COHEN

The pizza arrives after I’ve showered. I pay for it and haul it onto the couch. Annie’s already got Netflix queued up on one show or another—I don’t give a damn which show it is, so long as I can sit next to her—and a grin waiting on her face.

“I like your pajamas.”

I look down at my long, hockey-stick covered flannel pants. They were a gag gift from a teammate but they’re freaking amazing. So soft. It feels like little clouds of bliss are cupping my legs, so I wear them even though they’re ridiculous.

“Seriously,” she says again. “I really like them.”

Her voice is soft, and she’s not looking at my pants. She’s looking at my chest which I’ve left bare after the shower. I hadn’t really thought about it—I’m in my own house, and I generally prefer to be naked than wear clothes. Hence the no-shirt policy. The fact that Annie seems to like this rule is a major bonus.

“Shall we eat?” I plop the pizza on the table and pour two glasses of wine from a nice bottle I received at Christmas last year. I watch Annie’s expression as she takes a gulp, and her eyes light up at the flavor.

Excellent, I think. I have no clue what good wine tastes like, so if she’s happy, I’m frigging ecstatic.

“Wait!” Annie reaches out, her hand resting on mine, blocking me from taking a sip. “First, a toast.”

“A toast?” My mind is blank again. Mostly because Annie also decided to forego a shirt and is wearing my robe. The top opens a little as she twists to face me, and words suddenly don’t make much sense. “To your boobs.”

“What?” Her forehead crinkles in confusion. “Cohen, you can’t say the first thing that comes to your mind. This is serious.”

I sigh and drag my eyes away from her body. I stare at the Netflix sign on the television and pray for inspiration. Somehow, somewhere, God is listening to me. He gives me words.

“I would like to make a toast,” I say, starting again. “Ready?”

Annie nods and raises her glass to mine. “Oh, I love toasts.”

I smile, hold in a laugh, and let the words pour out as they come into my brain. It’s some sort of divine magic there are sentences in my head at all. “This is a toast to the bricks.”

“The bricks?”

“The wall you have around you, Annie. The shields, the guards that protect you from getting hurt.” I look into her eyes, watching as her expression softens when she realizes I’m not toasting another of her body parts. “I think a few of those bricks came down today. This toast is to leaving them off, and to letting me chip a few more away tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.”

She swallows, her eyes locked on my face. All of a sudden, her eyes dart away, quick as a squirrel, and she’s clearing her throat and looking all uncomfortable.

“Your turn,” I tell her.

“How can it be my turn?” She glances up at me. “We haven’t completed the toast.”

Leaning her glass toward mine, she punctuates the speech with a clink, and then raises it to her lips. She waits for me, holding there, until I follow suit. Together, we take a sip.

I’m surprised when I set my glass down. It is good wine. I’ll have to thank Boxer next time I’m in Los Angeles—he’s an old teammate who stocked up my collection for Christmas.

Annie sets her glass down on the table, too, but I stop her before she can pull her hand away.

“Nope,” I say. “Your turn.”

“You already made the toast.”

“It’s a double toast sort of night.”

A smile flickers on her face. With achingly slow movements, she lifts her glass and turns to face me. Thankfully, she cinches the robe tight this time, so that when she begins to speak, I’m focused on every word.

“This is a toast to the person patient enough to peek between the bricks of my walls.” She stops, her eyes going wide. “No, that is not an innuendo.”

I’m grinning because she’s nervous, and it’s adorable and sweet, and I want to wrap her in my arms. But I think she’ll take it the wrong way if I slide my hands underneath that robe in the middle of the toast, so I lock my fingers tighter around my glass.

“I can sometimes be... hard to deal with.” Her free hand comes to rest on my fleece clad knee. “You have been really patient, Cohen, and I appreciate it. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that. Plus, it’s selfish. I like you, Annie. Any man would be lucky to be patient for you.”

“Well, thank you. For that, and for your creativity and persistence.”

“Is that a reference to my showing up outside your bedroom window?”

“Among other things. You never cease to surprise me.”

Gesturing toward the table, she urges me silently to finish the toast, clink her glass, and take another sip. Once we’ve done so and replaced our glasses on the table, we find ourselves sitting on the couch, mostly naked, hands free.

I’m aching to take her into my arms, to kiss those pink cheeks of hers, warmed by wine, and bring her back to bed. For sex, yes, but something more, too. I want to be next to her, close to her, and ease away those bricks one by one.

I clear my throat instead, determined not to ruin this night. “Pizza?”

“Oh.” Her mouth is round, and she shakes her head, flustered. “Yeah, sure.”

“Unless you had something else on your mind?!”

“Nope.” She picks up a slice in a hurry, shoves a bite into her mouth, and clicks Play on Netflix. “Let’s watch.”

We settle in for the night and, though it’s only six p.m. on a weekday, it might just be the best day I’ve had in quite some time.

Sure, I’m eating dinner at the same time my grandfather does in his retirement home, and yes, I’m wearing fleece pajamas made for a newly toilet-trained child. It’s perfect. It’s all perfect.

When Annie finishes her pizza and rinses her hands, she returns to the couch and nestles under my arm. We’re halfway through the second episode of whatever stupid show is on the television when her breathing evens out, and she sinks into sleep.

I can’t resist leaning over, brushing one more kiss on her forehead. I give her another hour or so, but as the clock approaches nine, I decide she’s not waking tonight, and I move her into my bedroom.

She shifts, moaning ever-so-slightly as I cradle her body in my arms, and I take epically quiet steps into the room. The mattress is so damn large we could both sleep on it and never worry about touching, but something tells me that Annie might freak out if she wakes up and finds us in bed together.

Especially since I have no shirt on, and all she’s wearing is underwear beneath my robe. Thin underwear, I happen to remember. I snuck glimpses of it all night. That robe and its inability to remain cinched tight is friggin awesome.

I ease the covers over her shoulders and watch for a long moment as her chest rises and falls, her hair splayed over my pillow. She looks good there, at home in my bed, on my pillow, in my clothes.

I’ve never been one for relationships, never felt the urge to dedicate myself to a single woman for more than a few weeks, let alone my lifetime, but I find myself wondering if that could change. It might, if Annie has any interest in the idea.

Pulling an extra blanket from the closet, I drag my ass back to the couch and curl up underneath it. Oddly enough, this might be the first time in my life I’ve invited a girl over, and then proceeded to put her in my bed and myself on the couch.

I press Play on that stupid show and, three episodes later and five quick checks on Annie, my eyes sag shut, and I ease into sleep.