5. Peyton
PEYTON
I watch him move around the kitchen, muttering curses under his breath.
Cabinet doors open, close, then open again. Then comes another irritated sound.
My lips twitch. “Oh my God,” I say slowly. “You don’t have food.”
Daltyn freezes with the refrigerator door open, blue eyes narrowing at me from across the kitchen. “I have food.”
“You have ketchup, coffee creamer, and approximately seventeen bottles of water.”
His jaw tightens. I grin wider.
The kitchen somehow manages to look exactly like him. Clean. Expensive. Controlled. Matte black finishes. Dark cabinets. Warm pendant lighting hanging over the giant island in the middle. Everything looks untouched.
Apparently, this man survives exclusively on protein, caffeine, and rage.
“You were gone all summer,” I continue. “Now you’re back but distracted by my busted ankle, so you forgot to grocery shop. ”
“Thanks for the replay. But I’m not distracted.”
I stare at him. “What were you doing outside?”
“Getting the luggage.”
“With your phone. I saw you on it.”
He looks up at me, a slow smile crossing his face. The sight does far more to me than it should.
“Watching me, huh?”
“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m stuck sitting on my ass with nothing to do right now but watch.”
He smirks, then says, “I ordered you a CAM boot.”
My brows raise. “You what?”
“Ordered you a medical boot. You’ll be able to bear weight. It’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. It’s called being prepared.”
“It’s called being overbearing. I never asked?—”
“You never ask for anything.” He closes the refrigerator door, then opens another cabinet, revealing salt, pepper, a few spices, and a jar of honey.
“Jesus. I can’t believe you ordered me that.”
He opens the refrigerator door again and grabs two bottles of water. Then he slams the door harder than necessary.
“You’re spiraling.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re muttering at an empty refrigerator like it personally failed you.”
A reluctant smirk tugs at his mouth before he shakes his head and opens a drawer near the island. “Fine. We’ll order food.”
He tosses a stack of takeout menus onto the small table beside me before grabbing his phone. “Tell me where you want to order. ”
I blink.
“You keep menus?”
“I live thirty minutes from town.”
“Fair.”
He returns with a bottle of water for me, then heads back to the kitchen, his fingers moving over his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Making a list of things I need from the grocery store tomorrow.”
“You use your Notes app for that?”
“Of course.” He glances up at me, then resumes typing.
“Me, too.” I grab the menus, trying to hide my smile.
We have something in common.
I flip through them while he leans against the opposite side of the island, arms folded across his chest, his phone in his hand. Like he’s waiting for me to figure out what I want. The warm kitchen lighting catches the sharp lines of his jaw and the dark stubble there.
Stupidly attractive.
“This Italian place looks like a winner,” I finally say.
Daltyn glances down. “Yeah. Rossi’s is good.”
“You’ve eaten there before?”
“Connor dragged me there once after practice.”
“That sentence sounds like a threat.”
“It was.”
I laugh softly.
God. It feels weirdly normal talking to him like this. Like we weren’t tangled up in hurricanes, Vegas chaos, psycho exes, and whatever this thing simmering between us is.
Daltyn starts ordering on his phone while I watch.
“What are you doing?” I ask .
His eyes flick up briefly. “Online ordering exists, Peyton.”
“Look at you being technologically advanced.”
“I’m a professional athlete, not a caveman.”
“Debatable.”
His mouth twitches again. “What do you want?”
“I can’t decide.”
“You looked at the menu for ten minutes.”
That’s an exaggeration. It hasn’t even been five.
“And every option sounds good.”
He stares at me for a beat before nodding once and returning to his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Ordering.”
“Daltyn.”
No answer.
A few minutes later, he sets the phone down.
“What did you order?”
“Lasagna. Fettuccine Alfredo. Spaghetti. Salad. Garlic bread.”
My eyes widen. “That’s enough food to feed a hockey team.”
“We’ll have leftovers.”
“You’re completely unbothered by spending that much money on pasta?”
His brows pull together like the thought genuinely confuses him. “Should I be?”
Probably not for a professional hockey goalie living in a cabin hidden in the middle of the woods that looks like it belongs in an expensive architecture magazine.
Still feels weird though.
My gaze drifts toward the suitcases sitting near the hallway. “I should unpack. ”
“No.”
“I need clothes.”
“I’ll unpack.”
I stare at him. “You’re not unpacking my stuff alone.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you absolutely are not.”
He sighs heavily, like I’m the difficult one here, before pushing away from the island. “Fine.”
The next thing I know, he’s scooping me up in his arms again.
“Daltyn—”
“You’re staying off the ankle.”
“I can hop.”
“You’re not hopping anywhere.”
My pulse flutters traitorously as he carries me down the hallway.
The cabin gets quieter back here. Softer somehow. Wall sconces cast warm light across dark wooden floors while framed black-and-white mountain photographs line the walls.
He nudges open a door with his shoulder.
The guest room is pristine. A large bed with dark gray bedding sits against one wall beneath a window overlooking endless trees. Matching nightstands. No clutter.
It looks untouched. Like no one’s ever actually stayed here before.
Daltyn lowers me carefully onto the bed before grabbing an extra pillow and propping my ankle up.
“Comfortable?”
“You ask that like I’m ninety.”
“You’re injured.”
“I’m not dying.”
“That’s still debatable. ”
I snort softly. “You’re the one making a big deal about it.”
He gives me a look.
My gaze sweeps around the room again. “This place is ridiculously clean.”
“I have help.”
That surprises me for some reason.
“Like... a cleaning service?”
His expression softens slightly. “Her name’s Thelma. Sweet older lady from town. Her husband passed a few years ago, and her kids are grown. She comes by once a week.”
“Thelma,” I repeat thoughtfully.
Something tells me Ford’s Gram will eventually adore her. Or corrupt her. Possibly both.
Daltyn grabs my suitcase and sets it on the bed beside me before unzipping it.
I gasp.
He pauses. “What?”
I stare at him wide-eyed. “My panties are in there.”
Daltyn freezes.
His gaze lifts slowly to mine, and for one brief second, something hot and startled flashes across his face before he locks it down again.
“It’ll be...” His throat bobs. “Fine.” His voice shakes slightly.
No, it will not.
But I might as well enjoy this.
Daltyn clears his throat and opens the closet. “Tell me where you want things.”
I point toward the dresser. “The plastic bag has my dirty clothes. Including my panties. They need to be washed.”
His shoulders tense .
“I have a couple of clean pairs left,” I continue innocently. “But you’re not washing my dirty underwear.”
“No,” he says quickly. “Thelma handles laundry, too.”
“Oh.” I nod seriously. “Okay then. She can wash them.”
His eyes narrow like he knows I’m enjoying this way too much.
“What I couldn’t fit in the bag on the right side needs washed,” I explain. “The left side is clean.”
“Very organized.”
“Sounds suspiciously like a compliment.” I shift slightly on the bed to get comfortable.
Daltyn straightens. “What’s wrong?”
I blink. “Nothing. I’m adjusting myself.”
His shoulders loosen marginally.
“Put the jeans and sweaters in the closet,” I continue. “Pajamas go in the second drawer. But I’ll need a pair to change into because I’m not lounging around in jeans all night.”
He pulls out a tiny sleep set and frowns. “These are too flimsy for Vermont nights.”
“It’s September.”
“It gets cold.”
“I lived in Florida, remember?”
His eyes flick toward the suitcase again. “We’re going shopping.”
I laugh. “You? Shopping?”
He gives me a flat look. “Yes. Why?”
“Have you ever gone shopping with a woman before?”
“No.”
“Oh, this is going to be fun.”
His eyes narrow suspiciously.
He looks back at my belongings. “You only own one hoodie? ”
“The others were ruined in the hurricane.”
“That’s a problem.”
“I survived somehow.”
“You won’t survive the Vermont winter.”
My stomach does a weird little flip at how serious he sounds about that.
Winter? I won’t be here that long.
“I’ll give you one of mine,” he mutters.
Then he grabs two pajama sets and turns toward me. “Which one?”
I point toward the navy set. “Those.”
He puts the others away before freezing again.
I glance over and nearly choke trying not to laugh.
He’s staring directly at my bras and panties like they personally offend him.
“Top drawer,” I say sweetly. “Bras on the left. Panties on the right.”
His cheeks turn faintly red as he obeys.
This is fun.
“Oh, wait,” I say suddenly. “Can I see the black ones?”
Daltyn investigates the drawer cautiously. “The... lacy ones?”
“Yup.”
He scoops up the entire pile before I stop him.
“Just the black pair.”
He goes completely still.
Slowly, very carefully, he peels the black lace panties from the middle of the pile like he’s diffusing a bomb.
“You’re enjoying this,” he accuses.
I give him my sweetest smile. “Maybe a little.”
He walks over and holds them out. Then jerks them back before I can take them .
“Hm.” His eyes meet mine. “Maybe I should hold these hostage since you’re being bratty.”
I gasp. “I am not bratty.”
His lips twitch. “You are.”
He holds up the black lace panties by one delicate edge. “You want these?”
“No. You can put them in the drawer.”
He stares at me for a minute before he shoves them in his pocket.
My eyes fly wide. “What are you doing?”
“Playing your game.”
I glare at him. “Not a wise choice. I don’t like to lose.”
Daltyn leans over me, so close that his breath feathers over my skin. “Neither do I, sweetheart. But if you don’t believe me, check out my stats.”
Then he shuts the dresser drawer and opens my carry-on.
“Just tell me where you want this stuff. The bathroom is right across the hall.”
“Does this mean?—”
“No. I’m carrying you there.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “Anything else you need in here?”
“Just my shoes.”
He digs through the bag. “You only have flip flops.”
“Isn’t that better than heels?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he grabs my non-injured foot and squats down.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking this other death trap off in case you somehow get to your feet before I can stop you.”
“It’s not a death trap.”
“Wouldn’t want you hurting the other ankle.” He removes my heeled sandal, then looks up at me. “Or bust your ass.”
His eyes glimmer. The way he says it has a hint of concern mixed with flirtation. It’s dangerously hot.
“Come on.” He scoops me off the bed, my carry-on hanging from his arm. “Let’s head to the bathroom.”
“Wait. I want to change.”
He tilts me so I can grab my pajamas, then carries me from the room.
“Don’t even offer to help me change.”
He strides into the bathroom, lowers the toilet lid, and sets me on it.“Damn,” he smirks. “I was just getting ready to ask.”
I hit him with my pajamas, and he chuckles.
“Okay.” He sets the bag beside me. “Just tell me where you want everything.”
I spot a small pack of tampons... then freeze. My eyes widen.
Shit. I forgot I put that in there.
His gaze follows mine to the zippered pouch.
I reach for it, but he’s quicker.
“What’s this?” His eyes are on mine, a challenge in them.
“Give that to me.”
He pulls it out of my reach and stands.
“No. Don’t open?—”
Too late.
He raises his brows, then looks up at me.
Horrified, I watch as he lifts it from the bag. “A vibrator, huh?” He’s so smug, I want to smack him. And would, if I were closer.
“Do you have one, too?” I blink up at him innocently .
He chuckles. “No, sweetheart. No need for one.” He turns it in his hand, studying it. “That’s awfully small.”
I snort. “Really?”
He shrugs.
Don’t say it.
“How do you know? You measure it against yourself?”
Fuck. I said it.
“No need. At a glance, I know I’m way bigger.”
I try not to imagine what he looks like. I’ve felt his hardness against me when we kissed in Vegas and Key West.
But we’ve never fooled around.
The memory of Key West surfaces. If the hurricane hadn’t hit, we probably would’ve done a lot more than fool around that night.
Which feels dangerous now that I’m living in his house.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
He grins, moving a step closer.
“Where do you want your vibrator?”