Charming as Puck(79)

She’s quiet again.

Probably because she could do so much better than a spoiled hockey player who lives for pranking his teammates and yells about cows.

“But why me?” she asks so softly I have to strain to hear her.

“Because you’re you.” It’s lame, and I know it’s lame.

I should be able to tell her it’s because we have the same favorite color. Or because she understands all my secrets and my dreams. Or because we’ve been through so much together.

But all I really have is this gut-level feeling that her soul and my soul fit like two puzzle pieces, and I’ve just been facing the wrong direction my entire life.

“My life’s brighter with you in it,” I add, and I don’t think I’m making it better. “Fuck, Kami, this is hard. You know people think Ares is dumb because he doesn’t talk? When he does, he’s fucking brilliant. I talk all the time, and all that comes out of my mouth is total shit. You just—you’re my pumpkin pie after a turkey dinner, and here I am, a spoiled asshole, getting seconds and thirds on his turkey dinner and still wanting the whole damn pumpkin pie too. With whipped cream. And cinnamon ice cream. Because if you’re gonna do pumpkin pie, do it fucking right. And you’re the best damn pumpkin pie in the world. With all the toppings. And sprinkles.”

And I need to shut the hell up, because she’s pumpkin pie with sprinkles? Maybe I should get out and walk home and just give her my car instead.

She blinks twice, and damn it, her eyes are going shiny in the darkness. “The pumpkin pie’s the best part,” she whispers.

I slump in my seat, relief flooding my bones. “Exactly,” I whisper back.

Another car honks and whizzes past us. Kami kisses my cheek again. “I’m really your pumpkin pie?”

“With cinnamon ice cream and whipped cream and sprinkles and a cherry.”

Her laugh sounds watery and weak. “I’m honored to be your pumpkin pie.”

“I’d skip the turkey dinner,” I add.

“We need to move,” she whispers as yet another car zooms past us.

I sit back up, the words I love you sitting on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t want her to think I’d say it right now. It feels like a cop-out. Like telling a woman what she wants to hear just to get what I want.

So instead, I’m going to show her.

I’ve always been better with actions than words, even if I might’ve gone overboard with making up for missing her birthday.

“You can’t be mad at me for this,” I tell her as I push on the gas again. My equilibrium is coming back, and with it, my ego. “It might be a little shocking at first, but you’re going to realize I’m right, so just go with it.”

“Do you know what I love about you?” she says quietly.

“Everything?”

“You’re never boring.”

Well, shit.

And here all I was going to do was take her for ice cream, because it sounded good, but now I’ve built it up beyond realistic expectations because I can’t help myself.

Guess she’s getting the triple brownie fudge sundae with extra caramel sauce.

And then we can take it back to her place.

And I’ll lick it off her.

All night long if she’ll let me.

I feel like I’ve finally found her. And now I’m going to do my damnedest to keep her.

No matter what it takes.

“Nick?” she says softly.

“Yeah?”

“Sugarbear really should have other cow friends,” she whispers softly. “And you’ll be able to—”

“One more week,” I grit out. I squeeze her hand, realize I’m probably about to crush her bones, and I let up. “Please? Just give me one more week. I want to fix this on my own.”

We pass under a green stoplight and go another half block before she answers.

“Okay,” she says.

Because she’s Kami.

And she never tells me no.

And fuck if I’m not going to do everything in my power to make sure she never regrets that.

Ever.





Forty-One





Kami



It’s day thirty, I’m still pushing off the people from the Heartwood Farm Park who now have room for Sugarbear, because Nick swears all he needs is three more days, and I’ve spent the entire day jumping every time the clinic doorbells jingle.

He’s in Seattle for a game against the Badgers, so I doubt he’s sending another coupon book good for thirty orgasms. That would be cruel to both of us.

Also, I’m highly impressed at his creativity since he realized just how much room his gifts were taking. This past week, I’ve gotten several coupon books. One for thirty awesomely outrageous dates. Another for thirty homemade dinners, with the caveat that he’ll order pizza without mushrooms if his homemade dinners taste like shit. Another for thirty midnight ice cream runs. The big mama gift certificate book worth thirty spa days.

Thirty breakfasts in bed.

Thirty back rubs without the expectation that he’ll be rewarded with sex, though he agrees to be my love slave if I so desire after having his oiled hands all over me.

A month ago, I never would’ve believed he could’ve been so thoughtful.