Chapter 31
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
MAISIE
I was not this nervous last time Wilder was in my apartment.
That’s mostly because I was hungover and then unable to focus on anything except that he was making me lose my mind.
Literally.
But this time, it’s different. He’s coming over for dinner, and it’s not a date or anything, but it is a different circumstance that’s led him here.
I spent the rest of the day doing the world’s fastest speed clean, and then I took an everything shower, which obviously took up the majority of my time.
Everything is shaved and lotioned, and my hair is curled, my makeup light and natural. I’m wearing one of my favorite dresses and what I’m pretty sure is Wilder’s, too, since he never seems to stop staring at me when I wear it, and of course, the outfit I bought earlier is beneath.
What little of it there is.
Jesus, my palms are so sweaty. Why are they so sweaty?
I drag them down the front of my dress and take a deep breath, willing myself to chill out. It’s just dinner. And hopefully orgasms.
No, definitely orgasms.
Much-needed orgasms.
Sebastian meows from his spot in front of the front door after a resounding knock sounds against it.
I pull it open.
Wilder stands on my green gingham doormat, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his signature uniform of gray sweatpants and hellcats hoodie.
He must’ve come straight here from the arena. His dark brown hair is mussed like he’s spent the day raking his fingers through it, his jaw covered in my favorite shadow of stubble.
And God, I love when he doesn’t shave.
I’m beginning to realize the type I claimed not to have is actually a man who’s thirteen years older than I am. A man.
Nothing like the future “finance bros” from campus in their polos and starched khaki shorts who still smell like stale beer from their frat parties the night before.
It’s not just that Wilder is criminally hot.
Because that’s just a fact.
But it’s his intensity that is part of what attracts me, the way that no matter who’s standing in the room with him… he’s the man that you’re drawn to.
He doesn’t want anyone’s attention, but he consumes it anyway, and somehow, that’s even more powerful than if he were to demand it.
Tonight though, that intensity feels like something entirely different. I can practically feel the tension radiating off him, an unease that settles over me.
It reminds me of that first day in his office, only he’s got a better grasp on it.
But his eyes… I can see something dark, something heavy? I can’t explain it, just that he looks exhausted.
“Hi.” I smile, holding my door open. “Uh, come in.”
His lip quirks slightly. “Hi.” He steps past me into the foyer, and I push the front door closed behind him.
Not a second after the lock clicks, the smoke detector suddenly begins blaring.
My eyes widen when realization hits me.
“Oh no, oh no, no, no, no,” I cry as I run to the kitchen, immediately finding thick, dark smoke billowing from the oven.
Wilder’s on my heels, cursing when he sees the smoke.
My finger pokes at all of the buttons in an attempt to press the one to turn the oven off.
“Shit.”
Finally, I get it turned off, and I reach for the mitts from the drawer beside the stove and open it, almost choking when a cloud of smoke billows out.
Jesus, what a disaster.
I manage to get the now charred, black lasagna out of the oven and toss it into the sink, dousing cold water over it, steam sizzling from the temperature drop.
Everything happens so quickly that my head feels like it’s spinning.
Honestly though, I’m proud of my response time on this because I was in a full-blown panic.
I look over at Wilder, who’s standing only a foot away, his eyes wide as he takes in the burnt lasagna, the smoke, the state of my small kitchen.
I look down at my dress and see black smudges decorating the front, and I toss my head back and laugh because what else am I supposed to do when I almost burned my entire kitchen down because I was too nervous and distracted by him being here tonight.
“So I guess… we’re ordering takeout?”
His mouth twitches. “Looks like it.”
Nothing about tonight has gone the way I imagined it would in my head.
And actually? I’m sort of glad.
Now that I’m sitting beside Wilder on pillows on my living room floor, eating Chinese takeout out of a box, I can’t imagine a stuffy dinner with us at a table, making small talk over my mama’s famous lasagna. He doesn’t feel like that kind of man.
But this… this feels right.
My hair and makeup were ruined by the shower I had to take to wash off the smell of smoke, and obviously, so was the dress.
So I threw on my new favorite hoodie and a pair of sleep shorts instead, and watching Wilder’s eyes flare with heat when he saw me once again wearing his hoodie was beyond worth almost burning my kitchen down.
I like his eyes on me. His appreciative gaze.
It makes me feel sexy and wanted, even when wearing something basic and shapeless like a hoodie.
“I’m sorry about dinner,” I say again, my nose crinkled. “I swear, I can cook. I was just a little distracted. That has never happened before.”
Wilder lifts a brow as he picks up a piece of chicken with his chopsticks. “You don’t need to apologize. Shit happens, Maisie. I’ll eat anything, trust me.”
He looks so casual like this. Almost… relaxed even? Leaning back against the front of my couch, sleeves of his hoodie pushed up to his elbows, his powerful, corded forearms rippling as he moves.
It’s weird to see him without the usual edge.
But I like it.
Way too much for something that I know is only casual and temporary.
“I’m sure you’ve probably had to follow a really strict meal plan while you played hockey, right?”
“Yeah. The team nutritionist took care of meal plans, but now… I just stick to protein. Healthy carbs. Low fat.” His throat bobs with a swallow. “Never been picky though. Food’s sustenance. I didn’t have much option growing up, so I just learned to adapt.”
I want to ask him about his childhood, delve into that comment, but I don’t. I bite my tongue. It’s not my place, not really, but I still want to know things about him.
I want to know who he is outside of the ex-NHL player turned coach. Outside of what I could read about him on the gossip sites or on ESPN about the fall of his career, about the situation that brought him here to begin with.
But those people don’t know him, anyway. Not really.
I don’t know him either, but I want to.
“What’s that look for?” he asks, and it pulls me out of my thoughts.
I can feel my cheeks burning as I clear my throat.
“Uh, I guess I was just thinking how crazy it is that you’re this famous, legendary hockey player, and you’re sitting on the floor, eating Chinese takeout with me.
It feels like… normal?” I’m rambling because I feel the weight of his gaze, the scrutiny of it, and I feel stupid. “Ignore me.”
“Nah.”
My gaze flicks to him, and I roll my eyes when I see him smirking.
“I’m just saying it’s hard for me to even wrap my head around the fact that you’re famous. I don’t keep up with sports, or tabloids, or anything like that, so it’s just hard to believe you’re a celebrity.”
Wilder shakes his head. “Not a celebrity. Just a guy who… used to play hockey.”
I can feel the shift in his demeanor. His jaw tightens, and his eyes turn distant, heavy.
“Are… Is everything okay?” I ask before I lose the courage. I don’t want him to feel like I’m prying or trying to be nosy about his life. But I can’t not ask.
After a long pause, he says, “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know,” I murmur, suddenly extremely interested in the Mongolian beef in the box, pushing it around with my chopsticks.
“It’s just, when you got here, it looked like you were fighting something…
and losing? That probably doesn’t even make sense.
It just seems like something is off, that’s all. ”
God, I feel so stupid right now.
I’m not even sure if I should be asking him things like this. If he’s okay, or asking him about his life before he came back home.
Do people who hook up do that?
It’s all new to me, and I’m probably overthinking it, but it feels like I’m feeling around in the dark and have no clue what I’m supposed to say or do in this… situation.
“I’m good. It’s just been… a really long fucking day,” he finally says, the words tight, punctuated with something I can’t quite place. When he looks over at me, I see his eyes are dark… like burnt amber, flickering with something raw.
It feels like the most vulnerable he’s ever been with me, even if the only thing he’s said is with that look. His eyes carry something that I might not ever fully know or understand.
I set the takeout box onto the coffee table in front of me and crawl into his lap, refusing to overthink if this is what he even wants.
Maybe it’s just what he needs.
Because I know he’d never ask for it.
“Then let me help you take your mind off of it, Coach,” I say, my voice lowering to a whisper, bringing my hand to his face and brushing my fingers along his jaw.
His eyes fall shut at the touch, and my heart twists. It lurches, tearing inside my chest at the notion that my touch… that it’s enough to calm whatever storm is raging inside of him.
It makes me feel important, even if it’s just physical.
“Tell me what I can do.”
Silence hangs between us, the air thick with unspoken emotion.
Until he opens his eyes and his hands find my hips, sliding up my back to pull me even closer, pressing my front against his, our lips inches away, a breath away.
And that tortured look in the depths of his eyes is replaced by a fire. When it’s just started to burn, the flames flicker, low and steady.
“This,” he murmurs, and I nod, my breath stuttering against his lips as they ghost along mine. “Just… this.”