Chapter 11
LIBBY
Once the kitchen is cleaned up after dinner, Jordan and I both settle on the couch in front of my TV.
“Hmmm,” he says when he turns it on. “Maybe we should go to my house.”
I turn to him. “What’s wrong?”
He gives a little grimace. “Your TV is kind of small.”
My mouth drops open. “I think it’s something like sixty inches,” I defend, though I’m not sure why I’m offended that he thinks my TV is small.
He holds up his hands, laughing. “Sorry. Mine is ninety-eight. Easier to see all the players and stuff. But I’ll make do.”
“I’m sorry for my poverty,” I say dryly.
“No problem.” His smile is … disarming. I quickly look away. He taps a few things on his phone and then connects it to the TV. I’m pretty sure he’s pulled up an old game of his from a couple years ago.
“So,” he says, turning to me before he starts it. “Tell me how basic I need to be.”
“I’ve been trying to study up on it. So I know the positions and stuff and the basic rules, but strategy is beyond me.”
He’s sitting a respectable distance away, but Jordan is a pretty big guy.
Over six feet and beefy enough to rival some of the guys on the Pumas.
He reaches over and pats my leg. “That’s why you’ve got me,” he says.
He pulls his hand back quickly. The touch was purely friendly, but it still leaves warmth where his hand was.
The problem is that I like when Jordan flirts with me, when he touches me, when it’s clear that this thing between us is more than friendly—which is what I keep insisting.
But I have to stand by my boundaries. I thought I liked Grayson’s attention too.
I know plenty of women who wanted the attention of the men that ended up hurting them.
I believe Jordan’s a good guy. I wouldn’t have hired him otherwise.
I certainly wouldn’t have married him. But I can protect myself best if I don’t get distracted by his good looks, his kindness, and the way he cares for me.
But it feels like I’m fighting myself. He’s the type of guy the counselor at my firm advises our clients to look for: someone who respects your boundaries without excuse, someone who’s willing to serve you, someone ready to be open and honest.
He’s just also … so charming and likable.
So easy to believe in. I can’t help but think of the earnest way Grayson Hollis stared into my eyes when he told me that Will had gotten him kicked off the team out of pure spite, that Grayson had loved Anna and Will didn’t like it, so he kept them apart.
Unease churns in my stomach with those memories.
I remind myself that Grayson groomed me purposefully, that he used the power imbalance in our age difference and pitted me against my family.
I want to believe that just because Jordan flirts with ease doesn’t mean he’s the same as Grayson.
But what if he’s just patient? What if he just knows how to act for me to gain his trust and soon that will drop?
Maybe he’ll start coercing me into things because we’re married.
Because I have money. Because he sacrificed so much for me.
“Libby?” Jordan asks. “You ready?”
I snap quickly out of my reverie, all over his hand on my knee for a couple seconds. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He presses play on the game, pointing out the positions in real time. “Our first-line center is the type of guy I think we should build a team around. Strong, a good leader, and smart.” He pauses and points to the screen to show me the player he wants me to follow, then presses play again.
“He’s like the quarterback of hockey,” I say, thinking of a YouTube video I watched to help understand the game. I focus on the center’s movements as we watch—he skates lightning fast on transitions and seems to anticipate where the puck is going to be.
“Yep.” Jordan nods. “He sets the tone. He’s talking to his team, calling the plays, directing everyone.”
It’s hard not to stare at Jordan instead of the screen.
He leans forward on the couch, an intense position I recognize from the men in my family when they’re watching football.
He looks so at ease in my home, and that’s surprisingly attractive.
He wears black sweats and a white Outlaws team T-shirt.
His feet are bare, and I can’t explain why that’s so incredibly sexy.
Men’s feet are not actually that attractive.
But him sitting here, casual, comfortable—it’s hot.
I can picture him sprawled out on the couch, holding me against him and kissing me during commercials.
“A lot of guys are focused on when they’re getting the call-up to the pros, and that’s fair,” Jordan goes on, bringing my attention back to the task at hand.
I force myself to concentrate and stop getting distracted by how pretty he is.
(But that jaw. It’s a killer. It has to be mentioned.) “We need guys who can be there for us in the here and now. There’s a kid coming up out of University of Denver that’s a great option.
He’s steady, isn’t getting good looks by the pros because he’s not making big plays all the time, so perfect to sign onto our roster.
Plus he has ties to the area now, so he might be willing to work with us.
I mean, he’ll be snapped up fast once we’ve got him developed… ”
He goes on, dipping back into terminology and strategies I can’t follow. I bite back a smile and nod along. It was brilliant asking him to be my consultant. He’s so smart, and he’s obviously been doing his homework since I hired him.
“What?” he asks, suddenly stopping.
“Hmm?” I have no idea what the last thing he said was. Did he ask me a question? Want my input?
“You’re staring.” One side of his lips starts drawing up, like he knows exactly what’s happening.
“Because I’m impressed,” I say quickly.
“By my hockey strategies…” His voice is full of insinuation. He has a full-blown grin now. Can this man read minds?
“Yes,” I insist, my tone defensive. “You’re very smart.”
“I am very smart.” He nonchalantly raises his arm to drape across the couch, flexing as he does so.
My face is so hot. And the huge biceps aren’t helping anything. I try not to let my gaze stray to them … too much, but he catches me and his smile is very satisfied and smirky.
I point a finger at him. “This feels like flirting.”
He laughs. “No, no, no. We were talking about my incredible hockey knowledge. No flirting here, unless that’s code for something?” he says innocently.
I narrow my eyes at him. I’m also holding back laughter at his ridiculousness. Stop liking him so much, Libby!
“Would you care to talk about my thoughts on coaching?” He wiggles his eyebrows.
I can’t hold back laughter anymore. “You are hopeless.” I throw up my hands. I should be pushing back, lecturing him, doing something about this underhanded way he’s skirting the rule I made. But I don’t have the heart.
There’s a part of me that wants him to break every rule I set for this marriage.