I don’t bite
RILEY
I don't bite
Three days of sharing this stranger’s space and we have quietly fallen into a routine. Morning coffee together. Two mugs. Somehow it already feels like a home away from home.
I finish rinsing my mug and put it back in the cabinet. From the corner of my eye, I see him approaching with his.
“Here, let me help with that.” I reach for it.
He swings his arm over my head and gives me a funny look.
“You are not here to clean up after me, Riley.”
I know he's right, but deep down, the urge to pull my weight around here wraps tightly around my throat. I have no money I can touch without leaving a trail back to Preston, no card I can use, no way to hand him anything in exchange for the extreme generosity. The least I can do is rinse a mug.
I want to say something, but I don’t have a comeback. So, I move aside and let him do it.
“I have a home gym in the back,” he says when he’s done, wiping his hands with a paper towel. “I’ll be down there for about an hour. Make yourself at home, and if you want to join me, feel free. I might have a t-shirt you can work out in.” He flashes his brows, and I laugh.
“I’m afraid you think too highly of me, Sir Easton Mysterious.” I bow with a palm pressed to my chest. “Dare I say, a book will do for today.”
He chuckles, shaking his head.
“I guess I’ll have to send a tip to the designer for the book. Really got you in a choke-hold.”
“Oh, you have no idea. Chase writes a mean story. Was up all night, save for two hours.”
“Well, enjoy your book. If you get hungry, feel free to make something. If you’d prefer takeout, find me at the gym, and we’ll get some. You could use some snacks while you read.”
He flashes a quick smile and disappears down a hallway I haven’t noticed since I walked into his home. The sound of a door opening and closing announces he’s gone, and I heave a sigh.
It’s as if I’ve been holding my breath.
I stare at the empty kitchen, and then at my book on the counter and think of two things.
One: My grand plan to return to society after this scandal eventually blows over.
Two: My family, and how I’ll eventually get the truth across to them.
I only spend a minute considering these when I decide it’s too early to drown in that storm. So, I go for option three.
My book.
I grab it off the counter and beeline for the sofa, but something catches my eye.
The hallway Easton has just disappeared into. I glance around.
The house is quiet. Easton will be gone for another hour or two.
A little sightseeing never hurt anyone, right?
Besides, he’s been telling me to explore and make myself at home since I got here. Technically, I’m just following instructions.
My legs have made a decision before my brain catches up, and I’m heading for the hallway.
This is the first time I've walked through the house without him in it. I touch things. I don't really know what I'm looking for.
I am a woman who finally has a quiet house to wander in for the first time in years, and I'm taking advantage of it.
And yes, in years because living with Preston, you never really have the house to yourself. There’s always a housekeeper all up in your hair, when Preston isn’t there to take on the mighty responsibility.
The hallway Easton disappeared down winds toward the back of the house. There’s a small reading nook with a chair nobody has sat in. I know this because it smells brand new when I reach it. My fingers skate across the seat, and I continue.
A door at the end is half open, and through the gap I can see weights on a rubber floor, and I hear the low sound of music.
I stop in the doorway.
He hasn’t seen me.
Easton is in the middle of the room with his back to me. Shirtless.
Oh. My. God. He must work out A LOT.
There is a barbell on the floor in front of him.
I watch him reach for the horizontal bar hanging from the ceiling, both arms wrap around it, and he pushes himself up.
The muscles down his back move with him, the broad shoulders shifting and resetting, the dark geometric ink curling from one shoulder around his side.
Sweat between his shoulder blades catches the light.
His back… the tattoos, and the way he lifts his weight… It’s art. My eyes trail and eat up every little detail, curve and movement, and a feeling runs through me that I can’t name.
It’s a sight I could watch all day.
Oh, dear lord. Not like that. More like a photograph. A very nice one.
Of a shirtless good-looking man with rippling muscles. My brain adds.
I know it’s time to move on with my quest because if another minute passes, I’ll be tempted to take him up on his offer, just to have an unlimited front seat at this sinful show.
Just before I leave, he sets the bar down, and I see him turning. I quickly scurry away, not wanting to make things awkward.
It’s one thing to wander around his house. It’s another to spy on my host while having deeply inappropriate thoughts about his pectoral muscles.
I take a hard left into another hallway, the long one with the windows, and that’s how I end up in front of a wall I haven’t noticed before.
There is a framed magazine cover on it.
I stop.
Sports Illustrated. A man on the ice in a black and silver jersey, mid-stride. The headline reads:
Easton Blake. The Quietest Star in the League.
I stare at it.
For a second, my brain refuses to process what I'm looking at.
Maybe this is someone he shares a first name with? A favorite player of his?
Yeah. Highly unlikely.
I take out my phone from the pocket of my shorts. I type the name Easton Blake into the search bar with shaking thumbs.
Three days I’ve been in this house. Three days I’ve been calling him Easton Mysterious like it’s some kind of game. I’ve eaten his food, worn his shirts, slept under his roof, and the only thing I’ve actually asked him about himself is whether he plays hockey.
Which, I realize now, he never answered.
Wikipedia. Team page. Three years of feature stories. A photo of him at a charity gala. A scroll of the last season’s game, his position, his entire career, and finally, his family background.
I stand there, hands trembling, eyes glued to the screen of the device.
He's a professional hockey player.
Not just a professional hockey player.
A famous one.
The kind of famous that gets magazine covers. The kind of famous that gets feature stories. The kind of famous people recognize in airports. The kind of famous that apparently everyone knows except me.
I bury my face in one hand. “Oh my God.”
“Riley?”
I turn around.
He's at the end of the hallway in a fresh shirt with a towel around his neck, his hair damp from the world’s fastest post-workout rinse.
His expression goes through a fast sequence I'm sure he did not mean to telegraph.
Concern. Recognition. Resignation.
“Oh… you found it.”
“Easton Blake.” That’s all I can say. The only confirmation that it’s all real.
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you.” He smirks and stretches his arm for a handshake, but a second later, he drops it. His eyes narrow and he steps closer.
“You are a famous hockey player.”
“Yes.”
“I…” My throat feels tight. “I have… I’ve been calling you Easton Mysterious.”
“And I like it.”
“I've been wearing your clothes, eating your food, leaving the house with you, and unknowingly setting myself up with the media. The photographers. The men…”
It suddenly hits me. The boutique. The men with cameras. “Oh God…” I slap a palm over my mouth, now suddenly feeling embarrassed it took me so long to figure this out.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. The sound feels slightly hysterical. Because this is insane.
Three days ago I was fleeing my cheating fiancé.
Now I'm apparently living with a professional hockey player whose face is on magazine covers.
What is my life?
“I've also unknowingly been photographed by paparazzi, haven't I?”
His smile slips. “A little.”
I groan and slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor.
Easton lowers himself to the floor across from me. His broad shoulders rest against the opposite wall beneath the framed magazine cover.
For a moment neither of us speaks.
I glance up at the cover. Then back at him.
The weird thing is that they don't feel like the same person.
One is polished and larger than life.
The other is sitting barefoot on the floor across from me with damp hair and a towel around his neck.
“You could have told me.”
His gaze follows mine to the magazine. "I could have."
“Why didn’t you?”
He's quiet for a second.
Then he shrugs. “You never asked.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s a terrible answer.”
“It’s also true.”
Unfortunately, it is.
I look down at my phone at the millions of search results.
Then I look back at him.
“You know this is intimidating, right?”
Something flickers across his face. It’s not annoyance, but something softer. “I guess.”
“Guess?”
He scratches the back of his neck.
“Honestly, I forget about it most of the time.”
I stare at him. “How?”
His eyes drift around the hallway and then land on me, looking so earnest. “Because that’s hockey.”
He points toward the magazine cover. “That’s work.”
Then he points at himself. “This is me.”
I snort.
“The point is,” he says, “hockey is a job.”
“A very famous job.”
“A job nonetheless.”
I study him.
The sincerity in his expression. The complete lack of ego. If anything, he looks mildly embarrassed we're even having this conversation.
Still, I think I’ve managed to land in an even bigger mistake than escaping Preston Sinclair. Because a famous hockey player? In a renowned club? LA Ice?
“So…” I lift my head. “Let me get this straight. I've spent six years engaged to a man the media loves. He cheated on me. I ran. I jumped into the first car I saw at a red light.” I gesture at the magazine above his head. “And the car turned out to belong to another man the media loves.”
“Riley.”
I don’t respond because there’s nothing to say.
“Maybe this is a mistake. Coming here… Being… being seen with you. It’s a lot. It’s…”
I look at him on the floor across from me, with damp hair and the most patient face I've ever seen on a man.