Page 25 of Whirlwind (Seattle Blades #4)

F ive days later, I still haven’t told Willa. It didn’t seem right texting her that I finally had sex. Over the years, she’s been my biggest cheerleader in gaining confidence and control in my life. She’s the only person who knew my desires and my fears. The news deserves to be delivered in person.

Besides, we’ve both been busy. She’s been down in the capitol fighting for a new law to be passed that helps victims of domestic abuse obtain easier restraining orders, while I’ve been in a two-day online conference for a new data visualization program.

It’s more complicated and in-depth than what we currently use, but once we’ve learned it, I think we’ll be able to do some cool things with it.

I haven’t seen much of Tyson since that morning, either. He spent that day with his family, then, they were on a short road trip. Tonight, he’s taking me out on what he’s calling our first official date.

It seems unnecessary to me. I mean, we’ve had sex—we’ve already put the cart before the horse. He’s insistent, though, saying he wants to give me the experiences I never had. Willa thinks I’m not used to the attention or being pampered, so the idea of an extravagant date makes me uncomfortable.

She’s right, though I hate admitting that.

Mostly because it’s a reminder of the years I spent alone, fending for myself, trying to stay quiet and unseen.

My father is an angry man, and I was a reminder of the woman who left him.

I paid the price for what he perceived as her betrayal.

For a long time, I felt betrayed by her, too.

As I grew older, I understood why she would want to leave him, and I could no longer blame her.

I only wished she had taken me with her.

That isn’t a subject I want weighing heavy on me tonight, though. Roughly twenty-five percent of children are raised by single parents. I wasn’t an anomaly. Tyson, by being as understanding as he has been, has earned the right to a night with a woman who isn’t shrouded in her childhood trauma.

I’m meeting up with Willa today for brunch and shopping, because what the hell do I know about preparing for a date? She says I need a new outfit, but it’s mostly just an excuse for us to have some much-needed bestie time.

Walking into Ludi’s, my fingers twitch at my side, wanting to clutch up into fists, and I laugh at myself. Willa has never been anything but understanding of me. Yet, I worry that she’ll think I’ve moved too quickly.

Because I worry that I have. Not when I’m with Tyson, but in his absence, my mind wanders and wonders.

I see her at a booth toward the back; she’s already got a coffee and an orange juice waiting for me.

“It’s like you know me or something,” I tease, taking my seat.

“Lucky guess,” she says with a wink. “Hi, friend.”

“Hey, bestie. Long time, no see.”

“It sure as hell feels like it. I love my guys, but I miss hanging out with you every day, too.”

“Right? It’s not the same, now that I can’t walk down the hall to pester you about some silly new thing I learned.”

“Nothing you learn is silly,” she says as the server comes by to take our food orders. We both order the Ube pancakes. “My knowledge of weird facts is definitely lacking since I moved into Damian’s house.”

“But your orgasms aren’t, that has to make up for it.”

“It sure helps,” she says, looking at me curiously. “How’s your orgasm situation?”

“Jeez, is it written on my forehead?”

“Kit,” she whisper-shouts. “How far have you gone?”

“All the way,” I say, grimacing because I sound like a teenager.

“Oh. My. God. I should have ordered champagne with our orange juice! Tell me everything,” she says. “Well, not everything, everything, but you know, everything .”

“It was the morning after the game,” I start, then stop, not knowing exactly how much to tell.

“Girlfriend,” she says, sitting back against the booth. “That was days ago. You’ve been holding out on me.”

“How do you type that out on a text? It seems too, I don’t know, important or deep.”

“It is, you’re absolutely right. But I would have come over with shrimp fried rice or something.”

“Is shrimp fried rice the meal for having sex for the first time?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “It’s always a good time for shrimp fried rice; seems appropriate.”

“Nothing about that man is shrimpy.”

“What the hell is happening here? You’re making sex jokes before me, now?” She grins conspiratorially. “That means it was good. Which, yeah, obviously it was; otherwise, you’d have called. Right? You would have called me if it went badly?”

“I would have. But it didn’t.” I pause, taking a drink of my coffee. There’s something about diner coffee that I always love. At home, I want the good shit. Out for breakfast, I want it black and bitter. “Tyson was great. Patient and caring, he listened to what I wanted and needed.”

“And he delivered?”

“He definitely did,” I say, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks.

“Don’t be embarrassed or shy about it,” Willa consoles. “It’s hard to be assertive and ask for what we want, but you did that. And with a man that knows what he’s doing, no less. Be proud of that.”

“I am,” I promise her. “I guess I’m just struggling to wrap my head around it all—it’s been something of a whirlwind.”

“Falling in love with the right person should always be a whirlwind.”

“I didn’t say anything about love,” I say with a nervous laugh.

“No, but I don’t think you’d have gone this far if there wasn’t some deep affection happening already.”

“We don’t know each other well enough for all that.”

“What do you know about him?”

I know he grew up in the suburbs around Vancouver.

That he was immersed in hockey from the age of four, even though nobody in his family had ever played before.

He loved peewee but hated junior hockey because the boys often had overinflated egos and what Tyson called “toxic behavior.” He hated when they had to stay in hotels, and loved billeting because it felt more like home, and he often missed his family.

He loves baseball—the slow pace, being vastly different from hockey, intrigues and relaxes him. When gaming, he’s aggressively competitive, especially against assholes he encounters. He plays Stardew Valley in co-op with Lottie, which is the most endearing thing I’ve learned about him to date.

When he was eight, he broke his arm riding his bicycle and thought it meant he’d never play hockey again.

In school, despite his busy elite athletic career, he always received the highest grades.

He’s a perfectionist and loves challenges, yet doesn’t hold others to the same standards he holds himself.

He’s kind, most of all. He cares about others.

“I guess I know more than I thought,” I say after several moments of her patiently waiting.

“And what does he know about you?”

That question is both easier and more complicated. He knows less about me than I do about him. My childhood wasn’t filled with happy memories or stories of family vacations. I’d never left the state of Maine until I moved away for college.

“Not as much,” I say, feeling somewhat defeated. “I don’t like bringing down the mood.”

“Honey, that’s not what would happen.” She reaches across the table to hold my hand. “Not if he cares about you, and I’m guessing he does.”

“I know he does. It’s the kind of guy he is,” I say. “What I don’t know is if it will last—if it can when I’m like an orphaned baby bird learning to fly and he’s the stranger that happened by at the right time.”

“That’s not fair to either of you, Kit. Yes, this is all uncharted water for you. And, of course, there is fear involved. But I know Tyson well enough to believe he wouldn’t be taking you out tonight if he was only fucking you as a favor. And I think you know that, too.”

“Ugh, you’re right. You’re right,” I concede. “My self-deprecation is at an all-time high. I’m overthinking all the things I’ve already overthought four times. It’s hard to understand what he sees in geeky, inexperienced me.”

“I get that. Except, I imagine most women who meet professional athletes feel the same way. Isla and I grew up in this world, and even I was weird around Zan when I learned he wasn’t gay and was maybe interested in me,” she says.

She had nerves and uncertainty—I remember that.

Not quite on my level, but most people aren’t at my scale of social dysfunction.

“You might need a confidence boost, is all. Well, and time to adjust. Sharing your life with a partner is a big change.”

“A confidence boost? That sounds helpful. What store sells those?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll find it,” she promises.

“Fucking hell, woman. Warn a man before you open the door looking like that,” Tyson says when he picks me up for our date.

This is the first time he’s seeing me dressed up in anything but casual wear.

Admittedly, I went for a sexier look than I’d normally choose for a night out.

My new dress falls only a handful of inches below my ass.

Though the green floral fabric has full-length sleeves, it’s balanced with an extreme plunging neckline.

I decided to use boob tape instead of a bra.

Besides the dress, I splurged on a pair of delicate lacy panties—something I’ve never done before.

But knowing that I have them on is the exact bolster to my ego that I needed, like my own little hidden secret waiting to be exposed at the right time.

He presses a kiss to my temple. “You look amazing.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Is it too much? You didn’t give me much to go by.” He was adamant about surprising me. I went for dressy, but I still have my Doc’s on my feet.

“It’s going to be hard keeping my hands off you, but it’s perfect.”

“I never said you had to keep your hands to yourself, sir.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says in a deep, growly voice. Then, his mouth meets mine, his palm on my ass drawing me in and up to him. “Hi.”