4. Kai
CHAPTER FOUR
KAI
Coffee. Butter. Eggs breaking. The scrape of a pan on a burner.
I keep my eyes closed and let my brain do its thing—skating laps on its rink, building a morning out of sounds and smells. Somewhere on the fourth or fifth lap, I remember there’s a man in my kitchen. He came here last night, and I haven’t thrown him out yet. That’s the part I can’t skate past.
Everything comes back in pieces. The cab. The kisses. Oskar making decisions so I didn’t have to. For once I wasn’t tracking, staying sharp, and running the room three moves ahead. I let go. Handed over control and allowed him to do what he wanted. My body remembers it better than I do.
I exhale and drag a hand over my face.
“God morgon.”
He’s standing in the doorway. Bare feet, briefs, and the T-shirt I wore to the game. Mine, on him. My chest tightens, though I try to ignore it. His hair is a mess. Sometime during the night, my fingers were tangled in it.
It’s a close call, but I don’t tell him to come back to bed.
“What’s that mean?” I ask instead. “Goo moron?”
His laugh is morning-rough, and I feel it in my gut. “Breakfast is ready,” he says, nodding toward the kitchen. “You need nourishment.”
“Didn’t take you for the domestic type.”
“I did not take you for a man who sleeps until ten-thirty.”
I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “I don’t. I was up all night.”
He turns to leave. “Yes, I noticed.”
His ass, in painted-on briefs, is rounding the corner.
Since he is wearing mine, I grab his shirt off the floor and pull on my boxers.
I find him in the kitchen, pulling plates out of the cabinet like he lives here.
“Didn’t know the service came with breakfast,” I say, keeping my voice as dry as possible.
“Careful. Talk like that, and I will think you are impressed.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” I lean against the counter and cross my arms while he dishes up eggs, bacon, toast, and potatoes. “Didn’t even know I had potatoes.”
“Hungry?”
After last night, he must know I’m starving. “This is suspicious,” I say.
“It is breakfast.”
“No. You.” I give him a quick smirk. “This doesn’t fit with the rest of you.”
He turns, brow raised. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t seem like the kind of guy who wakes up and makes eggs for the stranger he fucked all night.”
“Good thing you are not a stranger then,” he says.
“Right. Because that would’ve been awkward.”
He slides a plate toward me, fork already on it. “Eat.”
“Bossy in the bedroom, bossy in the morning.”
“Yes.”
His answer comes so easily that I laugh.
My stomach growls, so I take a bite and then look up. “What the hell?”
He waits until he swallows. “What?”
“This is fucking delicious.”
A flash of a smile, there and gone. Oskar’s smiles seem to run in flickers, and I’m already watching for them, which is its own kind of problem.
“It’s eggs,” he says.
I point my fork at him. “It’s not eggs. It’s witchcraft.”
He waves me off. “I know what I am doing.”
“Evidently.” I take another bite and moan as I swallow.
“Careful,” he warns. “I am starting to think you only want me for my cooking.”
“No danger of that.” I give him a look. “I’m well aware of your other skills.” I rub my ass against the counter and don’t bother hiding my wince. “Still feeling them, actually.”
Two twitches of his mouth.
“So this is your move?” I ask.
“My move?”
“Yeah. Show up, wreck a guy’s sleep, make breakfast, and then disappear before it gets weird.”
He narrows his eyes. “Is it getting weird?”
It is, and I don’t know why I like it. I can count the guys who’ve spent the night here on one hand. And I’ve had them out the door by eight, while the coffee’s still hot. I run a tight ship. But now it’s ten-forty. Oskar’s barefoot at my stove, and I’m wearing his shirt.
He pours two mugs of coffee and hands me one. “You need this.”
“For?”
“Recovery.”
It’s much better than any coffee Mom and I had in Norway, and that was the best I’d ever drunk. I sip it while he stands at the window, mug in hand, looking out at a skyline he’s only known for four days.
I consider asking about his new job but think better of it. He doesn’t ask what I do, either. Good. That’s the deal, even if neither of us said it out loud.
If he knew too much about me, he might want to stay.
If I knew too much about him, I might not want him to go.
Instead of talking, I watch him. Half his face is hidden from me, and it isn’t until he turns back that I catch the set of his mouth and the cloud over those fjord-blue eyes. He looks away before I can read his expression.
“Seriously,” he says. “Too weird?”
That’s twice he’s asked. “No. Just… unprecedented.”
He looks at me like he’s trying to figure something out. I hate that I can tell the difference between a guy who’s admiring me and one who’s working through a problem. And I hate that this is the second kind.
“Finish your food,” he says.
“Is that all you’ve got?”
I’m asking for trouble, and a crooked grin tells me he knows it. He takes a step toward me, and I catch his scent before he’s close enough to touch. Sleep and salt. And something else I’d rather not think about.
“What do you want me to say?” he asks.
“I…” The rink in my head goes quiet. Very unusual. “Don’t know.”
He stays where he is while a line of sweat runs down the back of my neck.
“Are you always this annoying in the morning?” he asks.
“What do you think?”
I’ve got a comeback for everything; it’s half my personality. Our gazes lock, and we hold the look too long. I lose the staring contest on purpose and focus on my eggs.
I can’t do this.
“You should probably go,” I tell the plate. “Before you get used to this.”
The second it’s out, I take another bite, pretending my words don’t matter. If I look at him, he’ll know I don’t mean them.
“Used to what?”
Don’t answer, don’t answer, don’t—
“Free breakfast. The charming company. Don’t get attached.”
He makes a soft sound, almost a chuckle. When I look up, he’s watching me like he’s already decided something.
“Not worried,” he says.
“You should be.”
He closes the distance in two confident steps. No wasted motion, as if he knows where he’ll end up before he starts.
“Eat.” He uses his bedroom voice, the one that told me when I was allowed to come.
I huff, because the alternative is wanting him again. “You like telling me what to do.”
His gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “I am not the only one who likes it.”
I twirl the fork between my fingers. There’s at least one fidget ball in every room of this condo, but not one within reach, so the fork gets the job. I finish the eggs because it gives my hands and my mouth something to do that isn’t him. When I finish eating, I have nothing left to hide behind.
“Unbelievable,” I say.
He takes my plate and fork and sets them on the counter. Then he reaches for my hand.
I don’t even think about stopping him, which is the part that should scare me.
A minute later, we’re back in bed, and he takes me out of myself.
Makes me moan and beg, work hard for the only thing that seems to matter—getting his cock inside me again.
I don’t narrate it the way I do everything else.
No tracking or scoring it either, and I don’t stay three moves ahead.
He tells me what to do, and I do it. Fucks me and doesn’t let me come until he says so.
My head, like it did last night, goes blessedly quiet.
We sleep for a while, and when I wake up, he’s putting his clothes on. Yesterday’s shorts. His own shirt, which means he’s giving back mine. That hits me in the chest, sharp and unexpected.
He sits on the edge of the bed and looks at me. Of course, the rink in my mind picks this moment to start up again.
Don’t, I tell myself. Whatever you’re about to do, don’t.
“So,” I hear myself say. “You’re new here.
To the city.” Real smooth. “Since we… I don’t…
You…” My vision almost goes dark, and I rattle off the words before I can stop myself.
“I don’t usually meet guys I want to see again, but you’re not bad.
Would you… maybe… want to hang out sometime?
If you don’t have anything better to do? ”
The question is out, and I’d trade a year off my career to have it back. I keep my face blank, the way I do for cameras and refs. For men who get too close. Inside, I brace myself.
But he only smiles, and the noise in my head stops. God, I’m already in trouble.
“Yes,” he says. “I would enjoy spending time with my English tutor.”
An unfamiliar warmth spreads through me. “Yeah?” I ask, sounding way too young. “Cool. This week, maybe. If you’re around.”
He puts his big hand on my stomach, and—in the most American accent I’ve gotten out of him yet—says, “Okay, man. That’d be dope. I’m down when you are.”
I laugh so hard it hurts, and he’s still grinning as he climbs back on top of me.
I am going to be so fucking sore.
It’s after three when he leaves. I make lavender tea and leave his coffee mug where it sits by the sink.
Then I go to the reset room. It’s tiny, with gray walls, an extra-thick charcoal rug, a loveseat, a table, and a few things on floating shelves. I keep the amber lights low, turn on the eucalyptus diffuser, and grab two fidget balls.
The ghost of the skyline lurks behind light-filtering shades as I sit down. Thinking won’t calm my mind. The only thing that works is letting the thoughts come and not chasing any of them. So I squeeze the balls in my hands and breathe in the eucalyptus until the rink in my head finally clears.
Only now do I let myself look at what happened.
I met a guy and brought him home. Great night, better morning, and then he left. Nothing new.
Except for the part where he stayed, and I asked him to come back.
I meant it. Because I liked it.
I can’t let that go. The whole time he was here, my mind was quiet, something that never happens. He was kissing me, holding me, fucking my brains out. Controlling what I did and when. It was hot as hell.
But standing in the kitchen, telling me to eat? That’s not hot. It’s dangerous.
Hot, I understand.
Dangerous is uncharted territory.
If I had any sense, I’d text him. Make up something about needing to go on a trip and end this neatly. I’m good at neat.
You don’t become a starting goalie in the HFNA by letting plays develop. You see them coming and shut them down before the puck makes it into the net.
A little late for that, huh?
I can’t even laugh at my own joke. And I don’t get up to message him.
Instead, I sit here with cold tea and dead resolve, squeezing the life out of two fidget balls. Jesus. Less than twenty-four hours, and he’s already slipped through every defense I’ve spent years building.