Page 13

13

Jake

As we wait for our meals, conversation shifts into something easier, lighter.

I swirl my wine, watching Piper over the rim of my glass. "You know what? Let's play a game."

She raises an eyebrow. "A game?"

"Twenty questions. Well, maybe not twenty—" I glance at our half-full wine glasses, "—but a few. Take turns. No dodging."

She smirks. "Is this how you entertain all your dates? Structured interrogation?"

"Only the ones who drop a grand on me." I let my eyes twinkle at her. "Meaning just you."

She leans in, fire in her eyes. "Fine. I'll start. Worst job ever?"

I pretend to consider it. "Landscaping, actually. Fourteen hours a day pulling weeds in rich people's gardens during the hottest summer on record. My boss was this seventy-year-old guy who'd follow behind me and point out every blade of grass I missed."

"Sounds miserable."

"It was. But," I flash her a grin, "it did wonders for my tan. And my abs."

She scoffs. "Of course you'd find a way to humble-brag about your abs during a worst-job story."

I laugh, full and genuine. "What can I say? I'm an optimist." I take a drink, then gesture at her with my glass. "What about you? Let me guess—babysitting? Retail?"

She shakes her head, grinning. "Not even close. I once worked a summer at a chain restaurant dressed as a giant baked potato."

I nearly spit out my drink. "A baked potato?"

"It had a name tag. Spuddy. Foam feet. I had to stand by the road and wave at cars."

I'm dying. I cover my face with a hand. "No. Stop. I need a visual."

"I once accidentally high-fived a mailbox. Couldn’t see through the eyeholes."

I grin at her. "I’m in love. Please tell me you have video evidence of this."

She lifts her glass. "Absolutely not. I burned all evidence and paid off witnesses. My turn again. Most embarrassing moment in public?"

My eyes go wide. "Going right for the jugular, huh, Spuddy ?"

"That's how the game works, Ice. No dodging."

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Fine. Freshman year, I overslept for an early morning exam. Threw on whatever clothes I could find and sprinted across campus. Made it just in time, sat down, started the test... and then realized something felt off."

She leans in. "Off how?"

"The professor kept giving me these weird looks. About halfway through, I dropped my pencil, bent down to get it, and noticed I was wearing bright red boxers with little hockey sticks on them."

"So?"

"Just the boxers. No pants. I'd somehow put on a T-shirt, hoodie, and shoes—but completely forgot pants in my rush."

She almost chokes on her wine. "You took half an exam in your underwear before noticing?"

"It was a very stressful test! And they were basically shorts," I defend, laughing now too. "My brothers Blaze and Blake had just sent them as a birthday present. The worst part was having to stay until I finished the exam. The professor wouldn't let me leave early."

"Did you pass at least?"

"B-minus. And a new nickname: Sticky."

"For the hockey sticks, right?"

"Let's go with that." I wink, noticing the flush on her cheeks. "My turn. What's something you did as a kid that hinted at who you'd become?"

She pauses, thinking. "I used to make my Barbies run investigative news exposés instead of fashion shows. Had a whole notebook of their 'breaking stories.'"

I laugh. "So you were destined for journalism from the start?"

She shrugs. "I guess so. Little Piper breaking the hard-hitting stories about who stole cookies from the Dream House kitchen."

"Sounds like Barbie needed better security."

"Ken was useless as head of security. All looks, no substance. Most embarrassing hockey injury?"

I wince but smirk. "Took a puck to the ass during practice my sophomore year. Had a bruise the size of a grapefruit. Couldn't sit for a week."

"Ouch."

"The guys called me 'Grape-ass' for the rest of the season."

I lean back, smirking. “My turn. Let me ask you something.”

She lifts a brow, playful. “Yeah?”

I set my glass down, voice lighter than I feel. “You gonna admit it was you who called me a toddler throwing tantrums on ice? On that Piper on the Ice blog?”

She freezes—just a beat—then blinks like she wasn’t expecting that.

“You read that?” she says slowly.

I huff a low laugh. “You think I don’t Google myself when I’m pissed off?” I lean forward, eyes on hers. “I’ve had that line burned into my skull for a while.”

Her lips twitch. “It was catchy.”

I laugh, but there’s not much humor in it. “It was brutal. And... accurate. Maybe.”

"Thanks."

"Thanks?" Okay… But I'm actually genuinely enjoying this. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm actually having a good time."

"Don't sound so surprised."

"No, it's just—" I shake my head, suddenly serious. "I don't usually do this. The whole dating thing."

"Because of Violet?"

At the sound of my daughter's name, my chest tightens—just a little. Of course she's part of it. The main part, actually. I spend every spare minute I have with her. She's the love of my life, how couldn't I? Everything I do touches her life somehow. I don't get the luxury of reckless choices anymore.

But that's not all.

I think about Marnie sometimes—not because I miss her, but because of what she taught me. She was Violet’s mom for all of five minutes—maybe less—before she decided motherhood wasn’t her thing. Left me with a newborn and a note saying she “needed to find herself.”

Two years later, she still hasn’t shown up. No calls. No birthdays. Nothing.

So yeah, I'm cautious. I've seen what happens when someone walks into your life, makes promises, then walks out when it gets hard. When you think someone is the love of your life—and then she doesn’t feel the same way.

I don’t miss Marnie. Not even a little. But sometimes, late at night, I remember what it felt like to be left—and I never want Violet to feel that way.

Violet deserves better than that.

And so do I.

Most women either bolt the second they hear single dad —or worse, start planning how they’ll be the world’s greatest stepmom before dessert.

Neither works for me.

The waiter returns, placing our food in front of us with practiced ease. I can’t help but keep my eyes on Piper. I know the food’s probably amazing, but she’s what I’m savoring.

She smiles at the plate. "This all looks delicious. But wait, before we dig in—a toast. To something important."

I raise my glass, matching her grin. "To Spuddy and Sticky—may our embarrassing alter egos never meet in public, but may their owners continue to share good food and better stories."

She clinks her glass against mine. "I'll drink to that."

She sets the glass down. "This date has not been what I expected."

I lift an eyebrow. "And what did you expect?"

She swirls her wine, thoughtful. "I don’t know… less interesting. More vanilla. You seem annoyingly hard to pin down."

I smirk. "That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever received."

She laughs. "No, seriously. For a guy who gets slammed into plexiglass for fun, you’re kind of charming."

I raise my glass again. "The nicest insult and the worst compliment in one night? You’re setting a record."

She smiles, looking out at the candlelit garden. "I was an only child. My dad left when I was small, so it was only my mom and me. I always wanted to have a big family, you know? Dinners were quiet and budget was tight. So, yeah… this?" She gestures around us. "New territory."

My chest tightens, just a little. I keep my voice light. "Well, be careful what you wish for. My family’s loud, messy, nosy as hell. They’ll love you and ruin your life in the same breath."

"That actually sounds sort of amazing."

I study her, just for a beat too long. "Yeah," I say softly. "It is."

Then I see it—that subtle shift in her posture. Like she’s pulling something back. Guarding it.

I was about to ask more about her mom and dad, but she pivots, fast. Grabs the wheel and changes lanes. “I think it was your turn to ask,” she says breezily. “But oh well. First kiss. Go.”

I laugh, but inside I'm making a calculation. This is where most guys would dive into a story about some hot hookup to impress her. That's what she expects—the cocky hockey player bragging about conquests.

Instead, I decide to go with something real. Something slightly embarrassing. It's a deliberate move—show her I'm not afraid to be a little vulnerable. Women like Piper don't respond to ego; they respond to authenticity. And I need her to lower her guard if I want to see what's really behind those walls she's built.

"At a carnival. I had nacho cheese on my shirt. She kissed me, then gagged. I think she tasted it."

She wrinkles her nose. "That’s disgusting."

I shrug. "But you never forget your first."

She grins. "Depends. Does the one I got in first grade count?"

"Tell me."

"It was during art class. He leaned over and kissed me with grape-scented glue on his lips. Then he wiped it off and told everyone I gave it to him."

I wince. "Oof. Betrayal and adhesives. Tough break."

"Tragic, really. I peaked early."

I tilt my head, interested. "No, come on. Real first kiss."

"College. Some guy at a party. I barely remember it."

I study her a second longer, then murmur, "Maybe it’s time you had a first kiss worth remembering."

She lifts her eyebrows. "Oh, you mean like the one you gave me at the auction? Maybe you’re saying ‘worth remembering’ even if it’s not for the right reasons, right?"

"The kiss I gave you when the crowd was chanting for it? Nah. That was fast food—meant to satisfy the audience. Quick, dirty, gone before you even tasted it."

She lifts a brow. "I don’t know… tasted something." She sips her wine, slow and deliberate. "Salty. Slightly hoppy. A little cocky. Maybe just a hint of show-off."

Fuck.

Score.

She remembered. Not just remembered— studied . That kiss left a mark, whether she’s ready to admit it or not. If she’d brushed it off or joked it away, I’d be worried. But this? This is projection dressed up like critique. And I’ll take it. Hell, I’ll build a whole night out of it.

My eyes dip—brief, controlled—but I let myself look. Right down the line of her tits, perfectly framed by that blue dress. That low, silky plunge? She wore it for me. And I’m not about to let that go unnoticed.

She wanted to be looked at. She made damn sure I’d want to touch.

And fuck, I do.

Her boobs look so good I’m about to bite through my damn tongue. My cock’s been hard since she walked in—since I saw that dress and started wondering what it would feel like to shove the straps off her shoulders and get my mouth on all that skin. Hasn’t softened since. Not once. And yeah, it aches behind my zipper now, thick and demanding like it knows what it wants.

And what it wants is to bend her over this damn table and make her forget every name but mine.

But I play it cool. I always do.

I smirk, locked on her now. Then I reach for the rose she set beside her plate and drag the tip across the inside of her forearm—slow and deliberate. A featherlight stroke. Goosebumps rise like a ripple across her skin.

I fucking love that. Watching her react to me. Knowing I can pull responses from her body with just the lightest touch.

But what I really want is to drag that rose straight down her chest. Right into the valley between her perfect tits. Lower. Trail it down her stomach until I get to the spot that’s been driving me insane all night—her pussy hidden under that sleek little dress, legs pressed tight like she’s trying to pretend she’s not soaking through her panties.

Better yet, I want my tongue there instead. Want to taste the way she melts when she moans my name. Want to leave her wrecked and twitching, still aching even after she comes.

Her breath catches, just barely. But I feel it. The way her nipples tighten under that dress, the way her legs shift like she’s trying to clamp down on the ache—fuck, she’s feeling this too.

I drop my voice, thick and quiet. “What I’m talking about isn’t fast food. Not even close. It’s a slow-cooked, homemade meal. Rich. Deep. Built with time and care.”

I lean in, slow. Controlled. Stopping just short of crossing that line between flirtation and foreplay.

Just short of devouring her.

She’s holding her breath. I can see it in her chest, the way it rises. She’s not blinking. Not moving. Just watching me like I might crawl across this table and ruin her life.

She’s right.

“The kind that hits you where it counts,” I murmur, “lingers on your palate, makes you never want to brush your teeth again. One that leaves you full… and still hungry in all the right ways.”

I let my thumb graze the inside of her wrist. Feel the pulse there—rapid and erratic.

Mine .

“Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

She grabs her water glass like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. “Still—you can’t have two firsts.”

“Why not?” I ask, eyes locked on her. “See, that’s the thing about first kisses. Like steak—you don’t really appreciate them until you’ve had one that’s done right. And you can start counting at that point.”

She blinks. “You’re comparing a kiss to steak?”

I grin. “Rare. Hot, tender, melts in your mouth. Leaves you wanting more.”

She laughs softly. “Do you always go heavy on the food metaphors, or am I just special?”

I lean back, still watching her. My cock’s rock hard. My brain’s already scripting the second I get her alone.

But what’s fucking with me most right now isn’t just her body—it’s her .

That mouth. That fire.

The way she tries to stay in control when I know damn well she’s unraveling.

She’s all sharp edges and soft skin, and I want every inch of her—want her eyes locked on mine while I take her apart, slowly, relentlessly, until she forgets how to pretend she’s not affected.

She thinks she’s calling the shots. Thinks she’s got the upper hand. And maybe she does—for now.

But I’ve noticed something about her. Something I doubt many people ever clock.

Every time the conversation drifts toward something real—something that matters—her fingers graze her neck. Not touching. Not clutching. Just… hovering. Like there’s a part of her instinctively guarding the softest spot she has.

She did it after she mentioned her father. Did it again when we circled back to that kiss at the auction.

Most people wouldn’t catch it.

But I’ve spent my whole life reading bodies under pressure. On the ice, you learn to spot the flinch before the hit, the shift before the shot. And right now, Piper’s body is giving me more truth than her mouth ever will.

She’s not guarded the way most beautiful women are. She’s not deflecting attention—she’s bracing against connection.

And that? That hits me harder than anything else tonight.

Because it means there’s something real under all that fire. Something she doesn’t hand out lightly. And fuck, I want to be the one who earns it.

I want past the armor.

I want the girl who flinches when things get too close—and keeps smiling anyway.

And underneath all that attitude? Is heat. Tension. Cracks she doesn’t think I can see.

And fuck, I want to be the one to pull her apart. Not by force—by precision. By patience. By knowing exactly how to touch her, tease her, break her open inch by inch until she gives me what no one else has.

Because this isn’t some girl playing coy. She’s not begging for my attention—she’s testing me.

And I’m more than up for the challenge.

At first, yeah—I was pissed. The dare, the setup, the way she played me in public like I was just another notch for Penelope fucking Darling.

But now?

Now I admire the balls on her.

She walked into this date knowing it could blow up in her face. Wore that dress like she owned the whole room. Threw jabs like she expected me to flinch.

But I didn’t.

And neither did she.

She’s not scared of me. And that? That gets me harder than anything I’ve felt in years.

This isn’t just attraction.

It’s a pull .

I don’t just want her in my bed.

I want her on her knees— because she chooses to be there .

And only for me .

Fuck she’s special. The way she smiles when she thinks she’s getting the upper hand. The sharp wit. The heat simmering just beneath the surface. She’s not a flirt. She’s a firestarter. And I’m the idiot holding gasoline.

“Do I always go heavy on the food metaphors, or are you just special?” I repeat her question.

“Jury’s still out,” I say, then raise my glass and take a long sip.

But I already know. She’s different.

And I’m already in trouble.