Chapter 19
Trevor
The scents of sauteed onions and peppers with a hint of cumin greet me at the door before Jet headbutts my ankle, unable to slow down.
I reach down to pick up her furry body, nuzzling her black head and scratching behind her ears.
Banks usually takes his time approaching me when I get home.
I’ve never taken offense because the vet mentioned that Banks was skittish with all male staff members, probably because he’d been mistreated by a man in the past. Since I’ve brought Banks home, I’ve shown him gentle affection, patiently waiting for him to trust me.
In the meantime, it’s nice that this little fuzzball is always so excited when I get home. Her sweet little face is just what I needed after the mess at the night club. I shower her with baby talk just as Banks meows, weaving between my legs.
“Hey, buddy.” I keep my tone even, though a burst of sunshine radiates through me. “Feeling left out?”
When I enter the kitchen a second later, cradling both cats, Kenzie looks up from the stove.
“You’re home!” She beams at me, stirring what looks like vegetarian fajitas. “I made you a late-night snack because, though I know they feed you at the clubhouse, you’re always hungry.”
With the ingredients littered over my custom kitchen, she’s prepared more than a snack. A bowl of guacamole, homemade salsa, two kinds of beans, and three open tortilla bags cover the large island. Discarded chef’s knives, spice jars, and used cutting boards clutter the counter.
“Looks amazing.”
That’s all I can get out of my tight throat because there’s something so comforting about coming home to a fresh meal.
Have I ever returned from a game to have someone cooking for me?
We had a chef growing up, but often, those meals were boxed up by the time I got home.
Still delicious but not fresh. Even Rebecca, the personal chef I hire in the offseason, batches meals for me.
I’ve never considered how heartwarming it is to have someone cooking when I get home from a game.
“I looked up what would be the best, macro-wise,” Kenzie continues, unaware of my wobbly internal state. “There was a lot of information on the internet, so I made my best attempt…”
She continues to ramble about the protein content in each prepared dish while tossing seasoned chicken back into the veggies. Her words dip into the too-technical range, and my chest warms. I love when Kenzie rambles, even better if she uses language I have to look up later.
Jet wiggles once Kenzie places what looks like unseasoned, shredded chicken in their food bowls. I set down both cats as she turns off the burner.
“I made them a treat too,” she tells me, shifting the pan to the large island where the rest of the food is waiting.
As Kenzie discusses fiber and carbohydrate content, my focus snags on a long string dangling from the back of her cutoff jean shorts. Doesn’t that tickle her? It would drive me crazy. An idea surges to the front of my mind, sharp and electric, as Kenzie rearranges bowls and pots.
This abandoned string gives me the opportunity to touch Kenzie. Something I haven’t done since our kiss on the couch four days ago. True to my word, I’ve taken it slow. We’ve been more intentional about spending time together before I leave for the ballpark, but it’s all been platonic.
But now…
My fingers flex at the thought of sliding my hand from the back of Kenzie’s knee upward to catch that taunting string. Maybe removing it could be a platonic action. A friend would absolutely remove a loose thread, right?
A hard exhale leaves my nose because, no, I wouldn’t run my hand up Tenny’s leg. I’ll have to tell Kenzie about it instead. Even though it feels like every cell in my body is pouting, I open my mouth to speak.
“You’ve got—”
My words are swept into the mariachi music blasting through the kitchen speakers. Kenzie jumps at the instant influx of joyous trumpets and strumming guitar.
“Sorry,” she says, focusing on her phone to turn down the volume. “I was listening to an audiobook earlier and had the volume all the way up.”
As I step behind her, Kenzie glances over her shoulder, a quizzical but happy look on her face.
“You’ve got—” I try again, but my words die as my body takes over. The temptation is simply too great.
My knuckles graze the back of her leg, slowly dragging up until I collect the wayward string in my fingertips.
Kenzie’s lips part as our gazes hold for three thudding heartbeats before she licks her lips.
I wonder what flavor they are today. An array of flavored lip balms are always scattered around the house—grape, peppermint, apple.
I really hope it’s apple. That’s what she’d been wearing during our first kiss.
When her focus dips to my mouth and stalls, my sanity returns in full force. I’m not supposed to be doing this, standing too close, fantasizing about her lips on mine. I’m supposed to be molasses on a cold day.
I snap the thread and hold it up like a trophy when the real prize would have been knowing what flavor lip balm Kenzie applied today.
“Loose thread.” Since my voice sounds like a washing machine full of shattered bottles, I clear my throat and lift the string higher. “See.”
“Oh.” Kenzie tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking everywhere but at me. “Thank you.”
This is where I should make a plate of delicious food and retreat to the safety of the stools on the other side of the island.
Then I can work up the courage to destroy the wonderful evening Kenzie has made for us by telling her about what I overheard.
She’ll be upset, but Kenzie deserves to know that Aaron rejecting her had nothing to do with her.
Still, I can’t bring myself to ruin all her hard work.
I’ll tell Kenzie later, when she’s not making my chest ache by being so incredibly thoughtful.
It’ll be easier to explain my teammate’s lies when she doesn’t have a cilantro leaf in her hair and refried beans on the apron that drives me mad.
It’s pink, like most of her favorite items, with tiny polka dot hearts and distracting ruffles around the curved hem.
My hands rise to grip the countertop on either side of her, surprising Kenzie as much as it surprises me.
She turns, pressing her back to the cool marble as sweeping music swirls around us.
“I’m going to make a plate,” I tell her, not moving.
“Okay.” Her breathy tone is really not helping my diminishing willpower.
“Everything looks delicious.”
Especially your lips.
Her cheeks pink slightly, and I barely restrain a groan.
“Thanks.”
“Here I go,” I say, convincing no one.
Kenzie nods, her gaze skipping all over my face.
“I don’t think anyone has ever made me a meal like this.” Maybe telling her the truth will jolt me back in line so I can stop boxing her against the counter like a Neanderthal.
Her forehead wrinkles. “Never?”
I shake my head, my hair bouncing against my temples. “Not unless they were paid to.”
The forlorn expression overtaking Kenzie’s gorgeous face makes a yawning pit open in my stomach. I hadn’t meant to upset her. I was just trying to—
“That’s really sad, Trevor.”
“No,” I argue. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I had more than most people growing up. I was just trying to say thank you. This is really special, and I appreciate it.”
Kenzie nods, but her jaw tightens. “I have a question—something I’ve wondered about for a long time.”
“Ask me anything.”
“Who are the guest rooms for? You haven’t had a visitor in the year I’ve lived here.” She tilts her head, considering. “Except for when Tenny spent the night after too much eggnog at the Christmas party.”
My eyes press closed with a slow exhale.
I don’t feel like opening this chasm now…
or ever. If I’d been smart, I’d have remodeled those rooms years ago when it became evident that my family was never going to get on a plane and visit me.
They always had good reasons—work, spousal commitments, more work.
My sisters have decided not to have children, but since our parents didn’t exactly model an affectionate upbringing, I can’t blame them.
“They’re for your family, aren’t they?” Kenzie asks in the space I left open.
Her words feel like getting hit in the neck with a foul ball.
“Yeah.”
Violins tangle with soulful voices as I think of something to say.
Don’t cry for the rich boy who had every training opportunity—private coaches and facility access that would bankrupt a normal family.
No, my parents never came to a game, but they funded the sport I loved without question.
That’s its own form of affection, isn’t it?
“It sounds worse than it is,” I say, suddenly defensive. “They’re just—”
“Busy,” Kenzie finishes for me.
My hand rubs the back of my head before it flops back to its previous spot on the countertop. “The food is getting cold. We should eat.”
“We should.” Kenzie pushes forward as she says this, close but not touching, her chin tilting up.
Everything shifts in an instant as a different kind of tension rakes down my spine. I float forward, helpless not to when Kenzie is looking at me like that, like I’m everything she needs. When our noses brush, we both pull in a sharp breath.
“Tell me to stop.” I grit out the words. “We’re supposed to be going slow, and I’m— Tell me to stop.”
I can’t describe the slightly wicked grin lacing Kenzie’s lips, but it’s the only thing I’ll see when I close my eyes later tonight. Electricity cracks through my bones as I struggle to breathe.
Then Kenzie focuses on my lips with a sincerity I’ve never seen before. “Don’t stop.”