4. I’ll Take The Whole Bottle, Please
CHAPTER
I’LL TAKE THE WHOLE BOTTLE, PLEASE
ADAM
I’m dying.
Figuratively, of course. Maybe
literally. Ask me again in two hours.
An ankle hooks around mine below the table, and I barely resist the urge to drag my hands down my face.
I clear my throat, unhook my leg, and carefully tuck both of my feet below the safety of my chair.
I take a sip of my red wine, set it down, and then pick it right back up and throw back the rest of the nine-year-old pinot noir when the tip of Alessia’s heeled foot touches mine again.
“You really like wine, huh?” she asks, blue eyes hooded, lashes batting.
“That obvious, huh?” I don’t think I’ve ever tossed back two glasses in less than ten minutes.
I need to quit this and quit it hard.
The dating, not the wine. The wine stays, the girl goes.
I don’t know why I keep thinking this one might be different, that the more time I spend out here in the dating pool, the quicker I’ll find the one. Jaxon says I’m delusional, to just enjoy the dates, take them home, and have some fun. I don’t think he and I have the same idea of fun.
Look, would I like to have sex? Obviously.
It’s been over a year. I’m developing premature arthritis in my wrist, and I’ve only recently turned twenty-six.
But by the time every date ends, I’d rather be subjected to a lifetime of wearing a wrist brace and giving up my career as a top-paid goalie in the NHL than spend any more time with these women.
Plus, they’re not even in it for the sex. That’s the problem a lot of guys on my team have: women who just want to say they’ve had sex with a famous hockey player.
My problem is they want more. I want more, too, but the more I want is genuine. The more they want is dollar signs.
“Oh! Hey, you!” Alessia waves down our waiter as he passes by with a tray of food. She points at the nearly empty bottle of wine. “Could we get another bottle?”
Scott lifts a brow in my direction, and when I nod, his mouth tips in a small smirk.
I come here about twice a month, because Scott respects my privacy and reads my cues.
He tends to my dates like royalty, and when things are looking especially grim, he tells me the chef would like to meet me.
Then he shoves me out the kitchen door for a five-minute breather while he tries to speed up the rest of the dinner service.
Alessia looks around the restaurant, pouting. “We should ask him to switch our table. We’re tucked all the way in the back.”
“It’s nice back here,” I counter softly, sipping my ice water. “It’s quiet.”
Jesus, can her pout possibly get any bigger? How far out does that bottom lip go? “Barely anyone can see us back here.”
“I like my privacy,” is my simple reply. I don’t feel like getting into all the reasons why she’d rather be front and center with me.
Alessia popped into my inbox on Tinder a week ago.
Her profile showed pictures of her with horses and dogs, her with her arms wrapped around her grandma in her nursing home bed, and hiking through the Appalachian Trail.
She was sweet and didn’t say a whole lot, just that Bear was cute in my profile picture and that she loved hiking too.
Three days ago, I asked her if she’d like to have dinner, and it’s been downhill since.
The kissing emojis, the never-ending messages throughout the day asking for constant updates on what I’m doing, who I’m with.
The second I saw her out front of the restaurant tonight, she threw her arms around my neck and planted her lipstick on my cheek.
I like physical contact. I like intimacy. But I want it to feel natural. Like it did earlier today when that little honey-and-rose-colored-hair cutie tripped over her own feet and tumbled into me when I told her to shove her handshake.
My mind drifts to Rosie for the hundredth time today, the easy blaze of her cheeks, the flecks of gold that danced in those light green eyes, the way she snorted when she laughed and looked so damned relieved when she thought I didn’t notice.
Everything about her was natural. Her smiles, her giggles, the timid way she kicked off her shoes and waded through the creek with me while watching the beauty around us.
“So you just re-signed your contract with the Vipers,” Alessia says, breaking my thoughts. Her eyes glitter with excitement as she leans closer. “Ten-point-five million a year for the next eight years?”
“I thought you didn’t keep up with hockey.” Specifically, she told me she had to look me up when I told her I played professionally.
She waves my words away. “So, what are you gonna do with all that money? Buy a new house? Where do you live now? How many bedrooms? Can you see the mountains?” Her eyes widen, and she grips my hand in both of hers.
“Oh my God, have you ever been to Paris? It’s so beautiful, especially in the fall. We should totally go.”
“I have hockey,” I remind her, trying to pull my hand back. Alessia laces our fingers together, and I swallow a groan when a flash from a phone goes off from across the restaurant.
“Can you book a week off?”
“That’s not how it—” I sigh. “That’s not really how hockey works, not with a contract.”
“Oh.” She frowns, then grins. “I’ve heard it’s beautiful at Christmas too.”
“You told me you spend the day with your grandma at the nursing home.”
“Grams will probably be dead by then. If she’s not, I’ll just skip. It’s not like she’ll know.” She fishes her phone out of her purse and promptly shows me a series of pictures of her posing next to her sleeping grandma, giving the peace sign while she grins or purses her lips.
What in the sweet fuck have I gotten myself into?
“Um…” I pour the remainder of bottle number one into my glass, then toss it back, hoping it’ll burn the memory of this conversation. “So you hiked the Appalachian Trail.”
She rolls her eyes and folds over the table, clapping her hands to it. “Oh-em-gee, it was the absolute worst
. I hate nature. I hate bugs. I hate walking. I treated myself to a five-day spa vacation after that nightmare.”
Whatever was left of my heart sinks to my gut, churning.
“Your bottle,” Scott murmurs, appearing at our table. He uncorks the wine, pours a sample into each glass, and smiles. “Mr. Lockwood, if you’d be so kind, our head chef would love to meet you. He’s a big fan of yours.”
I leap to my feet, my knees colliding with the table, shaking the dishes. I catch the wine glasses before they can topple over. “Absolutely. For sure. Yes, of course. I love meeting fans.” I touch Alessia’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”
Scott leads me through the restaurant and into a dark hallway.
“Next time I down half a bottle of two-hundred-dollar wine in ten minutes, I need you to pretend there’s a kitchen fire and escort all the guests out. I’ll cover the bills. Got it?”
Scott chuckles. “Loud and clear, Mr. Lockwood.”
* * *
“So you kissed her.”
“I did not
kiss her. Have you been listening to me at all?”
Carter shrugs. “That picture on Instagram says you kissed her.”
I shove Carter’s shoulder, and he trips sideways in his rollerblades, stepping over the curb and shuffling onto the grass, where he catches himself against a tree.
“Motherfucker,” he bites out, leaping back onto the road, tearing after me at full speed as I take off ahead of him.
Before he can catch me, Emmett wraps an arm around his head, pulling him back against him. “Don’t poke the bear. Adam’s gone grizzly mode.”
Garrett barks out a laugh. “Adam never goes full grizzly.”
Jaxon loops around me and turns, skating backward so he can smirk at me. “I went full grizzly on three girls in his parents’ bedroom on Friday night.”
I point at him. “You’re at the top of my shitlist.”
He wags his brows and spins, the five of us settling into stride together, coasting down the quiet road. “So you didn’t kiss her?”
I tug on my ball cap at the uncomfy memory of last night. I walked Alessia to her car, thanked her for the nice/awful time, but when I opened her door, she slung her arms around my neck and pressed her lips to mine. I stood there in shock before her tongue wormed its way into my mouth.
I’m not entirely proud to say that, for a whole three seconds, I considered it. I let her tongue glide against mine, and my mind wandered to a place where I wondered what it would be like to give it up for one night, to forget about what I want and get some release for once in so damn long.
But I came crashing back down to reality with the flash of her phone as she took a fucking selfie
of us mid-kiss, and thank fuck for that.
“I stopped the kiss and said I didn’t feel a connection and that it would be best if we went our separate ways.” I stroke my cheek, where I can still feel the sting of her palm. “She slapped me and said, ‘Thanks for wasting my time,’ before she got into her car, slammed her door, and drove off.”
Carter chuckles. “Never thought it’d be you getting slapped out of all of us.”
Jaxon touches his cheek and smiles. “I’ve earned my fair share. It’s fueled by some wild energy. Normally ends back in bed, or against a wall. Once, we even dropped right to the—”
“I don’t need to hear it,” I cut him off. “And now there’s a picture of me and her floating around the internet forever.”
Garrett pulls his phone out, snickering at the photo I’ve seen a hundred times today, the one Alessia tagged me in at the crack of dawn. “The caption is the worst part.”
Emmett takes the phone, clearing his throat before reading Alessia’s words out loud in the voice he reserves for his impression of his wife, Cara.
“Had the best night with this man, but was so sad when I had to tell him I didn’t feel a love connection.
Sad emoji. Three out of five on the kiss scale. Needs some tongue work.”
“Needs some tongue work, my ass,” I grumble, skating up my driveway. Giggles and shrieks flow from the backyard as I flip the lock on my gate. “And I
told her
I didn’t feel the connection!”