“Well, there kind of is.” She fidgets with her napkin, refusing to meet my eyes. “I have to declare my major before the end of the semester. But like I said, I get analysis paralysis and have trouble making decisions. What about you?”
“Biochemistry.”
Her brows tug, eyes shining with curiosity. “You’re smart, huh?”
“I don’t know about that. I just like science. It explains the way things work.”
“On that note, what would your career be if you didn’t play hockey?” she asks, immediately catching herself. “Oops. Question sixteen. I forgot to add that.”
“In another life, I would’ve been pre-med with the intent to go into medical research or something surgery related. Guess that’s my backup plan should I ever get injured.”
“Do you worry about that?” her voice softens.
I pause, pushing the last grains of saffron rice around my plate while I debate how to respond. “Sometimes.” This is something I rarely admit even to myself. Denial is a powerful drug. “There are no guarantees I’ll ever set foot on the ice in a single professional game.”
That’s a difficult truth to digest when you consider how much of my existence revolves around hockey. It’s more than a little sickening to think I’ve devoted the better part of my life to pursuing something that may never come to fruition. I’m betting big on myself and praying it pays off.
Seraphina shifts to face me. “I see how hard you work, Ty. And you’re crazy talented to begin with. That’s coming from a girl who knows her hockey. There’s no question you’ll be out there someday.”
“Thanks, Tink.”
Thing is, only half of the players who are drafted actually make it to the pros.
My worst fear is being one of the ones that don’t.
Around ten, we finally stop talking long enough to clean up the empty takeout boxes and bring our dirty dishes into the kitchen. Setting our plates and cutlery on the counter, I turn and open the dishwasher. Even though it’s completely empty, one side of the sink is filled with dishes someone didn’t bother to load. Fucking Chase.
“I can help with that,” Seraphina offers.
I glance at her. “Have you ever heard of the internet meme that says, ‘In every partnership, there’s a person who stacks the dishwasher like a Scandinavian architect and a person who stacks the dishwasher like a raccoon on meth’？”
She narrows her eyes. “No…”
“I mean this in the nicest possible way, Ser, but you’re the meth raccoon in this scenario.”
Rather than get offended by my teasing, she smirks and swats me with a yellow dishtowel. “I’ll take that as your offer to assume my dish-loading duties permanently.”
“Not gonna lie.” I laugh. “That might be for the best.”
I load our plates as Seraphina turns away to refill her glass. As she flips on the tap, a stream of water shoots from the faucet at warp speed, splashing all over the front of her blue blouse. She lets out the cutest fucking squeal I’ve ever heard and leaps back, fumbling with the chrome handle to it shut off.
Behind her, I try to hide a snort of laughter. I already know what happened. Someone left it switched to spray mode—otherwise known as “firehose.” It’s been like this for a couple of weeks. Since Dallas’s parents own our place, Dallas was supposed to arrange for someone to come take a look at it. He’s been slacking on his landlord duties.
Seraphina dabs at her chest with a clean yellow dish towel, her face pulled into a scowl. Another snicker escapes me. I can’t help it; she’s cute when she’s pissed. Sexy too, but I’m trying not to go down that particular rabbit hole.
“You think that’s funny, huh?” She grabs the pull-out sprayer and wields it menacingly.
I cock a brow. “Go ahead, Ser. See where it gets you.”
Unfortunately for both of us, Carters never back down from a challenge—even when they should.
Looking me straight in the eye, she pulls the trigger. A deluge of ice-cold water hits me in the chest, soaking through my black T-shirt. A yelp of nervous laughter slips through her lips, and she immediately releases the button. I drop my chin for a beat, assessing the extent of the damage. I’m drenched.
When I look back up, Seraphina is giggling like a schoolgirl. “Oops.”
Goalie reflexes kicking in, I cover the ground between us in two long strides and step behind her. I wrap an arm around her waist lightning-quick and haul her into me before she can react. My large frame surrounds hers, hard muscle against soft curves.
“Rookie error, Tink.” My voice is low; raspier than normal. “Don’t pick fights you can’t win.” I pry the sprayer from my hand, aiming it directly at her cleavage. Her shirt has a few splotches of water, but it isn’t soaked like mine. “What do you think? Should I even the score?”
“No!” she says between peals of laughter. “Don’t, please!”
Still pinning her in place to me, I return the faucet to its holder. I’ve got over half a foot on her in height, and from my vantage point above, the stiff peaks of her nipples are evident through the thin fabric of her shirt. All I can think of is running my tongue along each one, and the little sounds she’d make in response.
Seraphina squirms in my grip, pretending to resist, but it’s a half-assed attempt and we both know it. Suddenly, I’m hyperaware of her round ass rubbing against my rapidly hardening dick. My cock protests with need, way more turned on than I should be standing in the middle of the kitchen. I want to place her on the counter, spread her legs, and eat her for dessert.
She falls still, and I know I’m not the only one trying to repress the risqué mental movie playing through my mind. I can’t even blame the audiobook from earlier. This isn’t happening because listening to a racy scene got me worked up. This is because I want her. I’ve wanted her since the first time I saw her at XS—since the day she moved in.
With one foot in the present moment and the other firmly planted in the memory of our night together, it’s impossible to think straight.
“You’re getting me wet,” she breathes.
My chuckle echoes between us. “Good to know.”
“From your shirt, I mean.” A flush creeps up her chest.
“Right,” I say. “From my shirt.”
My palms land on her hips and I spin her around to face me, reveling in the way she fits perfectly beneath my hands. While my intention is to let her go, my body has other ideas and before I know it, I’ve backed her up against the cupboard.
We look at one another, our soft inhales and exhales the only sound in the room. Every nerve in my body lights up as my fingertips brush the soft bit of exposed skin above the waist of her jeans. Goddamn. I know I’m playing with fire, but I can’t seem to put away the matches.
“Question seventeen,” Seraphina murmurs. “Do you ever think about that night?”
“All the fucking time.” I’m not a big believer in sugarcoating the truth. Plus, I think it’s pretty obvious.
“Me too.” Her throat bobs, her warm brown eyes searching mine. “Do you regret it? I mean, it’s made things kind of complicated now.”