Chapter 10
Ten
Colt
“And then my tire blew and I almost hit those trees and…” She shrugs. “You know the rest of it.”
My stomach twists again.
Fuck, it could have easily gone so wrong.
The shit I pulled.
All just to get a little more time with her.
She could have—
I clench my teeth together. No more fucking tires.
Ever.
Kylie sets her spoon down with a clink and takes my hand. “Stop it,” she orders. “I already have one man in my life who worries about me too much.”
“What man?” I ask sharply.
Too sharply.
But she doesn’t cower or pull back.
Instead, she rolls her eyes and picks up her spoon again. “My brother,” she says dryly before scooping up a bite of the white chicken chili. “And he’s had more practice at being a pain in the ass, so cool it.”
“Are you sure?”
“That I want you to cool it?” Her brows flick up and the sass in the blue depths (the evidence that she’s getting comfortable with me) sends a thrill through me. “Yes.”
“No, baby. Are you sure that he’s had more practice being a pain-in-the-ass older brother?” I ask instead of kissing that tart rejoinder off that gorgeous mouth of hers.
“I—” She stops, head tilting to the side. “I guess I don’t know that.” Her head slants the other direction, her ponytail swinging behind her. “Do you have siblings?”
I nod. “A younger brother. Blake.”
“How much younger?”
“Six years.”
Her mouth kicks up. “I stand corrected. You do have plenty of time at being a pain in the ass.”
I laugh. “Is this where I should mention my opinion on younger siblings and their pain-in-the-assness?”
She laughs and I feel like I’m a fucking superhero, zooming through the air, catching crumbling buildings before they can crush the innocents below.
“Rude,” she says when she’s done, reaching for her spoon again. “Eat.”
“You sure got the bossy younger sister down pat.”
She freezes, spoon an inch away from the delicious chili she so casually served me.
Then she narrows her eyes in my direction.
“You want to think again? Or,” she adds before I can continue teasing her, “you want to rephrase that? Perhaps to amend that statement in favor of all the bossy older siblings?”
“Nope,” I tease.
Laughter in her eyes, in the air. “Incorrigible.”
“The dumb hockey player in me doesn’t know the meaning of that word.”
“Liar,” she says as she primly scoops up more chili. “Don’t think I’ve missed the fact that you’re never without a book.”
I still.
Because I’ve noticed so much about her—the way she takes her coffee, the wine she likes, how she is still, months later, determinedly trying to learn how to crochet (even though the creations still aren’t turning out all that well).
I know which of Nova’s Moscow mules she prefers, which game she gets competitive over Ella with.
I know that she gets irritated at her brother for checking up on her but she does it with a soft look on her face, like she knows it’s from love and a need to look after her when, once, he couldn’t protect her.
I know she did something called a bubble braid for Ivy’s daughter, Evie, at the last home game she attended (adding plenty of sparkle) and that she funds a lot of her classroom supplies out of her own pocket.
And I know that she cares about her kids deeply.
Something that was doubly confirmed tonight when her eyes teared up while talking about her student, when frustration colored her words when she spoke about her meeting with the school’s principal.
Such bullshit.
But my brother and mother waded through that often enough that I know it—legal or not—happens regularly.
And it means something that Kylie cares—truly cares—about her students.
Enough to fight for them.
To know them.
Yet, even understanding that…hell, I didn’t truly think she put any effort into understanding me, into knowing me.
Avoiding? Sure.
“What?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I just didn’t think that anyone noticed.”
Pink on her cheeks, another bite of chili before she says quietly, “I noticed.”
I want to ask what else she noticed, if anything she’s noticed might be something she wants, but—
Too soon.
I should just be happy I’m here, that she’s talking to me without the crutch of a flat tire.
That she’s let me touch her.
Speaking of which, I dare to reach forward, to touch her again. And as I swipe my thumb over the corner of her mouth, I have to resist the urge to lean in and flick my tongue along the spot.
“Wh-what?” she asks.
“You had a little chili,” I say, bringing my thumb to my mouth, cock twitching at her soft inhalation.
“Oh,” she whispers, sinking into shy.
But even as I’m reaching for something to say, something that will help the shy retreat, she pushes her bowl away and picks up a slice of bread.
Something I know she likes because I’ve heard her wax poetic to the girls about the healing properties of sourdough bread with “the perfect, crunchy, chewy crust” many times over.
I just didn’t know that she loved it enough to out-eat me.
It’s impressive.
So I’m smiling when she says, “Tell me about Blake.”
My smile widens.
“You love him.”
“I do.” I nod. “He’s hilarious and smart and a”—I wink at her—“pain in my ass. But he’s my pain in the ass and he always has my back.
” I push away my own empty bowl and snag one of the few remaining pieces of bread.
“I trust him to tell me when I’m being a dumbass and know that he’ll help me get my head straight. ”
“I love that for you.”
“Me too,” I say quietly. “He’s all the best parts of me and none of the bad.”
Her head tilts to the side again, ponytail swinging. “What are the bad parts?”
“You expect me to give you that ammunition?”
She laughs. “Yes, I do.”
Hell, if I wouldn’t give it to her.
But before I can, she stands up and takes our empty bowls to the sink.
“I can get that,” I say, following her and snagging the dishes out of her hands.
“I—”
“You cooked. I’ll wash up.”
“I dumped things in a crockpot, that’s hardly cooking.”
“Stubborn.” I tug at the end of her ponytail.
“I’m not the one who’s being stubborn,” she says as I move to the sink.
“Why don’t you tell me about that?” I nod toward the pile of papers on the corner of the island.
She grabs the rest of the dirty dishes, drops them into the sink, then turns and leans back against the counter as I start washing our bowls. “Papers to grade.”
“That’s a big stack.”
Her mouth twitches.
“What?”
“There’s a joke there, is all.” She smirks. “Too much time around hockey players.”
“Rude.”
“Maybe.” Her smirk widens. “Or maybe, rude will be asking you what it is the guys give you shit about.” She winks. “You did promise to dish after I spilled my guts about my boss.”
“You’re right,” I say as I put the bowls in the dishwasher. “I did say that.”
She scoops up the leftovers into a container, puts it in the fridge. “Well?”
“Well what?” I ask, being deliberately obtuse.
“Well, share all the gory details, my friend.”
“Maybe I will.” I wipe my hands on a towel. “For the right price.”