Shutout (Rules of the Game, #2)(65)
My heels click on the hardwood floor as I draw closer. He turns to look at me and freezes. The remote slips out of his hand, landing on the couch. It’s difficult to interpret the expression on his face. I like to think I’m getting a positive reaction, but I can’t be sure when he isn’t blinking. He may not even be breathing. Did I break him?
“Ty?” I prod after another couple of seconds pass.
“Huh?” His eyes rocket up to mine, his voice hoarse. “You look…” Another stretch of stunned silence follows. He runs a hand along his jaw. “If I hadn’t snagged that reservation already, there’s no way we’d be leaving this house.”
My nervousness abates, and the energy coursing through me morphs into something closer to excitement. Note to self: when he glitches, it’s a good thing.
Pushing to stand, he picks up the remote and shuts off the television. Then he angles his head, studying my feet. “I’ve never considered myself much of a shoe guy, but those are fucking hot.”
See? My Round Chick Altas never fail. I’m convinced they have magical powers.
“Selfie?” I dangle my phone between my fingers. “You’ve gotta admit, we both look good.”
He hesitates for a second before agreeing. It’s not a huge shock that he’s not a selfie kind of guy. Sometimes he’s too serious for his own good.
We end up taking a few, ranging from goofy to kissing to a standard smiling shot. The goofy one is my favorite.
Tyler’s black Audi SUV is idling in front of the house when we step outside, which is a nice touch. With as cold as it’s been lately, it would be like climbing into an igloo if he hadn’t started it ahead of time. Probably wouldn’t bother the guy who spends nearly half his life on the ice, but I appreciate not freezing to death in my dress.
He opens the passenger door for me and waits until I climb in before he shuts it, walking around to the driver’s side. I’m convinced there’s something drastically wrong with me that I nearly salivate when his large hand wraps around the leather gearshift handle. It’s like a form of competence porn, the appeal of which I can’t fully explain. All I know is, he looks like he knows what he’s doing, and it’s hot.
Same with when I watched him play on television the other night. With a father who played professional hockey and a brother on the same career trajectory, I had previously considered myself immune to the mysterious phenomenon that causes some women to swoon over hockey players. Not so. It turns out that I am very much susceptible, at least when it comes to Tyler. Seeing him out there on the ice did things to me it shouldn’t.
“You get a chance to look at the menu, Ser?” His gaze cuts to me as he slows to a stop at a red light.
My heart swells at him remembering this tiny, admittedly neurotic, detail.
“Sure did.”
He squeezes my thigh affectionately. “Good.”
The restaurant has a valet out front when we pull up. Tyler hands off the car, then steps up onto the sidewalk and slides an arm around my waist, tucking me into him as he steers me inside.
Rouge is even more impressive than I expected, stylishly decorated in dark jewel tones, upscale without being pretentious. The small space is dotted with tables of varying sizes, dim lamps and candles providing the only sources of light.
Music throbs low in the background as the hostess leads through the restaurant, Tyler’s hand resting along my back the entire way. She takes us to a small leather booth in a corner off to the back. Whoever canceled this reservation sure gave up some prime seating. It’s cozy, and the ambience is to die for.
A thoughtful look crosses his face as the hostess disappears, leaving us alone. He takes my hand beneath the table, his thumb skimming the thin skin of my inner wrist.
“What I meant to say earlier was you look beautiful, Tink.”
I don’t need a mirror to know I’m blushing. “Thank you, Hades.”
For my first Valentine’s Day with a guy and my first non-date date, the bar has been raised impossibly high.
We skim the menus while we wait, and Tyler orders a beer for himself and a glass of sauvignon blanc for me at my request. I like white wine every now and then. As much as I’ve tried, I haven’t been able to acquire a taste for red.
“Question forty.” Half a glass in, I’m feeling it ever so slightly due to the lack of food in my system. “What’s your worst habit?”
He considers for a beat. “Being too competitive.”
“You?” I tease. “Competitive?”
“More with myself than anything, but obviously with other goalies as well. It’s good fuel as long as I don’t let it get out of hand. Which does happen from time to time.”
When he looks at me expectantly, I suddenly realize I’ll have to answer too. Asking things I want to know about him cuts both ways.
“Mine’s self-sabotage. I know I do it, and I can’t seem to stop myself.” Procrastination is the worst way it manifests. Others include denial and failure to prioritize properly.
“Do you know why you do it?” There’s no judgment in his tone, only concern.
“No,” I say honestly, rubbing the crystal stem of the glass between my fingertips. “Well, maybe. It could be linked to the whole ADHD thing. I’ve read they often go hand in hand.”
Tyler looks down at the table like he’s deciding what to say, and it takes so long for him to speak that I start to worry about what it’s going to be.