Chapter Twenty-Four – Fawn
Why am I nervous?
Seriously, why? I’ve been here before. They’ve seen me crying, puking, halfway out of it, looking like a gremlin dragged through a hedge. Get it together, Fawn.
My hands find the steering wheel. I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth.
It’s not a date. I’m dropping off their thank-you gift and asking my hockey questions. That’s all.
So why in the hell is my stomach doing somersaults? Will they think I’ve actually made myself pretty for them? I kind of did, but that’s beside the point.
My gaze wanders to my short, floral summer dress. Because, of course, I had to change out of my jean skirt, which was rubbing against my hips when I sat, but now, it looks like — Ugh. Okay. Now, I’m overthinking — spiraling — screw it. Just get out of the car and walk up to the house, Fawn.
I check my makeup in the rearview mirror one last time, take a deep breath, and get out. It’s warm out tonight, and I can feel it on my skin.
With a swallow that does nothing to calm me down, I trek up the walkway. The bush-lined path makes it seem longer than it really is, as if the house itself is deliberately moving away from me.
Before I step onto the porch, I tilt my head back. The full moon is there: huge, shining, framed precisely in the dark limbs of the trees at the back of their property.
For a second, I want to be up there rather than down here. Moon girl, totally relaxed, no anxiety. The wooden porch creaks when I finally take a step, and the noise echoes through the silence.
I lift my hand to knock, but the door opens first.
And there stands Dylan.
Warm grin. Mussed hair. A white T-shirt makes his shoulders look huge and wide — so casual.
He fills the entire doorway like he’d been waiting. “Hey, princess,” he coos.
And just like that, my heart forgets how to beat properly.
Dylan swings the door wide open, beckoning me inside, and when I slip past him, I’m assaulted by a smell — so crisp and green, like the forest after the rain, but with the rich undercurrent of leather. It makes my chest expand like my lungs are starving.
I follow him into the living room, and good God — they’ve cleaned.
Like, seriously cleaned. It smells like someone has washed the house in Febreze, the odd sock decorations gone from the chairs, and the coffee table isn’t cluttered in the slightest. It’s adorable that they felt the need to clean, and it kind of melts my heart.
“Torin’s handling a call out,” Dylan says as he walks toward the kitchen. “Then he’ll swing by the store. Won’t take long. Want a drink? Snack?”
“Uh, water’s fine. I’m never touching alcohol again.”
“Why? You’re funny as hell when you’re drunk,” he says, grabbing a bottle.
“Oh yeah? And I’m not funny most of the time?”
He returns, handing me the water. “Funny-looking,” he jokes with a wink. “I’m just teasing you, princess.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask . . . why do you call me princess?” I challenge, lifting my chin.
He doesn’t reply immediately. His green eyes linger, tracking from my legs to my waist, up and around my chest, locking on mine. The tension it creates in me is unbearable.
“That’s what you are . . .” he says in a low, warm voice. “All princesses are beautiful . . . and usually out of reach.”
My cheeks burn at beautiful, but my brain snags on the last part. “Out of reach?”
“Yeah. Locked away. Waiting for the right man to come along.”
“And what — do you think you’re the right man?” I take a sip of water to conceal the tremble in my voice.
Dylan does not crack a smile. He does not back away either.
Instead, he closes the gap with no attempt at subtlety at all. He leans in close enough that I can feel his breath against my cheek.
“I think—” His gaze darts to my mouth for the briefest moment. “For you, I could be.”
The way he delivers it — slow, sure, with a bit of teasing in his voice — strikes me hard. My knees want to give out from under me. I struggle to screw the lid back onto my water bottle; my hands aren’t cooperating.
Dylan moves quickly, steadying my wrist in a surprisingly gentle grasp. “Whoa, are you okay? I didn’t mean to make you nervous. Let me help.”
If he only knew how nervous I am, but I need to remind myself he doesn’t know I pictured him and Torin in the shower the other day.
Dylan screws the lid back on the water bottle and places it on the coffee table.
I clear my throat. “I’m fine. Just tired. Did you wanna get started with these questions?”
He smirks like he already knows exactly the kind of chaos going on in my head.
But thank God he doesn’t.
Taking a seat on the couch, I get out my notebook and a pen. He sits close — close enough that his thigh brushes mine. When he leans back, the denim pulls tight across the front of his jeans and . . . oh God, I can see his bulge. His . . . large bulge.
My eyes cut away before I can stop them, and I know exactly how guilty that looks.
“Right,” I say, attempting to remove the tension from gawking. “Let’s do a quick question round.”
Dylan flashes me that cocky grin. “Okay, okay — just so long as I get to ask you things too.”
This will be . . . interesting.
“I’m cool with that. First question: how many players are there in a game?”
He doesn’t even blink. “Six on the ice per team at a time.” Then, without skipping a beat, “What’s your favorite color?”
I squint at him. “That’s your first question?”
“Yup.”
I humor him. “Well, I like to watch the sunset, so . . . orange.”
Dylan nods like he’s storing that away for later. “Next question for me?”
“How long does a hockey game last?”
“Around sixty minutes, but there are three twenty-minute periods in a game, with intermissions after the first and second periods. Plus overtime. What’s your favorite food?”
I bring the pen up and tap it against my cheek, thinking. “Penne alla vodka.”
He hums approvingly. “Nice. Okay. Hit me again.”
“What’s the difference between a minor penalty and a major penalty?”
“A minor is two minutes, a major is five, and you stay in the penalty box the whole time. A goal can’t rescue you,” he answers quickly then leans back, eyes narrowing playfully. “When’s your birthday?”
I laugh under my breath. “My birthday is technically the twenty-ninth of February, but I was born on a leap year. So I can pick the twenty-eighth or the first of March.”
“Interesting . . . Nothing’s stopping you from having two birthdays, you know. Next hockey one.”
I bite back a smile. “What’s icing?”
“You mean on a cake? Or?” He laughs. “I’m joking. It’s when a player makes the puck go cleanly across both the center line and the other team’s goal line without hitting anyone in between. Basically, no cheating with long shots.” He pauses. “What are you most afraid of?”
I blink. “Wow. That’s a deep question . . .”
“Fast round, princess. No time to be shy.”
“Fine. I hate deep water. I can’t touch the bottom.”
He nods, softer this time. “Noted.”
Skimming my notes, I ask another question. “What’s a power play?”
Light sparks up his eyes. “When the opposing team gets an infraction or penalty, a player is sent to the penalty box for a certain number of minutes. So, your team has more players on the ice because they lost theirs.” He leans in like he’s about to deliver a secret.
“What’s the first thing you notice when you like someone? ”
My pulse spikes. The hair on my arms stands up. Of course, he’d go there. “Why . . . why do you want to know that, Dylan?”
His mouth curves. “Because I want to know what you notice first.”
I attempt to turn away from him — anything to get rid of the spell he is weaving around me. But Dylan places his finger under my chin to turn my gaze back to him. It’s phenomenally gentle, and I have no chance of resisting it.
“I noticed your smile . . .” I breathe out against my will.
My chest constricts as I look at him. “The way you’re all confident without even trying.
How the whole room changes when you walk in; people have to look.
” My voice trembles as his face draws closer, our breath mingling.
“And how—” I swallow. “How hot you are.”
His lips are hovering a breath away from mine, so close, I can smell his minty toothpaste. I’m already moving before I realize I’m doing it.
“I asked what’s the first thing you notice when you like someone . . . not me.”
He’s caught me out. I swallow, and it’s loud enough that I immediately wish I hadn’t.
His face relaxes with something I can’t quite define. His thumb glides across my bottom lip, so lightly, I feel warmth flutter through me.
And then, at last, the distance between us disappears.
Our lips meet in a kiss that erases all thought from my head.
It’s intense from the very beginning, as if he has been restraining himself for days and finally has unleashed all the pent-up passion.
His hand moves to the back of my head, his fingers gently weaving through my hair as he pulls me closer.
He kisses me like he’s been waiting for a lifetime.
My hand simply rests on his chest without thinking, sensing the warmth from under his shirt. His heart is pounding like mad under my hand — fast, real, keeping the same rhythm as mine.
He keeps one hand cradling the back of my head while the other rests at my waist, pulling me toward him as if he’s scared I might slip away.
Our tongues meet, and my whole body ignites. In an instant, all I can think about is him: how he tastes, how he feels, how this kiss is beginning to unravel an ache between my legs.
A little moan escapes from me. Dylan pulls back just far enough so our lips aren’t touching anymore, but our foreheads are pressed together, exchanging breath. His thumb trails along my cheek, so gentle, it steals more breath from me.
“I noticed everything about you, Fawn,” he murmurs. “How beautiful you are.”
Before I can process the words, he kisses me again — slower this time, lingering — then pulls back just far enough to look into my eyes.