Parental Guidance (Ice Knights #1)(10)

“The box kind is easy to make, I’ll give you that,” he said, sitting back in his chair, not even a hint that he was joking about his horrible food hot take. “And you can always add in some food coloring and veggies to vary it up.”

“Please tell me you’re joking, because all of what you just said was wrong.” And not a little. It was really, really wrong.

He shrugged his broad shoulders, cocky arrogance coming off him in waves. “Well, you eat what you want, and I’ll eat what I want, and we can take comfort in the fact that we aren’t compatible in the least and don’t have to worry about ever breaking rule number one.”

“Oh yeah, a real relationship is definitely off the table now.” Not that it was ever on the table—and not just because hers would always have mashed potatoes on it. She exhaled a melodramatic sigh as if any of this talk meant anything more than more mashed potatoes in the world for her. “I don’t know if I can do this for four more dates.”

“Too late.” He shot a self-satisfied smirk her way. “You already agreed.”

She might have reconsidered if she’d known about the mashed-potatoes thing first.

…

Lying about mashed potatoes was like dancing with your dog. It was possible to do, but it was weird, seriously weird. However, watching Zara’s reaction when he’d sang the praises of boxed mashed potatoes was pure gold. The woman definitely had firm opinions, which—since he’d been raised by a woman who had her own thoughts on everything and never minded airing them—he could appreciate. Okay, so he was poking the pint-size bear, but it was that much fun watching a fierce scrapper like her in the middle of a smack fight.

“You probably have a ton of trash food opinions,” he teased, pushing her just a little bit more.

She let out a you-asked-for-it chuckle. “Oh, so we’re just going to let it hang out there, huh?”

“Might as well.” It wasn’t like any of this mattered in the long run.

Neither of them was trying to impress the other. This was the lowest of low-key dates, because whether or not she liked him or he liked her didn’t matter. They were badly matched compatriots on a doomed dating cruise.

Zara steepled her fingers and tapped the tip of her nose, looking up at the ceiling as if she was some kind of cartoon villain plotting his demise and giving him the perfect opportunity to check her out. Her bright-red hair, freckles, and height were the first things he’d noticed, followed by her perfect ass when they’d walked to the table. What he hadn’t noticed until she started busting his balls about his food choices was how her eyes sparked like she wasn’t gonna start a fight but she’d end it if necessary. If the circumstances had been different between them, he might even have asked her out for real. As it was, though, this was just fun.

Finally, she dropped her gaze back down to his face. “Pizza is overrated.”

Whoa.

He thought he’d crossed the line with the mashed potatoes, but now she’d gone and destroyed the idea of there ever being a line. Pizza was sacred. There were no jokes to be made about the pie.

“You have obviously not gotten it from Zito’s,” he said and left it at that, because once someone went to the “pizza is overrated” side of the street, there was no bringing them back. “Peanut butter cookie or oatmeal raisin?”

“Peanut butter with the fork marks on the top. You vote oatmeal raisin?” When he nodded, she rolled her eyes. “Figures.”

Before the next round of bad food hot takes could happen, the waiter showed up with their plates. He took one look at his plate and sent up a thank-you to the chef because he was going to demolish his food. His grilled chicken smelled like heaven, and the veggies were steamed perfectly. The team nutritionist had done a whole series of workshops about how eating better could improve a player’s on-ice showing and that he wasn’t giving up on flavor by doing so. She’d converted him on the spot to a regimented preseason and during-season diet, and this chicken was his reward. Damn, it smelled delicious.

“Are you sniffing my mashed potatoes?” Zara asked as she scooped some up.

Yes. Please. Why couldn’t it be the off-season? “Absolutely not.”

“Whatever you say.” She lifted her fork, a garlic-butter mountain of starch heaven on it. “Sure you don’t want a bite?”

Fuck, he was tempted. Garlic mashed potatoes were happiness in food form, everyone knew that. He was balancing on the tightrope when Zara bent forward over the table, confirming that her freckles did go all the way down until they disappeared beneath the deep V of her shirt, and held out her fork.

“You’re the worst,” he said, giving in. “Just one to see if it’s as awful as every other kind.”

He should have taken the fork from her, but he didn’t. Instead, guided by whatever instinct always got him from point A to point B on the ice before an opposing player had the puck passed to him, he leaned toward her and let her feed him. Her eyes widened for a fraction of an instant before she gave him a wicked grin. The woman was 100 percent trouble and more tempting than the delicious buttery bomb in his mouth.

“Wasn’t that worth breaking your rule?” she asked, as smug a know-it-all as could be.

He shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“You,” she said, pointing at him with her fork, “are the world’s worst liar.”