Good Boy (WAGs #1)(57)

“Wow,” I say stupidly. “Fancy.”

He shrugs. “What kind of ice cream?”

“I have dark mocha and also coconut. Pick your poison.” I carry my goods toward his kitchen, but Blake takes the bag from me and unpacks it himself.

“Did you eat dinner?” he asks, tucking the ice cream cartons into the freezer.

“Not exactly,” I hedge. “But that’s okay.”

Blake clicks his tongue. “How about we order some Chinese? You probably haven’t eaten all that well if you’ve been studying.” His green eyes bore into mine.

“Okay, thanks,” I say quietly. “I like chicken and broccoli. Actually, I like most anything.”

One warm hand cups the back of my head for a second. Just as I register how nice it feels, it’s gone again.

Blake orders our food while I locate a pair of wine glasses on a shelf over the countertop. But a corkscrew remains elusive. I can’t figure out how to open his kitchen drawers because there aren’t any handles. Out of frustration I give one a little push and it slides open a the hushed click that reminds me of a high-tech device. Blake’s kitchen drawers are like something you’d find on a space shuttle.

I pour carefully because I don’t know if red wine is capable of staining his immaculate marble countertops. Then I carry our glasses over to the generous leather sofa, where Blake is just finishing up his call.

“To shitty days that end with wine,” I announce when he’s ready to toast with me.

“I’ll drink to that,” he says as we touch glasses.

We hold each other’s gaze as we sip, and it feels weirdly intimate. Although maybe I should stop finding it weird, right? How many times have I gotten naked with this guy?

Let’s not count.

“This isn’t bad,” I say of the wine. I went above my usual price point, splurging on a twenty-dollar bottle. “Let’s drink every drop. Otherwise I’ve squandered my last twenty bucks.”

Blake cocks his head like a puppy. “Money troubles?”

“Always. I came to Toronto because nursing school cost only thirty-five grand a year, instead of fifty. My parents kicked in ten. I took out loans for ten. And the last fifteen are from a scholarship that I have to reapply for every year. If I don’t get at least a C-plus on today’s exam, I probably won’t be eligible next year.” Ugh. The wine sours in my stomach. I shouldn’t be worrying about this until my grades come back, but it’s hard not to. “If I don’t get the scholarship, I won’t be able to continue.”

And then where will I be? I’ll owe back the money I borrowed from the bank. And my parents will be out ten grand for another one of my failures. I’ll be back in Cali living in my old bedroom, in debt and looking for a job.

Shoot me.

Blake puts a hand on my knee. “I’ll bet you aced your test.”

I shake my head. Hard. “I didn’t, though. Whatever my superpower is, pathophysiology isn’t it.”

“You’re still awesome, Jessie. I refuse to believe that you won’t make it in nursing school.”

I give him a tired smile, because I appreciate how loyal that sounds. “Now let’s talk about your thing. What’s the matter, champ?”

He takes a gulp of wine, and then pats the place on the couch right next to him. I scoot over and he wraps an arm around me. And I lay my head on his chest, because it’s irresistible. He smells good, too. Like clean flannel and sandalwood.

“I’m just off my game, ’s’all,” he rumbles. “My superpowers are a little wobbly right now, too.”

“No, really? I’m sorry, sweetie.” I pat his thick wrist with my free hand. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He’s quiet for so long that I wonder if he even heard me. Then he says, “I just like seeing your pretty face.”

I get an odd lump in my throat hearing it. But it’s nothing that a little more wine won’t wash down.

A few minutes later, our food arrives. We eat sitting in comfortable dining chairs at Blake’s small but sleek table in front of the windows. The lights of Toronto’s waterfront twinkle on one side of the view, while the blackness of Lake Ontario coats the other. I ask Blake about the team’s travel schedule, and then listen while he tells me which rinks and cities he enjoys visiting, and which ones are less fun.

The mood is a little subdued, but I tell myself it’s just because we both had shitty days.

After we eat, I do our dishes and put away the leftovers in Blake’s immaculate fridge. I pause in front of the freezer and ask which ice cream he wants first. “I don’t know if these really go together,” I admit. “Which one do you want to taste first?”

“You pick.” He stands beside me at the counter.

I choose the mocha and pry the top off. My hands are a little sticky, and I don’t have a spoon. So I use my hip to open Blake’s magical cutlery drawer, and this makes him grin.

When he finally smiles, something relaxes inside me that I didn’t even know I’d been clenching.

I grab a spoon and dip it into the chocolaty surface. To keep his good humor, I fly the spoon toward his mouth until he opens for me.

At the last second, my in-flight spoon banks sharply and flies toward my own mouth instead.