Chapter Five
Dani
I t's been less than five minutes since I lost my virginity when Trent starts pushing me toward the shower.
It's not even because he wants me out of his bed.
There's a handprint on my ass to prove he doesn't. It's because, according to him, I smell like a candy store exploded, and if I don't have clothes on soon, he won't be responsible for his actions.
I have a feeling he just wants to get me wet and soapy.
When he climbs into the shower with me, my suspicions are confirmed.
This is not a complaint.
His shower is the size of a walk-in closet and has more nozzles than one of those fancy car washes. We get approximately thirty seconds of actual cleaning done before he's got me pinned to the cool tile wall, fucking me like the water is a performance-enhancing drug.
It's a good time. I give the shower five stars. Would recommend.
When we finally run out of hot water, my legs barely work, and my brain is a puddle of post-orgasmic mush.
I wrap myself in the world's softest towel and follow Trent into his closet, which is easily the size of my entire apartment. He lets me borrow a t-shirt and boxer so I'm not running around naked, but he's grumpy about it. Not about letting me borrow them, but about me not being naked.
Once we're dressed, I follow him to the kitchen. I was too worried to notice much last night, but it's so blindingly modern I feel like I'm one mess from being kicked out by an overly fussy butler.
Trent, on the other hand, is perfectly at home. He's in a fresh t-shirt and joggers, already rifling through the fridge like this is just another typical morning, instead of the day after he almost died in my arms and then rearranged my entire world (twice).
He pulls out bacon, eggs, and a bag of spinach like he's on autopilot. He glances back at me and grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. For a second, I wonder if I'm dreaming again. But the twinge between my legs quickly reminds me that I have not actually died and gone to heaven.
This is real.
"Scrambled or fried?" he asks.
I blink at him. "What?"
He gestures at the eggs with a whisk, then steps right up behind me and nuzzles my neck, his hands landing on my hips like that's his new favorite spot. "How do you like your eggs, Sunshine?"
I have no idea. His voice is a rasp in my ear. His hands are on me. My brain has officially left the building.
"Uh. Whatever's easiest?" I squeak. I try to step away, but he just follows, his hands glued to my hips. He does not believe in letting go, apparently. Not that I'm complaining. Definitely not.
"Scrambled, then," he decides, releasing me to stomp toward the fancy stove. He moves with military precision, grabbing pans and spatulas and—oh my god—he's even got a little chef's towel slung over his shoulder.
Who is this man? He does not even remotely resemble the hulking giant who bullies other skaters on the ice and tells reporters to fuck off just for fun.
"I was going to make you breakfast," I finally manage to protest. "You almost died yesterday. I should be serving you in bed, or something."
He doesn't even look up from the pan. "If you want to serve me in bed, I'm all for eating you until you're wrung out. But you're not cooking in my kitchen. "
The "my kitchen" is said with weird, possessive pride. The "eating you" part makes my stomach do gymnastics.
"Why not?" I demand, trying to sound offended and not…well, turned on.
He turns, lifting an eyebrow. "You almost murdered me with your delicious fucking fudge yesterday. I'm not taking any chances."
"That was one time," I mutter, crossing my arms. "Also, it's not my fault you ate it. It wasn't even for you." That's a lie. That batch was totally for him.
He laughs, tossing a handful of spinach in the pan. "Sit. Drink coffee. I'll handle the rest."
I want to argue, but my legs are still jelly, so I plop onto a barstool at the end of the island and watch him move.
He's so damn efficient. He's got eggs scrambled and bacon sizzling in three minutes flat. He pours two mugs of coffee and brings mine over, setting it right in front of me with a flourish.
I take a sip and almost moan. It's actually perfect.
He leans in, presses a kiss to my temple, then drifts back to the stove. He seems so comfortable, like I'm supposed to be here. Like we're supposed to be doing this.
I have no idea what to do with my hands, so I cradle the coffee and pretend I'm not staring at his ass.
"I hope you're hungry," he says, flipping the bacon.
Starving, actually. But not for food.
I pretend to sip my coffee instead of saying that. "You're really good at this."
"Cooking?"
"Everything."
He glances over, catching my gaze. For a second, he's dead serious. "Not everything, Sunshine. Not even close. But you make me want to try."
He means it, I realize. He's trying for me. The idea that someone like him would even want to try for me is too much. I have to look away, focus on the coffee, or the view, or literally anything other than the butterflies dancing the samba in my stomach.
He slides a plate across the counter a few minutes later. Scrambled eggs, bacon, sautéed spinach, and a slice of perfect, golden-brown toast. He even cut the toast in half, diagonally, like a gentleman.
He makes his own plate, then sits beside me, so close our knees touch. He doesn't even hesitate to drape an arm around my shoulder, like he wants me as close as he can get me.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice a little concerned when I don't say anything.
"Yeah." I nod, trying to get myself together. "Just…haven't had a real breakfast with anyone since I had roommates in college. "
He hums like he understands, digging into his food. He eats like a man who's used to devouring entire cows, but he still manages to make it look hot.
I pick at my eggs, not sure what to say.
Luckily, he does it for me.
"You got any family aside from your mom?" he asks.
I blink, not expecting the question. "Foster brothers," I say. "But no biological family. At least, none that I know of."
He nods, like he already knew. Maybe he did. "How many foster brothers do you have?"
"Four." I smile, scooping up a bite of egg. "All older, all idiots. Two are stationed overseas right now. The other two scattered as soon as they turned eighteen." My smile slips at the reminder. "We've always tried to stay close, but I haven't seen any of them in about a year."
He absorbs this in silence. "You ever see your mom?"
The question lands with a thud.
"No," I whisper. "She tried a few times after I aged out, but it was usually when she wanted something. Eventually, I just stopped answering."
He doesn't apologize for her or offer pity. He just squeezes my knee and accepts what I've said, as if it's another piece of me, and then moves on.
"Any Christmas traditions?" he asks, spearing a forkful of eggs.
I laugh, shaking my head. "Not unless you count avoiding family court."
He grins, which makes me grin, and for a second, it's not awkward at all.
"What about you?" I ask. "Any family traditions?"
He shrugs, but his eyes go soft. "My mom bakes like it's her job.
She doesn't use honey, obviously." The way his lips curl at the corners is all little-boy mischief.
"We watch football with my dad, and then my brother always tries to beat me at hockey on Xbox.
He always fails. We eat too much, watch Die Hard, and end up passed out in the living room. "
I picture Trent and his brother stuffing their faces and arguing over video games while their mom bakes in the background. It's a stupid, cheesy, perfect image, and I want to live in it for just one day.
I've never really had that. Our foster parents tried most years, but there were no traditions.
It always felt a little like they were just checking off items on a list of things they were required to do for us.
Once I aged out, I mostly stopped celebrating.
Christmas just doesn't feel magical when you spend it alone most years.
My brothers aren't big on Christmas but they always call anyway. Sometimes, I wish they wouldn't. It just reminds me of how utterly alone I am on the one day of the year when no one should be alone .
Trent must see the look on my face, because he tilts his head. "You should come with me tomorrow."
I almost choke on my coffee. "Excuse me?"
He repeats himself. "You should come with me for Christmas. My parents will love you. Noah will probably try to steal you until I threaten to murder him with his own service weapon. It'll be great."
I try to laugh, but the sound gets stuck in my throat. "You're not serious."
"Why not?" His gaze flits across my face. "I don't want you spending the holiday alone, Sunshine."
"I'm not alone," I say, but my voice cracks halfway through, betraying me. "I have…Netflix. And Chinese takeout."
He frowns, not buying it. "No, Dani. That's not good enough for you. You're coming over for a real Christmas."
I shake my head, trying to pull away, but he just locks his arm tighter around my shoulder. "No way. I'd be in the way. Your family doesn't even know me."
"They'll love you," he says again, like it's a fact. "And you aren't in the way. You're with me." He says it so confidently, like this is just how things are now.
I try again, desperate. "Trent, I can't just–"
"You can," he interrupts. "And you will. Unless you hate the idea of spending Christmas with me, in which case, say the word and I'll shut up."
He waits, staring at me, and I can tell he means it.
I look down at my plate, thinking about all the years I spent eating ramen noodles and stale donuts on Christmas. I think about the last time someone actually wanted me at their table. I think about how easy it would be to say yes.
But I can't.
I'm not that person. I don't belong in a family like his. I'm not good at meeting people, cheesy traditions, or pretending that I belong.
"I appreciate it, but I can't, Trent," I whisper regretfully.