Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Cal
When the series comes to a close, trailers for other documentaries start to play.
Snow still falls outside, blanketing the city in that quiet hush only a storm can pull off.
Noelle stretches beside me, arms over her head, the hem of that too-big flannel pulling tight across her thighs before she lets out a breath and sinks deeper into the cushions.
She hasn’t looked at me in a solid two minutes. Which means she’s thinking again.
She shifts. Fidgets. Drums her fingers lightly on the couch arm, like she’s trying to wear the quiet down to nothing.
“I can’t watch anymore TV,” she mutters finally. “Got any cards?”
I blink. “Cards?”
“You know—rectangles? Numbers? Suits?” She tilts her head, lips curved just enough to knock the air sideways in my lungs. “Or are you one of those guys who only plays poker on an app and still loses?”
Why do I like that smartass mouth so much?
I shake my head with a chuckle, then push up off the couch. “Top drawer in the sideboard.”
She follows me to the cabinet, bare feet soft on the floor. My eyes stay on her as I hand over the deck.
She’s not even trying to distract me. That’s what kills me. She’s not trying to flirt. Not leaning into anything.
It’s just her being here.
Wearing my clothes and being in my space.
Looking at me like she belongs to me.
It does something to me I’m not built to handle.
“Texas Hold’em?” I ask, mostly to distract myself.
“Works for me,” she says, flipping her hair over one shoulder like she knows I’m watching her mouth instead of the cards.
“What ya got we can bet with?”
I think for a minute then head to the pantry. I come back with a bag of mini marshmallows.
She raises a brow at me. “Hey, they’ll work just fine. Plus they’re delicious.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
I give her a “yeah right” look, which makes her giggle. And I like that sound far more than I should.
We set up on the coffee table, cross-legged on the rug. The room’s gone warmer from the heat kicking on, but it’s nothing compared to the pulse in my chest when her knee knocks against mine under the table.
She doesn’t move it. Doesn’t apologize. Just deals the first hand like it’s no big thing.
I can feel her body heat through the cotton. I can smell her shampoo—something clean, soft, a little like citrus. And beneath that, me.
My flannel, my detergent, my space.
“Bet’s one marshmallow,” she says, tossing one from the bag into the center of the table. “Raise me, and it’s two.”
“High stakes,” I murmur, still watching her lips move.
The cards slap lightly against the wood. My knee brushes hers again.
And every time she leans forward, that flannel dips, giving me a glimpse of the curve of her collarbone and the sharp edge of restraint I’m running low on.
I shouldn't want this to keep going. Shouldn’t want to lock the world out for another night just to watch her giggle when I make silly jokes. But I do.
God help me, I do.
We’ve burned through four rounds of poker and half a bag of marshmallows.
Noelle's winning streak is questionable, but I haven’t exactly been trying to stop her. Not when she laughs like that every time I lose—full-bodied, unfiltered, and bright enough to crack through the walls I forgot I still had up.
She’s leaned back against the couch now, sock-covered toes tucked beneath her, hoodie sleeves shoved past her elbows. One of mine—again. Swamped in it, buried in it. And hell if that doesn’t do something to me I shouldn’t name.
“You’re not even trying,” she says, grinning like she’s onto me.
I toss down another crap hand. “What gave it away?”
She stretches her arms overhead, spine arching just enough to drag my attention where it shouldn’t linger. “Could be the way you fold with nothing in the pot. Or maybe the fact that you flinch every time I smile at you.”
“I do not flinch.”
“Oh, baby. You definitely flinch.”
The word baby hits me low. Not because it means anything—she tosses it out like punctuation—but because it sounds too damn natural coming from her mouth.
I clear my throat. “You ever try not being a menace?”
She shrugs one shoulder, then leans forward on her elbows. Her eyes sparkle. “You ever play the slap game?”
I blink. “What, like...third grade recess?”
Her grin widens. “Exactly like third grade recess. C’mon. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“I’m not playing a children’s game.”
“Because you’ll lose.”
“Because I’m an adult.”
“Who’s scared to get slapped, apparently.”
That gets me. I reach for the deck of cards to move it aside, dragging it across the coffee table with the flat of my hand. “Fine. But when I win, you admit you’re the problem.”
She places her palms up, daring. “Only if you win.”
I settle my hands lightly on top of hers—warm against warm, the kind of contact that shouldn’t mean anything and somehow means too much.
Her fingers twitch beneath mine, and I feel it all the way up my arms, like a ripple of static.
“You ready?” she asks, voice suddenly quieter.
Not even a little. “Always.”
She moves fast, but I’m faster. I jerk my hands back before she makes contact, grinning as she huffs in frustration.
“That was a warm-up,” she says, resetting. “I was going easy on you.”
“Right.”
She tries again. Misses again. This time she yelps when I move just in time, and I can’t help the low laugh that slips out. It’s the first time all day my chest doesn’t feel tight.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” she mutters, cheeks pink.
“You started it.”
We reset. Again. Fingers brush. Palms slap. Her hair falls forward when she leans in, and the smell of her shampoo hits me hard—some soft, warm thing I don’t have a name for but already associate with her.
It goes straight to my head, grounding me and undoing me in equal measure.
“You flinched,” she accuses, jabbing a finger at me.
“You blinked.”
“You flinched first.”
“You’re making up rules now.”
“Maybe.”
She lunges, trying to slap the top of my hand, but I dodge and grab her wrists instead, twisting just enough to throw her off balance. Her laughter bubbles up, wild and breathless, and it’s fucking everything.
Somehow we’re closer now. Knees brushing. My fingers still wrapped around her wrists. Her hair a curtain between us, her breath feathering across my jaw.
And just like that, the game stops.
Her hands go still in mine. My pulse slams against my ribs like it’s trying to get out. She looks up, and our faces are close—too close. Her mouth is right there. Parted. Pink. Breath hitching like she feels it too.
Every molecule in my body pulls tight, heat crawling under my skin, coiling low in my gut. My hands don’t move, but my grip tightens, just slightly. She doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
The laughter fades, replaced by something heavier. Slower. A current we’re both caught in now, neither one of us willing to break it.
She looks down at our hands, then back at me.
“Best two out of three?” she whispers, like it’s a joke, but her voice is different now—softer, laced with something unspoken.
I don’t answer. Because if I open my mouth right now, I’ll say something I can’t take back.
And if I move even a fraction closer, I won’t stop.
Her laugh still echoes in my ears, soft and wrecked from too much teasing and not enough space.
“I need water,” she says, breathless as she pulls away, and I let her go. “You want anything?”
She has no idea how bad I want something, but it isn’t water.
I follow her without answering. Not for the water. Just to keep her in front of me.
To stay in motion before the silence swallows the want clawing up my spine.
The kitchen glows under low pendant lights, making the room feel warm and cozy. She moves across the hardwood like she lives here.
Like this isn’t strange or temporary.
She reaches for a glass in the cabinet above the sink. The hoodie riding up just enough to flash a strip of skin above the waistband of her sweatpants.
I should look away.
I don’t.
She fills the glass. Sips like she didn’t just turn my bloodstream into fire.
“For a hockey player,” she says, tossing a smirk over her shoulder, “I expected you’d have faster reflexes.”
I arch a brow. “Did you now? I think you missed me every time.”
“I was letting you win. I felt bad for kicking your ass in poker.”
“Your winning is questionable.”
She shrugs one shoulder, all fake innocence. “So, what now? You gonna sulk?”
Again, with the smart mouth. What does it say about me that it turns me the fuck on?
“Thinking of throwing something.”
Her laugh tumbles low and easy. Every part of my body tightens.
She’s too close. Her hand grazes my forearm as she sets the glass in the sink. Her hip brushes mine as she shifts, slow and unhurried.
I should move.
But then she turns. Looks up.
And I snap.
One step. That’s all it takes.
My hands find her hips, grip tight. I walk her backward until her spine hits the edge of the counter with a soft gasp.
Then I cover that smart mouth with my own, kissing the shit out of her.
Like I’ve been waiting through a goddamn war just to taste her. Like it’s the only thing that might shut down the ache buzzing under my skin.
Her breath stutters and it takes her a moment to catch up, but when she does, her hands fist in my shirt, dragging me closer, crushing space between us like she’s starving for me too.
My mouth finds hers again and again, rough and hungry, stubble scraping her jaw. She moans into it, low and desperate, and I swear I nearly lose it right there.
I angle my hips tighter against hers. Feel the heat between us blaze hotter than the room. Her spine arches to meet mine, hands sliding up under the hem of my shirt like she’s been dying to touch more.
The counter digs into her back. Her thighs press against mine. Her mouth opens under mine like a dare.
Our tongues curl together, and it’s the type of kiss you never want to end.
I’ve kissed women before. Fast, forgettable. Fun.
But not like this.
Not like she matters.
Not like I do.
Not like it means something.
Because it does.
I pull back a fraction, breathing hard. Her lashes flutter. Her grip stays locked in my shirt like she doesn’t know how to let go.
“We should stop,” she whispers.
I still. My pulse howls in my ears.
She doesn’t look away. Doesn’t move.
“Not because I want to,” she says, softer now. “But because nothing good can come from this.”
And fuck, that lands.
I nod. Just once.
My hands are still on her hips.
I don’t let go.
Not yet.
Because this is probably the only time I’ll get to touch her, and I’m just not ready to watch her go.