Chapter 15 Brooke #2
"Because it's pretty much a salad blended to a pulp."
I purse my lips at his attempt to tease me. "Is it good?"
"Honestly?" he asks, pulling out a bag of kale and a carton of almond milk. "It tastes like ass, but it's all I'm supposed to drink before a shoot."
"A shoot?"
"Yeah, that's our last stop. I have a photoshoot for Tom Ford in… fifty-three minutes."
I'm instantly taken back to that night at the gala when his cologne invaded my senses in the best possible way.
Suddenly the space between us feels more like inches than feet, his bare kitchen backlit by the glow of red accent lighting.
The mood shifts, but only to me. Why couldn't I have waited until after all this to decide to keep it in my pants.
Regardless of the timing, my body can't seem to forget that night, and I have to check myself before I beg him to relive it.
I swallow down the words that threaten to escape the same way they did ten months ago.
Kiss me.
"What's in it?" I ask instead.
Drew points to the two ingredients on the island. "Just this, protein powder, and a banana. Sometimes I add other stuff depending on what I'm feeling."
I wince. "That sounds kind of terrible."
"Yep." Drew pushes up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, and I beg myself to look anywhere but his black and gray tattoos. "It helps if you pretend it's a mint chocolate chip milkshake."
"Does it?" I ask, actively fighting my wandering eyes.
"Well, you can tell me yourself." He takes a few steps toward the cabinets and grabs two glasses from the bottom shelf.
"Oh, no. I'm okay. I'm not really hungry."
He sets them both on the counter next to the appliance. "You're leaning in, remember. Plus, you haven't eaten since you picked at a bowl of fruit and called it breakfast. This is your sustenance."
Heat grows between my legs as my smutty brain interprets his words as an "eat kink," and I shut it down the only way I know how. "Sorry we can't all pack away an entire day's calories in one sitting."
Drew places his palms on the counter and leans his weight into his arms. The veins that shoot up his forearm are impossible to miss, and the temperature in his apartment rises too many degrees.
"Well, now you know why," he says, completely unaware of his effect on me. "We're about to make the only other thing I can eat until tonight, and even then, it's the night before a game. I can't get too crazy."
The mention of hockey is the reminder I need to silence the sex-deprived parts of me just enough. This is work. "Well, we better make this the best damn milkshake you've ever had then."
Moving next to him, I pick up the kale and grab a handful from the bag. "One scoop of ice cream," I say, dropping the leafy greens into the pitcher.
Drew smiles, shaking his head, before grabbing a banana from the hook on the counter. Peeling it, he breaks it off in chunks, dropping them in one at a time until the whole thing is sitting on top of the kale. "Two scoops," he says, a cheesy smile on his face.
I tip my chin down confidently before grabbing the milk. I unscrew the lid and hover it over the blender. "I guess milk can still be milk?" I ask.
Drew nods through a laugh, moving his palm to the bottom of the container. His hand grazes mine on its journey, and I thank God his massive grip is holding the weight of the carton I would have otherwise let slip through my fingers from his touch.
He lifts it slowly, the creamy liquid falling from the spout in an oddly erotic way, or maybe it just seems like that because of how he looks at me as he does it. His eyes are locked on mine, and for a second, I almost forget that we're making a green smoothie and not undressing each other.
When he tips the milk back, I snap to the moment, looking around the kitchen.
"Vanilla?" I ask.
Drew looks at me, confusion written on his face.
"Protein powder," I whisper.
His mouth forms an O shape, and I'm drawn to his lips. "I was gonna say..." he starts, moving to another cabinet and producing a tub. "Nothing vanilla about me, baby." He says it jokingly, throwing me a wink as he unscrews the top, but there's my smutty mind again, dropping to her knees.
"Just put it in," I order with a roll to my eyes. He gapes at me, and I exhale heavily. "You know what I mean."
He obliges, filling the scooper from the container with the sweet white powder and dropping the protein into the blender.
"That it?" I ask, picking up the lid. I almost have it on when he holds up a finger, telling me to wait. He walks to the pantry, bringing with him a small bag of tiny black beads. "Chia seeds?"
He winks again and shakes some in. "Chocolate chips."
We both smile, and it hits me just how normal this is.
The showman, the playboy, the Flames' franchise forward, simply making a smoothie and pretending it's a treat instead of a makeshift meal.
At 6:30 this morning, I never would have guessed I'd be joking around with Drew in his kitchen.
I pictured some hockey, sure, and okay, there's a photoshoot later, but I would have imagined more limelight than banter—more cool guy than boy next door.
Drew reaches past me, the movement putting him so close to me I can smell the body wash he used after practice. The smell, the proximity, my body's natural reaction—all of it causes a panic in me.
Without thinking, I push the start button, desperate to do anything but run my hands through his hair—hear anything but his name fall from my lips. The second I do, dust flies from the blender, green chunks of soggy kale flying in every direction.
"Oh my God!" I squeal over the whir of the motor, my hands flying to my face.
"Oh, shit!" Drew yells.
"Turn it off!"
He nudges me out of the way, his fingers fumbling the buttons, the sound only changing from the settings he's hitting rather than the off switch. "I'm trying!"
Droplets of sludge continue raining down on us both, the grinding blade now mocking us at full speed.
"Drew!"
"Brooke!"
Finally, the buzzing stops, the chaos of the noise and the kale confetti ending with it. I drop my hands slowly, the aftermath of the unfortunate event painted all over the kitchen, our clothes, and my mortified self.
Drew and I both stand frozen, his gaze glued on the appliance from hell.
When his eyes make their way to mine, we stare at each other for just an instant before both of us lose it.
We bust out laughing, me wiping tears away from my milk-splattered face as he's doubled over, bracing himself on the now-messy island.
When our laughter slows, and we catch our breaths, Drew stands back up, looking down at himself.
"I'm so sorry," I say, embarrassment creeping back in.
Drew shakes his head, lifting the collar of his shirt over his nose to wipe it clean. "Don't be," he says. "I haven't laughed that hard in years."
"No way," I reply, peeling leaves off my arms. "You have yourself plenty of fun."
Drew pauses, his expression growing serious—almost heated.
"What?” I ask, taken aback by the shift.
"You don’t get it yet, do you?” He turns his whole body to me, using the pad of his thumb to brush a seed from my cheek. His knuckles linger near my jaw as his eyes travel down my face.
My lips part, but I don't know what to say. "Drew, I—"
"Nevermind,” he interrupts. "Don't answer that." He steps back and offers me a polite smile. "Let's get you cleaned up. I have a shirt you can wear."