“Can you stop dancing for the love of God and finish this damn thing?” I beg of Racer who won’t stop dancing to the playlist he created “just for this occasion.”

Huffing, he steps up next to me and starts hammering the two-by-fours into place. “You’re telling me you can listen to ‘Get your Freak On’ by Missy Elliot and not want to bust a move? Dude, she’s a lyrical master.”

“As much as I appreciate the beat, I have things to do tonight.”

Racer cocks his head back. “Things to do? What could you possibly be doing at”—he checks his watch—“eight at night? Don’t you go to bed early? Am I not your only friend here?”

Shit, I don’t want to tell Racer about Adalyn, because I know he’ll flip out. In his mind, he’s my only friend here.

“Early morning stuff,” I mumble.

“Early morning stuff, huh?” Racer pounds a few nails and then says, “Sounds to me like you have a late-night booty call you’re not telling me about. Am I right?”

I can feel all color drain from my face so I quickly look away, hiding my panic. “Nah,” I clear my throat, “just some training I have to do tomorrow morning. You know, basic training shit.”

Racer is silent. I can feel his stare. His studying gaze waiting for me to falter, waiting for me to show my true colors.

“Who are you training with?”

“Huh?”

Racer lifts another board and hands it to me. I put it in place just as he leans forward, getting in my space. “Who are you training with tomorrow?” He enunciates every word.

“Uh, you know . . . Franklin.”

There is no Franklin.

Where Franklin came from, I have no clue.

He doesn’t even sound like a real person.

Who names their kid Franklin anymore?

I would have been better off with saying something like Blaze. Blaze is more believable, not . . . Franklin.

“Franklin?” Racer deadpans.

“Yup.” I chuckle. “Good old Franklin. Killer on the ice, that guy. Has some of the best cuts I’ve ever seen.”

“And what’s Franklin’s last name?”

“Dolittle.” I nod, hating myself but trying to convince Racer that this Franklin Dolittle fella is real.

“Dolittle. You’re going to go train with a guy tomorrow by the name of Franklin Dolittle.”

“Yup, funny right?”

Suspiciously glaring at me, he pulls his phone from his back pocket and starts typing. Leaning forward to catch what he’s doing, I ask, “What are you typing there?”

“Looking up this expert on the ice, Franklin Dolittle.”

Without even thinking, I swat the phone out of his hand, sending it careening into a pile of wood on the floor.

“What the fuck, man?”

“Uh . . . sorry. Spasm.” I shake out my arm and then give it a couple stretches across my body. “No need to look him up, ’cause he’s aloof. Stays off the Internet, keeps to himself. He’s only known in the underground hockey world. It’s kind of like a black market of sorts but for hockey.”

Jesus, I’m really digging myself a hole here.

Note to self: you’re not good at lying.

At least you’re not good at creating believable lies.

“Dude, you did not have a spasm.”

“You don’t know that.” I whip my arm around in a windmill like motion. “This old thing spasms all the time.”

Hands on his hips, looking me dead in the eyes, Racer says, “Stop fucking with me. What are you doing tonight?”

Shit.

Think . . . think . . . fuck, I got it.

Shrugging, trying to act embarrassed, I say, “Ugh, fine, you got me. I’m, uh, I’m taking a water aerobics class tonight. It’s to help with my muscles. It’s with a bunch of older ladies, and it’s at eight forty-five. It’s a, uh, black-light party class. We bring glow sticks and everything.”

This is a real thing. My mom spent a good ten minutes on the phone with me the other day telling me about it. She was so damn excited it was hard not to get caught up in her enthusiasm.

Racer studies me and shakes his head. “You’re not fucking going to some glow-stick swim party. I’m not buying it.”

“You don’t know. I actually really like black lights and glow sticks. There’s nothing more exciting than a neon parade of sticks while dancing in the water. Don’t make me feel bad about my extracurricular activities, dude.”

“Okay.” Racer sets down his hammer, goes to the woodpile and pockets his phone. “Come on, I don’t want you to be late.”

Ehhh . . .

I don’t make a move.

I barely bat an eyelash.

I can see he’s brewing something in his head, because he’s acting way too cool right now.

“Are we finished?” I gesture toward the pile of wood we still have to frame out.

Racer picks up his car keys and jingles them in his hand. “Yeah, I’m good for the night, thanks for the help. Let’s get out of here.”

“Racer, man, you’re freaking me out a bit.”

“Why? You have a class to get to. I don’t want to hold you back from your glow stick fun. Come on”—he nods toward the door—“let’s get out of here.”

Cautiously, I follow him out and wait for him to lock up the bridal shop he’s been remodeling for some extra cash.

We walk to our vehicles, and I can’t help but wonder what his game is. “Are you sure? I don’t mind staying a little later. I can skip the class tonight.”

“Hell no, there is no way I’m letting you skip your class, especially when I’m going with you.”

Fuck, I knew it. I knew he was hiding something.

“You don’t have a membership.”

He shrugs, “I’ll ask for a guest pass. I’m sure they’ll be more than accommodating for Hayden Holmes.”

“You don’t have a bathing suit.”

He shakes his finger at me. “Funny thing, I always have one in my truck in case I come across a lake I want to jump in.”

“Dinner. You can’t swim on an empty stomach.” Can you see I’m grasping here?

“Isn’t that reversed? You should never swim on a full stomach.”

I drag my hand down my face, exhausted. “Fine, I’m not going to a fucking glow-stick water class.”

Racer crosses his arms over his chest. “Then where are you going?”

There is no way of getting around this, not one I can think off the top of my head. Besides all my “lies” have been pitiful, so I might as well go with the truth so I can get out of here faster.

“I’m going to Adalyn’s house, okay?”

Pretty sure Racer wasn’t expecting that answer because his face falls in shock before turning brutally sharp with anger. His jaw ticks, his eyes narrow, and the veins in his neck start to twitch.

Okay, maybe the truth wasn’t a good idea, after all.

“Did I not tell you to stay the fuck away from her? What the hell are you doing?” He takes a step forward, but I stand my ground. I’m a few inches taller than he is and have about twenty more pounds of muscles wrapped around my body.

“I’m sorry, but I like her.” I run my hand through my hair. “I like her a lot.”

“For how long?”

“Since I met her at your house. I went to each hospital in town and looked for her. Once I found her, I didn’t let her out of my sight. I’ve taken her lunch, made her dinner, and treated her like a goddamn queen. And before you even ask, no, I haven’t slept with her, and I have no plan of doing so anytime soon. I haven’t even kissed her. I know she’s fragile, I know this is new to her, and I know she’s been hurt before. I have no intention of hurting her. When I say I like her, I mean it. I want to see where this goes.”

Studying me, Racer’s eyes bouncing back and forth, he grinds his teeth together, still not happy, but the crease in his brow lessens. “I don’t like it.”

“Didn’t ask you to like it, didn’t even ask for your approval, because either way, I’m still going to pursue her.”

“She’s my friend, Hayden, my good friend.”

“I understand.” I squeeze Racer’s shoulder. “But I’m your good friend too. Trust me. You know me, you know the kind of person I am. I’m not the kind of guy who’s going to purposely hurt someone, or get what I want and then leave. I’m honest and trustworthy. I will treat her well, I promise you that.”

Moving his jaw back and forth, he sighs and lowers his head. “Fuck, you’re right. If I had to choose someone for her, I guess it would be you . . . unfortunately.”

“Don’t be too excited about it,” I joke.

“She’s been hurt before.”

“I know.” I pat Racer on the back. “She told me. She told me everything.”

“She did?” Racer looks surprised.

“Yeah, she did.”

Nodding slowly, he understands the importance of Adalyn opening up to me. He gets it. “And you’re going over there tonight to . . .”

“Eat cake.” Racer suggestively raises his eyebrow at me. Rolling my eyes, I clarify. “Like, actual cake. Chocolate cake to be exact.”

“Gah, chocolate cake. That sounds really good. Can I come too?”

“Are you mental? Of course you can’t come.” I make my way to my car. “Three’s a crowd, man. Sorry.”

Hopping in my car, I wave goodbye through the windshield and make a quick pit stop at the cottage for a one-minute shower, and to pack my overnight bag. Then I’m back in my car on route to Adalyn’s place, which thankfully isn’t too far away.

The conversation with Racer went a lot smoother than I expected. I can’t tamp down the euphoric elation I’m feeling, or the giant smile I’m sporting. That is until I pull up to Adalyn’s house and see Racer’s rusty old pickup parked right outside.

What. The. Fuck.

Trying not to barge through the door with a serious chip on my shoulder, I take a calming breath and rap my knuckles on the wood. I run my hand through the short strands of my still-damp hair as the door opens. Adalyn’s eyes are wide as she shakes her head and goes to shut the door on me, telepathically telling me now is not a good time.

Clearly Racer hasn’t told her about our little conversation. The asshole. I bet he’s sitting on her couch right now, eating my goddamn cake.

Before she can shut the door on me, I press my hand against the wood and push open.

Under her breath, she says, “What are you doing? Racer is here.”

“I know.” I push through the door and walk into her living where Racer is perched on the armrest, a smug smile on his face and a plate of cake in hand.

That motherfucker.

“Hayden, what a pleasant surprise. What on earth could you be doing here at Adalyn’s house?”

“What the hell did you not understand about the phrase three’s a crowd?” I make my way toward him as he quickly shovels the cake in his mouth.

Talking with his mouth full, he says, “You must have known I’d show up. You say cake and I’m there, man. Sorry I’m not sorry.”

I snatch the plate from him as he takes his last bite and point toward the door. “Say good night to Adalyn and leave.”

“What is going on here?” Adalyn asks, stepping into the living room, looking so goddamn beautiful in a pink dress that the anger roaring through me starts to dissipate.

Racer lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe his mouth, showing off his six pack—how he has one, I have no idea—and says, “Romeo over here let the cat out of the bag before I got here. Not only did he tell me about that delicious cake, but he also let it be known that he has a huge crush on you.”

God, why does he have to sound like a giant turd when he talks?

“You told Racer?” Adalyn asks, looking a little more angry than I expected.

“I did.” I rub the back of my neck, casting my eyes toward Adalyn, giving her all my attention. “He cornered me, and I’m not a good liar. I’m sorry. I know you probably would have wanted to tell him, but I was honest.”

“He was.” Racer jabs me in the ribs, buckling me over as he walks past me. Pulling Adalyn into a hug, he whispers something in her ear and then pulls away. Winking in my direction, he says, “Hurt her and I’ll rupture your nut sac with a hockey puck.” He throws up the peace sign and walks out of Adalyn’s house, leaving us alone.

What was the point of that other than Racer acting like a total dick?

Maybe he wanted to see if I was telling the truth.

Or maybe, he’s a goddamn child and just wanted a piece of cake.

I’m going to guess it’s the latter.

Silence falls in the room, making it extremely awkward. This is not how I wanted our night to start off, with this uncomfortable tension between us.

I break the silence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to tell him.”

Adalyn shifts in place, her hands twined together. “It’s okay. He said he was happy for me and that you were a good guy.” Peering up through those impossibly long eyelashes, she adds, “He also told me to tell him if you’re a dick to me at any point in time.”

My eyes find the ceiling as I shake my head. “Of course he did.” I take a few steps toward her until I’m able to grab her by the hand and pull her into my arms. I press a kiss against the top of her head and say, “I hate that he ruined the night for us . . .” She looks at me with a raised eyebrow. How can chicks do that?

“Okay. Okay. And I really hate that he ate my cake.” Adalyn and my mom will get along well, given they both possess mind reading abilities. But it’s cake.

Chuckling, Adalyn squeezes me tight. “He didn’t ruin the night, just made it interesting. And I gave him one of my tester cakes. I made three today just to make sure your cake came out perfect.”

I pull back to look her in the eyes. He didn’t eat my cake? “You made three cakes?” Shyly, she confirms. “What was wrong with the first two?”

“Just testing out certain things. I added a pudding packet to the cake mix, making it extra moist. But I wanted to be sure the cake came out right, so the first was a test, the second was a forgetful moment for me—not spraying the cake tins—and number three came out beautifully. It’s iced and ready to be consumed, untouched by Racer.”

“Hell, that’s fucking adorable.” I give her another hug. “Thank you.”

“It’s the least I could do given everything you’ve done for me.”

I take her hand in mine and let her lead me to the kitchen. “It’s not a competition, babe.”

Adalyn’s apartment surprises me. I would have guessed her place would have been super colorful, but it’s white. Almost everything is white, from her couch, to her walls, to her furniture. The only colors she has in the entire space are potted plants, throw pillows, and art on the wall. It’s very clean and crisp, with mere splashes of her personality.

When we reach the kitchen, I’m struck by bright green dinnerware in the open shelves hanging over her counters. Not one upper cabinet is present, just shelves after shelves covered in all different shades of green dinnerware. It’s . . . soothing.

“I like your dishes.”

“Thank you.” She takes down two plates and places them next to what looks like a three-layered cake covered in chocolate icing and chocolate sprinkles. Damn . . . I think I may have fallen in love.

“You made that?” I point at the cake that looks like a professional made it.

Her cheeks stain crimson as she cuts a big piece for me and a medium-sized piece for herself. There is what looks like some kind of cherry filling in the middle that has my mouth watering from the very sight of it. “I had a little help from my friend, Emma, but yeah, I made it for the most part. I hope you like it.”

“Pretty sure I’m going to love it.” I glance around her galley kitchen. “Where should we eat it?”

“Let’s go out back. I have a partition on my deck. It will afford us some much-needed privacy.”

She leads me to the back of her house and onto the deck, which is surrounded by three slatted partitions and white curtains. Setting the cake on the coffee table of her outside furniture set, she releases the white curtains, blocking us from her neighbors completely. Fuck, it’s super romantic with the small lantern on the table offering the only light in the space.

We both sit and before she takes her plate in her hands again, I stop her. “Hey.”

She looks at me with a question in her eyes, and all I can think is how fucking gorgeous she is.

“I didn’t get to tell you how beautiful you look tonight.”

That blush of hers takes over again. Will she blush the same way in bed, when I’m pulsing in and out of her? When she comes, does she blush, or does her face morph into something entirely more perfect, if possible?

“Thank you.”

Passing my eyes over her body again, I take in her pink dress that’s loose at her hips, but cinches in at her breasts, her cleavage killing me, and that pink makes her skin look unbearably smooth. It makes me want to run my hands up and down her entire body, slowly peeling away the fabric, revealing what’s underneath.

Is she wearing anther thong? Is she commando? Is she even wearing a bra?

I take a quick peek, and it doesn’t look like it. Fuck . . . it doesn’t look like it at all, not with how her nipples are pebbling against the fabric.

“Are you going to eat your cake?”

“What?” I clear my throat and shake the images of her hardened nipples out of my head. Get it together, man.

“Your cake, are you going to eat it?” She thumbs at my solo plate on the coffee table.

“Oh yeah, sorry.” I pick up the cake, and I’m quickly consumed by the chocolaty flavor. “This smells so fucking good.”

She takes a forkful and I watch in fascination as her exquisite lips wrap around the metal tongs, pulling the chocolate, smooth and velvety. Her eyes shut, her head tilts back, her jaw moves erotically until she swallows, the long column of her neck, working the chocolate down, pulse after pulse.

Eating has never looked so sexy.

And never in my life have I ever paid such close attention to an everyday action.

“You like it?” I ask, my voice cracking, my focus traveling from the soft column of her neck, to her collarbone, to the swell of her breasts in that sweet dress.

The night I first met her, she wore simple shorts and a T-shirt. I’ve seen her in scrubs and I’ve seen her in jeans as well, but this dress? I know it’s simple, but it’s revealing and made for her body, accentuating her shapely legs, her full breasts, and her smooth skin.

“I think it’s one of the best cakes I’ve ever had.” She eyes my plate and asks, “What are you waiting for? Are you nervous I poisoned it? Pausing to see if I croak after taking a bite?”

Chuckling, I shake my head. “Sorry, I’m just a bit distracted tonight. You look so damn good, Adalyn.”

“You mentioned that.” Head tilted to the side, she licks some icing off her fork.

Dead. I’m slowly fucking dying inside. Was her mission to torture me, to get me to break tonight? Because she’s doing one hell of a job. “Are you wishing you kissed me earlier now?”

I swallow hard.

I’m wishing I did a hell of a lot more than kiss.

“You’re making it hard on a guy, that’s all.”

“Good.” She lays her legs across mine and scoots closer, the hem of her dress kissing her upper thighs. “Because I’m going to tell you right now, if you don’t at least kiss me tonight, I might go crazy.”

She’s as desperate as me at this point. Good. I’ve always been about delayed gratification when it comes to relationships. I like to feel the chemistry first; I like to know there’s something real between us before I make the first move. Lust can cloud your outlook on a person and being a “celebrity”—someone in the limelight—I like to make sure the woman I’m with is interested in me and not my profession.

“I’m making no promises.” I take my first bite of the cake and quietly moan. Fuck, this is good. Probably not as good as biting into Adalyn, but I’ll take this for now.

Poking my shoulder with her clean fork, she says, “And I’m making no promises of keeping my clothes on.”

Fucking minx.

Plates are cleared, light music plays in the background, and Adalyn is curled against me, my arm wrapped around her, my hand resting on her hip as she’s tucked into my shoulder, her hand resting on my chest, her fingers lightly playing with the fabric of my shirt.

“Do you think your family will like me? Well, perhaps I’m asking more about your dad and brothers here.”

A lonely cricket chirps in the background, adding to the summer-like ambiance surrounding us. Adalyn draped a blanket over us about half an hour ago once the temperature dropped. I feel goosebumps on her arms but every time I ask her if she wants to go inside or if she wants a sweater, she tells me she doesn’t want to move.

“My dad? He’s not a pushover, but he has age and life on his side to trust my judgment more than my brothers do. However, the boys are a tough crowd. Very protective. There aren’t many men they would approve of.”

“Hmm . . . do any of them like hockey?”

She chuckles and pushes against my chest. “You can’t win them over with autographed paraphernalia.”

Laughing and oddly loving the little jabs from her finger, I say, “A guy can try. Hell, to win them over, I’m not above whoring my teammates or myself out. I have access to all the Brawlers. I can get them to sign anything. Season tickets, done. What do they want?”

“None of them watch hockey.”

“Whh-what?” I peel away and look down at her. “They don’t watch hockey? What kind of men are we talking about here? They live in the northeast for Christ’s sake. Hockey is life up here.”

Adalyn shakes her head. “Football is life.”

Pressing my lips together in disgust, I shake my head. “Fucking football. Hockey is so much better.”

“Yeah? How so?”

“Really? You want me to list off all the reasons why it’s better?”

“I do. I’m kind of liking that you’re going into a tizzy, so I want to hear all the reasons.”

“Okay. First, I am not and do not get in a tizzy.” I sit a little taller and disengage myself from her warm body. Ticking off the reasons on my fingers, I say, “Well, one, it’s a longer season. Football is like two games long, and hockey is about seven months long.”

“Sixteen games. Football is sixteen games.”

As if I’ve been slapped, I scoot back on the couch. “Uh, excuse me . . . are you a football fan too?”

“Of course,” she answers not even sugarcoating it for me. “I’ve never been to a professional hockey game before and forget about watching it on TV. You can never see where the puck goes.”

What?

WHAT?

Shaking my head, blinking fervently, trying to comprehend what she’s telling me, I say, “You’ve never been to a professional hockey game? You’ve got to be kidding me. But . . . but hockey is . . . God!” I stand from the couch and start pacing her small deck. “You’re going to a game.” I point at her, one hand on my hip. “You’re fucking going, and you’re going to enjoy it, damn it!” Now pointing to her house, I say, “Get up, we’re going to review some game tape. That’s your punishment. We are spending the rest of the night going over hockey highlights on YouTube.”

Laughing, she shakes her head. “We are so not doing that.”

“Uh, yeah we are. Come on, stand your pretty little ass up and march it over to your computer. We are reviewing every last hockey highlight tonight, and if we’re lucky, I might let you watch a blooper reel here and there.”

I pull on her hand to guide her up, but she stays put and pats the bench next to her. “Sit before you have a heart attack.”

“Fine.” I sit next to her while pulling my phone from my back pocket. Ignoring the multiple text messages and missed calls I’ve received since I’ve been here, I enter hockey highlights into the browser on my phone and start looking for some good material.

Palming my phone, she snags it from my grasp and puts it behind her back. “We are not watching hockey highlights.”

“To hell we’re not.” I reach for my phone, but she has it tucked completely behind her, not exposing an inch.

She wants to do this the hard way? I have no problem getting handsy, especially when my sport is on the line.

Snagging her ankles, I yank her down the length of the couch, the hem of her dress rolling to just below her panty line. No time for distractions, I’m on a mission. Moving over her, one of my knees tucked between her legs, my hands straddling her slender shoulders, I try to dig around for my phone behind her.

Giggling and pressing hard into the couch, making it hard to find my phone, she blocks me. Her hair—fanned out on the cushion, her smile—beautiful and addicting, her laugh—a seductive sound igniting a heat of warmth to erupt over my skin. God, she’s so gorgeous.

Even if she speaks blasphemy.

“Where is it?” I ask. “Give me my phone and no one gets hurt.”

“Never.” Like the vixen she is, she circles my waist with her legs, pulling my hips onto hers. At the same time, she links her hands behind my neck, trapping me.

Fucking fooled, that’s what I am.

“What do you think you’re doing? I’m mad at you.”

She shakes her head. “No, you’re not.” Her fingers play with the short strands on the back of my head, a comforting touch. “Now tell me what the other reasons are why hockey is better than football.”

Damn this woman. Just when I’m trying to pretend to be mad at her, she distracts me. Sighing, I lean back, taking her with me so I’m sitting upright and she’s straddling my lap, her knees now pressed against the seat cushion. To keep her where I want her, I place my hands firmly on her hips, plastering her heated center to my lap.

She feels so fucking good.

Her thumbs rub a little patch of skin on my neck, soothing my tension to zero. Slouching, I enjoy the view in front of me, of this beautifully addicting woman, as I explain exactly why my sport is so much better.

“Besides the long season and numerous games, plus the badass trophy at the end, hockey takes more precision, more focus. Not only are we being tackled—using a football term for you—but we’re doing it on skates while trying to control a small three-inch puck with a stick.”

“What else?” She shifts on my lap causing a light groan to rumble from my chest.

“Uh, we have fights, all-out brawls, and they’re not stopped right away like in football.”

“Mm-hmm.” Her hands fall to my pecs where her palms rest, her fingers playing with the patch of skin exposed from my button-down shirt. Unabashedly, she undoes two more buttons, and pulls my shirt open, exposing more of my chest.

Fuck.

Another shift on my lap, but this time, her hips continue to slowly move back and forth.

A low hiss escapes my lips.

Every part of me hardens, from my grip on her hips, encouraging her rocking, to the muscles in my chest where she’s stroking my pecs, to my quickly growing cock.

“What else, Hayden?”

I’m blanking. What else is good about hockey?

“In hockey, there’s . . .” Shit, her hands feels so good. “In hockey . . .”

What’s good about Adalyn? The way her breasts sway with her movements, the way her nipples are so impossibly hard right now, and how she lightly bites on her bottom lip while she rocks above me.

“Uh . . . nachos,” I mumble. “We have nachos.”

“There are nachos in football.”

“But these nachos . . .” She grinds on me. “Fuck . . . these nachos are . . . so good. Fuck, that’s so good.”

My head falls to the back of her couch, my eyes shut, Adalyn glides over me, her pace picking up now. Slipping her hands inside my shirt, she scrapes her fingers along my nipples and I swear to God, I nearly come apart.

“Adalyn.”

“Hmm?”

“You feel . . . goddamn, you feel . . .”

“What?” Her head is bent forward now, her mouth near my ear. “How do I feel?”

“Fucking perfect,” I hiss when she grinds down harder.

“Good.” She nips my earlobe and then lifts off me in one swift movement, taking her warmth, her touch, her seductive ways with her.

“Wh-what are you doing?” I ask, watching her walk into the house.

“It’s getting late. You should probably get going.”

“Going?” My eyebrows shoot up. Pocketing my loose phone, I stand—painfully—my cock scraping along the crotch of my jeans. “What happened to staying over?”

Like a needy puppy dog, I follow her into her house and shut the screen door. She’s in the kitchen fiddling with dishes when I come up behind her, pressing my front to her back, my hands to her hips, my mouth hovering near her ear.

“Are you playing hard to get now?”

“It’s working, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.” I run my nose along the soft cartilage of her ear, down to her neck. Clamping her hands over mine, I feel her tense when I meander my perusal back up to her ear. “Do you really want me to go?”

“You know I don’t.” Spinning in my grasp, she places her hands on my chest as I lift her to sit on her counter, reminding me of a position we were in not so long ago. “Is this the moment you’ve been looking for?” Her voice is meek with a hint of desperation, like she’s been waiting all her life for this one kiss, for my lips to be pressed against hers.

And for one of the first times in my life, I’m scared. I’m scared of what this kiss might do to me, of how it will change me as a man, because Adalyn isn’t just any girl. She could be THE girl for any lucky son of a bitch.

No doubt in my mind she’s someone you only come across once in a lifetime, and fuck if I’m not nervous to take that next step, to see if my gut reaction is right, that this girl is my game changer.

And I know kissing her will not just be our mouths connecting. It will be an unearthly experience. From how responsive she’s been already with her soft mews and her apprehensive but also mostly confident touches. She’s going to rock my fucking world and the question is . . . am I ready for it?

Because once I press my mouth against hers, once I conquer that first taste, it’s going to be a steady downward spiral from there, of me losing any ability of staying away from her.

It’s hard to stay away now.

It’s hard to keep my hands off her now.

It’s hard to not want to ask her every single question that comes to mind, because all I want is to know her better, to know everything about her.

And it’s only been a few encounters.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath.

Standing in front of me, is a brand-new, unwritten page, a chapter waiting to begin, and I have to decide if I am ready to fill in the blank.

I am.

Stepping deeper between her legs, I slide my hands up her arms, reveling in the smooth feel of her skin, loving how goosebumps erupt from the rub of my worn hands. Cupping her neck, one hand gently twisting in her hair, I pull her head back an inch, parting her lips for mine. On an audible gasp, her eyes widen for a brief moment before softening when I bring my mouth a whisper from hers.

I pause.

Eyes locked, her hands gliding up my arms, anchoring her in place, our breaths mingling, her lashes beat, up and down, up and down.

Chests rise and fall in tandem.

The press of my thumb against her pulse.

Beat after rapid beat.

Holding my breath, my skin prickling with awareness, with the knowledge this is fucking it, I cut the distance between us and press my lips against hers. On a sigh, her body melts into mine, our mouths molding together.

Tentative at first, we explore, our lips light, our mouths not quite nipping, but not fusing together either.

We probe, we search, we delve into each other.

Her hands to my face.

My fingers tangling in her wavy brown curls.

Mouths open.

A gasp.

A moan.

A tightened grip.

The lightest touch of tongues.

Scooting closer, she wraps her legs around the back of mine, linking them together.

Tangling, molding, becoming one, the sweet taste of her mouth on mine . . . I’m lost.

Falling and falling fast, our kiss so deep, so intense with each thrust of our tongues, with each mingling of our lips, with every intake of desperate breath.

Tender, the way she moves her lips across mine.

Shaky, the way her hands tentatively explore the crevasses and divots of my broad and built chest.

Fearful . . . of the unknown, of what this means.

But so goddamn electrifying because the craving I’ve harbored for this woman is finally being sated.

Eyes closed, hands lingering, I slowly pull away and rest my forehead on Adalyn’s trying to catch my breath, taking a second to steady the jittery, wobbly feeling in my legs.

“Wow,” I mumble. “That was—”

“Unforgettable,” she finishes for me, her nose rubbing against mine.

Exhaling, I say, “Yeah, it was.”

My hands venture to her sides, memorizing every contour of her body in their path. “Where’s your bedroom?”

Her eyes light up, and she hops down from the counter, taking my hand in hers in the process. “This way.” She practically skips down the hallway, light and giddy.

The dark hallway leads to another white, clean, and crisp room. Smooth lines, monotone colors of whites and creams, with one light blue throw pillow on her plush white bed that looks like a cloud floating in the middle of heaven.

Angling in my direction, she reaches for the hem of her dress, but I stop her, gripping her shoulders and standing her upright. Confusion laces her eyes and I take no time in easing that confusion.

“I want to take this slow, Adalyn.” I let out an unsteady breath. “That kiss back there, fuck . . .” I press a hand through my hair. “That rocked my goddamn world.”

Shyly, she peeks up at me through her eyelashes. “It rocked my world too.”

Unable to keep my hands off her for too long, I tip her chin up and press my lips against hers, my mouth smoothing along hers, lush and delicious, as expected. She sighs into me, holding on to my waist. I press my tongue against hers again, loving how she gives as much as I take.

Slowing down, my lips brush hers, the fiery passion we have for each other simmering like a pot ready to boil, but never getting hot enough.

I don’t want it to get too hot. Not right now.

I need to know more about her. I want more time with her. I don’t want to jump into this—into a physical relationship—when I know there is so much more I can share with this woman.

There is time for this connection to go beyond to the physical, but for now, I need to not get wrapped up in the sensation of her being so close to me and rather seduce her mind instead. I. Want. Her. I want what Calder and Rachel have. I want the depth of trust and friendship I’ve seen in my parents’ marriage . . . How is that possible so soon? God, I want inside her, but I think I need inside her heart more than in her body.

Yes, I’m certifiable.

Completely.

“Can we agree on something?”

“Depends on what it is.” Her fingers trace up and down my spine.

Tracing her pattern, matching it with my fingers, I say, “Can we both acknowledge this unimaginable pull between us? Can we admit to ourselves that the physical is there, that we both would have no problem taking this relationship to the bed?”

“Easily,” she breathes out heavily, her fingers playing with the hem of my shirt.

“Can we also agree to wait?”

Sighing heavily, she rests her head against my chest, knocking it a few times with her forehead. “You’re killing me, Hayden.”

“I know but there have been too many times where the physical has taken the lead in developing a relationship and the communication has lacked. I don’t want that with you.”

“I can understand that.” She bites her bottom lip, her thoughts running a mile a minute in that pretty head of hers. “But what about . . . you know . . . when you have to leave, go back to Philly?”

I nod. “This is for then. So when I do go back, we’ll be okay. Because I can see a future with you, Adalyn, and that’s why I want to build a solid foundation with you, something that can last. I want that chance. With you.”

“So when you return to Philly, you want to stay in contact with me?”

“Fuck yes, I do. And I’m going to have you sitting front and center at as many games as you can get to, especially since I’m trying to make hockey your favorite sport.”

“I don’t know.” She smiles. “That’s going to be one hell of a task to accomplish. Think you can handle it?”

“I know I can.” I press a quick kiss against her lips and then slap her ass, making her squeal. With a wink, I say, “Go get changed for bed, we have some making out to do.”

“Making out?” she asks, adding in a lift of that well-defined eyebrow of hers.

Acting stern and pointing my finger at her, I say, “Just making out. If you start with your wandering hands, I’m going to jet out of here, taking my body warmth with me.”

“That’s just cruel.”

“Then keep it in your pants, Adalyn.” Smiling wickedly, I go to the living room to grab my overnight bag, reprimanding myself with the same warning.

Keep it in your pants, Holmes.

For the love of God, keep it in your pants.