Chapter Twenty #2
The address Thomas sends me is on the nicer side of Fairbanks.
The swanky neighborhood is gated, and you need a code to get in.
I should have known that the pro hockey player would set up a meeting at his house.
When the Uber driver, Abel, pulls up to the keypad, I get out and enter it, careful not to let him see.
He’d been quiet after he picked me up, listening to some golf recap on his Bluetooth and making commentary about how he needed to improve his swing.
I tuned him out the best I could, wishing he’d put music on to drown out the sound of my nerves thrumming under my skin.
Knowing it’s too late to back out now, I thank the driver and swipe my clammy hands down my thighs. I stare at the house through the window and all but groan when I see the front door open and Thomas appear.
The driver said, “You’re not going to puke in my car, are you?”
I frown. “No.” At least, I don’t think so.
“Good. Then do me a favor and get out before you do,” he says, locking eyes with me in the rearview mirror. “You’re looking a little too green for my liking, and I just got this thing detailed.”
My frown deepens, but I unbuckle and open the door. Right before I close it, I hear the driver say, “Wait a minute. Is that Thomas Mosk—”
I scurry up the walkway to where Thomas is leaning against his doorjamb and glance up at him through my lashes. “The driver,” I warn quietly, as if the man in the car has supersonic hearing, “recognizes you.”
His brows lift before peering from me to the man still idling in his car on the street. His hand gently wraps around my arm, tugging me inside and closing the door behind us. “I’ll make sure he’s not allowed access into the neighborhood after this.”
My shoulders tighten. “I’m sorry. I—”
“Don’t be,” he says plainly, walking down the foyer and toward the kitchen. “It’s not your fault your car broke down. Any news on it?”
Is he really making small talk like he wasn’t inside me days ago?
Yes. Yes, he is. And because I don’t know what else to do, I rub the spot on my arm that tingles from his touch and follow him into the other room.
“They said it would cost more money than it’s worth to fix, and that I should look into getting a different car. ”
I’d known that was going to be the response, but I held out hope that a miracle would happen.
When I told Kourtney, she’d offered to help me get a small loan to find something else.
That was after Brad shot her down when she said they’d let me have their car to get something bigger for themselves.
Turns out, he was not cool with that idea. Not at all.
“I’m sorry,” he says, passing me a bottle of water from the fridge. I fidget with the plastic cap as I stand on the other side of the island, which looks freshly washed. The whole house smells like someone just went through and doused it in disinfectant and air freshener.
I lift a shoulder, looking around the kitchen that I hadn’t spent any time in the last time I was here. It’s spotless. The counters organized. The refrigerator has a specific place for everything and is full of fresh food. Does he cook?
“It’s okay. Fairbanks has cheap transit. The bus schedule is easy to figure out and goes everywhere I need.”
His teeth grind, and he looks away like he doesn’t like that idea.
He’ll have to get in line, though. Kourtney has been telling me what a horrible idea it is to ride the bus instead of saving my money to get a used car.
But since neither of us has the funds for something new, and adding a small car loan to my name isn’t in the cards for me, it’s all I have.
“Where is Oreo?” I ask, searching the room for the kitten that may be today’s only saving grace. There are a few cat toys scattered on the floor, but no sign of the feline.
Thomas props his hip against the counter. “I assume she’s destroying another one of my shirts. Her favorite pastime seems to be breaking into my closet and climbing the clothing until her talons poke holes into the fabric.”
I wince, assuming his wardrobe cost him a pretty penny. He doesn’t seem like the type to buy his clothes at Walmart. “At least she’s cute?” I offer with a tiny smile.
He studies my face a little too closely, his eyes raking over every square inch. It makes me wish I’d worn my hair down to hide behind it. Thomas may not be touching me, but I feel the heat all the same.
After a moment, he nods. “She is.”
But the way he’s staring at me makes me think he isn’t referring to Oreo at all.
I swallow, shifting from one foot to another. The movement makes me wince, and I grip my water a little tighter in my hand until the plastic crinkles under my fingertips.
He steps forward before stopping himself. His palms clench and unclench at his sides. “Are you all right?”
The panic in his voice confuses me when I look up at him.
Then he says, “Are you hurting from…?”
I gape, my cheeks heating when I realize what he means. He thinks I’m hurting because we had sex. “No,” I say, a little too forcefully. I stand straighter. “It’s not from that.”
His shoulders seem to relax. “I’m just making sure. I’ve heard things can be…tender for women their first time. And I could have been gentler. I should have been gentler.”
“No,” I tell him. “I didn’t want you to be.” I fight the flames rising up my neck and trying to settle into my cheeks when one of his eyebrows arch. “I got my period,” I murmur, not sure how that explanation is any better. “That’s why I’m hurting. I’m fine.”
There’s a bite to my tone that I wish wasn’t there, because it tells him that I’m evidently not fine.
Thomas simply nods and says, “Okay.”
He doesn’t push.
Doesn’t say anything to embarrass me.
He still doesn’t ask what all of this is about.
Thomas walks over to a cupboard full of food and ingredients, and I can’t help but ask, “You really cook, don’t you?”
He pauses, glancing at me from over his shoulder. “Doesn’t everybody?”
I shrug. “Does heating up ramen noodles count as cooking?”
His cheek twitches, and I can tell he wants to smile but stops himself. “I’m not sure that counts. That’s like saying you made a cake from scratch when it comes from a box.”
I hum. “I don’t know. If you’re adding eggs and water to the mix and putting it into the oven, you’re still baking a cake. Seems to me like you’re discrediting a lot of people.”
Thomas, despite himself, chuckles. “My mistake. I didn’t mean to offend you, chef.”
My lips lift a fraction. “You still haven’t answered my question. You have a lot of food. I thought you would have done premade meals or hired someone to cook for you.”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I actually find cooking to be relaxing. And when you need to stay in shape, it’s better to make everything from scratch so you know what you’re consuming. Premade meals have too much sodium to make them last. I have trouble tracking intake when I’m in training mode.”
I make a mental note to check the back of the freezer meals next time I go shopping.
“My dad used to do most of our cooking, growing up. Kourtney and I usually helped, but I didn’t pick up on the skills they did.
When it was just us, we lived on eggs, hamburgers, and whatever else was on sale. Cheap stuff.”
“Makes sense,” he replies easily. “I can teach you, if you’d like. I know how to make quite a few things.”
His offer surprises me. “You’d do that?”
He dips his chin. “Like I said, it’s relaxing to cook. I’ve gone back to Our Open Table a few times and helped Vinnie and Bev get meals prepped.”
My eyes widen. “You’ve gone back?”
Once again, a nod of acknowledgment.
“Even when I wasn’t there?” I prod, trying to figure out why he’d keep going there.
His lips curl into an amused smile. “At first, I was hoping to run into you. But then it became about something else. I don’t always know what to do with my free time—what little I have of it. It seemed like a perfect place to go if I didn’t want to be by myself.”
He goes to Our Open Table.
No cameras.
No press.
He goes because he wants to.
My heart warms, as though it’s being wrapped in a hug of its own. “Being around Bev and Vinnie is one of my happy places to go, so I get it. Besides Kourtney, they’re the only people who have ever cooked for me. They’re…home.”
The way he watches me feels too intimate. I have to look away before my heart jumps up my throat and chokes me of my words.
Which is nearly impossible when he says, “I can cook for you. You just have to say the word.”
My eyes snap up to meet his.
We stare at one another for a long time.
Maybe one of us would have said something more if the doorbell hadn’t gone off. When he sees the way my body stiffens, knowing who’s on the other side of the door, he walks around the island and steps up to me.
His touch is gentle, so gentle, as he tips my chin up. He scans my face. My right eye. My left. My nose. My lips, downtrodden in a frown. Then he says the same thing he did at my apartment when he saw me crying. “I’ve got you.”
A soft-spoken promise that I feel all the way to my toes. The pad of his thumb caresses my jaw before he releases me when the doorbell goes off for a second time.
“Impatient asshole,” he grumbles as he heads toward the front door.
I didn’t tell Kourtney I was doing this when she came over yesterday. I knew she’d volunteer to come, and there was a chance Ashton Dessen wouldn’t walk out without some significant damage—whether physical or emotional.
As much as I love how protective my sister is, I know I need to do this alone. She can’t fight every battle for me, even if she wants to. So, I stand a little taller, roll my shoulders, and wait to feel the impact of seeing Ashton’s face.
And when he steps in, he instantly locks eyes with me. Weary and alert and…sad. Sad for me? Or him? Or does he have the audacity to feel sad for his brother?