she says, flicking on the tiny radio, “I’m going to think you like me.”

“Dangerous conclusion,” I say, sliding the pan into the oven.

“Is it wrong?” Light. Testing.

I wipe my hands, step close until the fridge hum is the only witness. “Ask me after I don’t kiss you again.”

Her smile is slow and a little shy. “So… never.”

“Yeah,” I admit, helpless. “Probably never.”