Chapter 9
Gracie
The only thing my brain can acknowledge is the phenomenal smell coming from the deck of my brother’s house. It won’t let me detour or even put my purse down before following the scent out to the back patio, where a ribbon of smoke heads toward the dusky blue sky.
It’s probably Hunter trying to impress a date, and I should leave them alone. But the delicious smell of roasting chicken beckons me forward, and I have no choice but to follow.
I feel slightly relaxed after the half glass of wine I had with my new analytics team. “It’s tradition,” Mick Eldrige told me, grinning as he hung in the doorway of my office. “We’re all chuffed to have you here.”
Mick joined the Devils two seasons ago from Manchester City, and he’s my number two. I’m relying on him to keep me abreast of insider club knowledge, so if drinks with him and our four-person team is tradition, it’s tradition.
It meant I stayed near headquarters later than I expected, but with Kyler out of town, I didn’t think anyone would notice. I didn’t see the team on the practice field when I left, so I figured they were in the dining facility or doing whatever players do in the evenings.
When I slide open the screen door, I find Hunter fanning the smoke with an oven mitt shaped like a trout with mascara on its eyelashes. With his other hand, he bosses around a couple of chicken breasts on the grill, along with what looks like a steak, squash, and something in a foil pouch.
I glance around the deck for the woman I’m certain I’ll find lounging on a chaise with a glass of wine in her hand.
She’ll have manicured nails, expertly applied makeup, and hair worthy of a social media video.
Of course, he’s allowed to entertain here.
He’s a guest in his best friend’s house, and Kyler would definitely approve of Hunter enjoying himself.
But I see only two empty chaise lounges with blue striped cushions and three chairs around the wooden table.
“You cooking for someone?” I raise my voice so he’ll hear me over Taylor Swift’s Red album. I want to make sure he knows I’m here before he inadvertently trots a scantily clad date out here, and I feel mortified.
When he turns, I notice the green apron over his Devils practice tee and a pair of athletic shorts.
I know this is Southern California, and the weather’s nice all the time, but the man never seems to cover much of his body.
That’s only a problem because I seem to have no control over my eyes, which run the length of his legs two or three times, committing each muscle group to memory.
Seriously, you’d think I’ve never seen a man’s legs before.
But these are spectacular in a way I’m unfamiliar with—large, strong quads and well-developed calves that practically scream their need for speed. But Hunter seems to be in no hurry, methodically turning the chicken and meat over before he points the spatula in my direction.
“Nope. Cooking for you.”
Some sort of garbled combination of nonsensical vowels spews forth, and he waits until I regain control, a smirk forming on his lips.
“You’re…what?” I think I heard the words, but a synapse must have misfired in my brain.
“Cooking dinner. For you.” He looks at me expectantly, but then he seems to notice the two bowls and one platter already on the round, wood table nearby on the deck. “And me, obviously.”
“Wow. That’s so nice.” My voice sounds like it’s echoing through a cavern, and I wonder if I’m about to faint.
I can’t recall the last time a guy cooked for me.
No, wait. I can’t recall it because it’s never happened.
The men I’ve dated in the ten years since college took me out to dinner here and there, and we ordered plenty of takeout.
Even during the relationship I had for over a year, there wasn’t a day I came home to the scent of meat grilling or even a piece of bread burning in the toaster oven.
This is truly unprecedented.
“Glad you approve.” Hunter goes back to tending to the meat on the grill, where it drips and spits onto the charcoal briquettes below.
I ate half a grilled cheese sandwich from a food truck earlier today and didn’t realize until now how hungry I am.
But my senses are on overload, and I’m not sure if my mouth is watering because of the delicious aroma or the delicious man.
“It…looks amazing.” I can barely form words because they cut down on the deep inhaling I want to do.
The corner of his mouth tips up like he can’t decide between a smirk and a smile. “Thanks.”
I spy the bottle of scotch and the glass next to it on the table. When he catches my roving eye, he nods toward the bottle. “Can I get you a glass?”
“I…I’m not sure I’m a scotch drinker.”
The rumble of his laughter is oddly soothing. “Never know until you try.”
He puts the spatula down next to the grill and closes the hood.
Then he moves past me, leaving a lingering scent of pine soap and firewood.
I take a deep inhale without meaning to do it.
When he returns, still wearing the trout oven mitt, he holds out two glasses in his palm.
One has ice cubes, and the other is empty.
“Not sure if you want it neat or on the rocks.”
I shrug. “Not sure either.”
“Maybe try it both ways and then you’ll know what you like.”
He wriggles out of the oven mitt and pours two inches of dark brown liquid into each glass.
I take the first one from him, doing my best not to touch his hand in the process.
“Inhale the scent of it first and get used to the strength. Then take a tiny bit in your mouth and swirl it over your tongue.” The deep growl of his voice mixed with the sensual instructions has my toes curling in my shoes, not to mention a straight shot of lust that rockets down to my core.
I do as instructed and try not to wince at the first, frighteningly strong sip of scotch on the rocks. A smile plays on his lips as he watches me swallow.
I blink away the tears forming in the corners of my eyes. “Okay, that wasn’t too terrific.”
“You don’t have to—”
I hold up a hand. “Hang on.” I swirl the scotch against the ice to chill it and boldly take another small sip. It goes down more easily this time. No tears. And I actually sort of like the taste. It almost has a maple syrup aftertaste, which probably means I have no idea what I’m tasting. “Better.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Lemme try it neat.”
“Look at you. Now you’re a pro.”
Smiling for real now, he holds out the second glass.
Our fingers brush as I take it from him, and a tiny jolt of electricity runs up my arm.
I kind of knew it would happen because he makes me nervous—the excited, good kind of nervous.
Still, it catches me by surprise. It’s crazy that the barest graze of his skin causes such a reaction.
If I lean into the science, I can try to make sense of it. It’s purely biological. We react to the opposite sex because, otherwise, no procreation would occur, and the species would die out.
Okay, forget all that. There’s nothing clinically scientific about the way Hunter causes a flutter in my chest to rage into a butterfly army when he comes near me.
This is otherworldly magic, and I’m not about to ruin it by turning it into a textbook explanation.
I’m going to enjoy it quietly and hope he isn’t aware of how fast my heart is beating.
I don’t dare look him in the eye because I don’t want him to know how hard I’m trying to control my breathing.
He can’t know. The thought of him laughing about my obvious crush is enough to shock the feelings from my body.
Within seconds, I return to my calm, collected self, and I take a tiny taste from the second glass.
The room temperature liquid goes down smoothly, and I venture a slightly larger sip.
“I feel proud. Popping your scotch cherry.”
Holy crap.
I choke, liquid dribbling out the corner of my mouth while an awful burn follows the scotch down my respiratory tract. I cough scotch from my lungs, and it takes me a minute to regain my composure. Hunter looks sympathetic but also amused.
“Oh my god, please don’t say things like that around me.” My voice is a croak when I can finally form words.
Hunter fails to suppress a smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Oh no, Tink, seeing that look on your face just sealed your fate. From now on, it’ll be impossible not to say things like that around you.”
“Great,” I mutter, looking away. This is not what I need right now, the distraction of a roommate who wants to rile me up as I’m finding my footing.
I take another sip. By now, I’m feeling the warming effects of the alcohol, and I welcome the assist to unravel my jangled nerves around Hunter.
I never would have called myself a scotch drinker.
I’m barely a drinker at all, except for a strawberry margarita or a mojito on a girls’ night out.
And here I am on my second drink of the night.
But something about the way the scotch burns my throat and warms me from the inside out is very soothing.
The company isn’t too bad either. Somehow, drinking the same thing as Hunter makes me feel connected to him in a tiny way. That makes me happy.
A few birds perched high in an oak tree beyond the house seem to be in a competition, each trilling a different set of notes and waiting for a response.
For a moment, I get lost listening to them and almost forget where I am.
This is the first time since I came to Los Angeles that I’ve been aware of nature in the way I am back home.
It’s also the first time I acknowledge the thought that I could like it there.
“I have a question. Where did you learn to cook?”
“Back in middle school. I’m from a big family. My mom corralled us all into different cooking duties out of necessity. She couldn’t come home from work every night and cook for five hungry guys without a few sous chefs. So we all pitched in. I liked it, so I did it more than some of my brothers.”
And now I like him even more.
This is silly. He’s a guy. You have a brother. It’s the same.
Except it’s not the same because he’s as hot as molten lava and sets fire in your veins.
Letting out a long exhale, I wrangle my self-control.
“I really appreciate you cooking dinner. I was about to microwave a baked potato, which qualifies as gourmet fare for this girl.” My voice sounds normal again, and I remind myself that I’m a capable woman with a masters degree in computer science who can certainly handle one dinner with my brother’s friend without going to pieces.
The next inhale cements that idea, and I finally start to relax. I dare a glance at Hunter’s face and find him eyeing me.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “A baked potato?”
“Oh. Yeah. Does that not meet with your approval, soccer star?” I don’t know where the teasing tone came from, but it’s too late to edit once the words are out.
“It’s not much of a dinner. Side dish, maybe.”
“Only maybe?”
“Depends what you put on it.”
I don’t think before answering. “Butter, sour cream, and bacon.”
His smirk widens into a full smile, but he doesn’t comment.
“And what’s wrong with that?” I ask.
“Sounds delicious. But I’m in training. Can’t do the sour cream and butter.”
“Never?” I’m aghast. “And it’s worth it to you?”
Now, he laughs. “Worth it to be paid to play soccer? Yeah, I can make the dairy sacrifice during most of the week.”
I give him a side-eye. “Most of the week? What happens during the other part of the week? There’s still a chance you can redeem yourself.”
“There are cheat days. I’m not a saint.”
I nod as he opens the grill hood, and the full effect of his cooking floods the deck.
I can’t help closing my eyes as I inhale.
“If your cooking tastes as good as it smells, I doubt you’d need to cheat much.
Don’t tell Kyler, but I might even be willing to make an exception to my meat and potatoes ways to try something else. ”
“I swear, not a word.” He mimes locking his lips and tossing away a key. “If you answer a question for me.”
Panic hits me because I hate agreeing to answer a question before I know what it is. “Um, sure.”
“Relax, I’m not going to try to unearth your darkest secret.” He chuckles. I relax a tad. “Yet.” I panic again.
“Fine, whatever. You can ask, not saying I’ll answer.”
“What were you looking for when you came out on the deck?”
My shoulders drop. “Oh. I figured you were here with a date. You know,
trying to impress a girl.”
“Who says I wasn’t?” His eyes are kind, softer than they get when he’s talking about soccer. I like it.
And there it is again, that twinge low in my belly that turns to full-on fire at the idea that he’s talking about me. But, I reason, he told me he’s cooking as a thank-you for the help he thinks I gave him. This is dinner between roommates. My hormones need to chill the heck out.
I take another sip of scotch, trying to extinguish it like a tiny flame, but it roars up even larger.
I push away the feeling that I want this man for more than a nice dinner because dinner is all I can have.
We work for the same organization. And given how my last relationship cratered my job, I do the smart thing and shut down the fantasy.