Chapter 22
FRANKIE
I press my palm against my stomach, trying to calm the butterflies rioting there as I check Logan’s progress.
The traffic in LA is my mother’s number one reason for not visiting more often, and my father hates it so much that perversely, I don’t mind it. Except tonight, when it seems like Logan’s inching his way toward me, and I’m painfully aware that our time together is super limited.
I married someone who I won’t see again for four or five months.
I smooth my hands over my cut-off shorts and think about changing again. I’ve already changed three times. Maybe yesterday I was subconsciously wanting to test his tolerance for post-shift Frankie, but tonight I want to look nice for him.
But then he texts that he’s a block away, and it’s too late to fourth-guess my outfit.
I open the front door as Logan’s getting out of the backseat of the car. He slings a duffel bag over his shoulder and waves, giving me the same lopsided smile that undid all my objections to staying married.
I wave back, suddenly-tongue tied.
God, he’s so big as he pushes through the little gate in the fence around the front yard and crosses to the porch in what feels like a few long strides.
“Hi,” he says as I step back, letting him inside.
I smile like an idiot. “Hi.”
We stand there for an agonizing beat, just looking at each other.
He’s wearing joggers and a long-sleeved t-shirt, both soft and touchable, and all I want to do is leap on him, but I’m frozen.
His gaze does its own assessment, trailing over every inch of me and then back up again to my face, his attention as hot against my skin as if he’s actually touching me.
Then he drops his bag and closes the distance between us.
His hands come up to frame my cheeks, warm and sure, and suddenly we’re breathing the same air. His thumb strokes along my cheekbone.
“I missed you,” he says quietly. “Is that okay to admit?”
I laugh. “I missed you, too.”
And then he’s kissing me. His lips move against mine. I thread my fingers through his hair, and our tongues meet. Oh, hello husband.
I still can’t get over what we’ve gotten ourselves tangled up in, but kissing this man? This part is so natural, so easy.
I love the sounds he makes.
And I love his taste.
But most of all, I love how he seems to sense my need, and how his whole body responds to it, curving over me, around me. Kissing me deeper and deeper, until we’re both making sounds that are usually reserved for the bedroom.
Very glad I asked for the whole house tonight.
When we finally break apart, his chest heaving, my whole body shaking, he rests his forehead against mine.
“I’ve been thinking about doing that all fucking day.” He drags in a breath. “I’m going to do it again in a minute, too.”
Laughing again, I tug him into the living room. “How was the rest of your day?”
“Boring.” He drops his duffel bag on the floor and catches me around the waist, pulling me onto the couch. “Tell me more about your day.”
“About what?”
“Anything.” He slides his hand just under the hem of my tank top, finding the bare skin of my waist, and makes an undeniably happy sound. “I want to know everything about you. What kept you so busy this afternoon?”
“I scrubbed in on a trauma surgery.”
“Wow. How was that?”
“Intense. Educational. Humbling.”
We stare at each other for a minute, then I lift my attention to his hair, which is curling onto his forehead in a different way than it did in Vegas. “Is your hair curly?”
I reach up and wind the errant lock around my finger.
“Yeah, if I don’t blow dry it, it does that.”
That little detail makes my tummy flip flop. “I didn’t take you as a blow dry guy.”
“I contain multitudes. I’m not precious about it, but growing up with a bossy sister…you learn some things that make your life easier.”
“Knife skills, hair drying techniques.” I nod along. “Your sister sounds smart.”
“Hopefully you can tell her that at the wedding.”
“What wedding?”
“Her wedding.” He gives me a hopeful look. “This summer.”
“You want me to be your date to your sister’s wedding?”
His brows knit together. “You’re my wife.”
“This is also our second date!” I’m blushing like mad.
He brushes his fingers against my cheek. “God, I love the way you turn pink. What are you thinking right now?”
“I’m nervous about meeting your family.”
“I’m not. They’re going to love you.” He grins. “I’m going to love showing you off.”
“That’s very caveman of you.”
“Not all of my multitudes are good.” He grins shamelessly.
“Zero shame, huh?”
“I don’t think I need any with you. I want you to get to know the real me, all of me. Even the parts that I might want to shave off or refine to be better for you.”
“Like the possessive caveman parts?”
“Oh no, that’s not going to get polished away. There’s something about you that makes me very primal.” He growls, low in his throat, and pulls me fully onto his lap to straddle him.
I press my hands against his chest and my thumb hits a hard metal loop under his shirt.
“My ring,” he says, fishing it out.
The band he wore on his left hand yesterday is now on a chain around his neck.
“To avoid questions from my teammates,” he says, as if he needs to explain himself to me, when I left my wedding band behind when I fled Vegas.
I just stare at it, then at him.
He gives me a lopsided smile. “Kiss me again, wife.”
I do.
And I do, and I do, until we’re both panting.
“Food,” I say.
“Kitchen?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Pasta?”
I laugh. “Eggs?”
We’re both blushing and reduced to single words, but it feels so good.
In the kitchen, he hands me his phone. “Make me a playlist of songs you like.”
“I’m supposed to be cooking for you,” I protest.
“I can do the cooking. You were in surgery today.”
“Observing, not performing.”
“Still intense. I want to have some of your favorite songs to listen to tomorrow before the game. Five-two-one-five.”
“Pardon?”
“My passcode.” He says it so matter-of-factly.
“Umm…” I type it in and he opens the fridge, pulling out eggs and salsa.
“Do you like these together?”
“Sure?” I shrug. “I’m not picky about food. Salsa is good. Eggs are good.”
He keeps hunting.
It feels very strange looking at his phone. At the apps he has, the email inbox with way too many notifications, and then clicking in to the music app, all without him caring that I’m going to stumble across something incriminating.
It’s a very spouse-y thing to do.
“This is a weird second date,” I murmur.
“Wait until I bring up real estate,” he says as he shakes a tetra pack of broth. “Is this from yesterday?”
I glance up. “Yeah, that’s still good.”
“Perfect.”
“What do you mean, real estate?”
“We aren’t likely to make the playoffs, so I might be out here by mid-April. Where do you want to live?”
I stare at him. Because I live here, with Sloane. I rent a room for eight hundred a month, and it’s a steal that I can afford.
But he has a ring hanging from his neck that says he’s not going to want to crash in that bed down the hall all summer, and he thinks we should move in together.
Even though we’re strangers.
I might…live with a man by the summer.
My…man.
He smiles, as if he can read my spinning thoughts. “I thought we could get a place of our own.”
“I’m not going to make that much money as a resident.”
His eyebrows creep up.
“I’m just saying, real estate is expensive here.”
He tilts his head to the side and gets a funny look on his face. Like he’s trying to hold in a laugh.
To his credit, he’s trying really hard.
“Francesca,” he says softly. “I can afford LA real estate.”
“But—” And then I feel like an absolute idiot.
Right. Because Logan is rich. Not just has a surgeon for a dad well off like Sloane, or got to go to a good women’s college well off like me.
But genuinely money is not an issue on any level rich. Rich rich rich. He probably has investments that make as much money as his NHL contract makes him. He probably has generational wealth from his parents.
Which is a whole other issue.
“How do you like your eggs?” He nods at his phone in my hands. “And how’s that playlist coming?”
“Fried over easy, and a lot of Lana Del Rey.”
“Yeah?”
“Not exactly pre-game hype songs.”
“I don’t know about that.” He comes over to me and kisses my cheek as he taps play on the screen. “I like the angst. It’s motivating. ‘Happiness is a butterfly,’ huh?”
“This feels like a trick.”
“Maybe. You could take a spin through my playlists to learn more about me.”
I flip over there. “Tate McRae, shocker. Rihanna? Nice.”
“I think you can share those lists…”
As he coaches me through that, he fries two eggs in one pan, and mixes the broth and salsa in another, and suddenly he’s tossing corn tortillas in there, too, and a delicious plate of chilaquiles is being assembled in front of me.
“Wow,” I say as he builds a second one for himself.
“It’s nothing fancy. Cilantro?”
“Yes, please. It’s not that it’s fancy, it’s that it’s…complete. And you used two pans.”
He gives me a teasing look. “Your standards could be higher. But I’m glad you like the look of it. Forks?”
I grab cutlery as he carries the plates to the table.
As soon as I sit down, he hooks my foot over his thigh, his hand curved around my ankle as I lean back in my chair.
I shiver as he traces his thumb up the inside of my calf.
“Francesca…Frankie… I’m really going to enjoy having dinner ready for you when you get home from the hospital. And it can be here in your friend’s house, or it can be in a house of your own.”
“This is a very strange second date.”
He squeezes my ankle. “I need to correct the record.”
“What record?”
“You’ve said that a few times. This isn’t our second date.”
“Third?”
He sets my foot down and gestures for me to start eating.
“Well…I think the birthday cake was our second date. Drinks in the bar was the first date. Dancing at the jazz club was our third date. Getting our wedding license as a joke—fourth date. Dedicated location, a distinct event. Which would make New Year’s Eve fireworks on the rooftop our fifth date.
We wouldn’t be the first people in this world to get married after five dates.
And if you want to keep counting now, that’s all right by me.
I plan to keep dating my wife for the rest of my life.
But this is at least our seventh date. Or a very mediocre honeymoon. ”
I laugh.
He doesn’t.
Once we finish, and we’ve cleaned up, he scoops me into his arms the second I finish drying the second plate. “Do you want a better honeymoon?”
“I’m still wrapping my head around the accidental wedding part.” I take a deep breath and slide my arms around his neck, pulling him down so I can kiss him. “But if you’re worried that I might not want to spend your money on a nice house, don’t be.”
“Thattagirl,” he growls. “My wife deserves the best of everything. I can take care of you, Frankie. I’m going to make sure you have everything you need.”
“Right now, I just need a kiss.”
“Is that all?”
My heart is rabbiting against my ribcage. “Maybe more than a kiss.”