Claire
I…
Well, fuck it.
Has my life pivoted on its ear in the last twenty-four hours?
Yup.
Am I ready to start rolling with it?
Also…
Yup.
Which is why I stop listening to the voices in my head, grab two fistfuls of Jackson’s hair, and bring my mouth to his.
All day he’s been so close. All day I’ve wanted to touch him, to taste him, to feel this.
A spark turning into flames.
My body instantly tap-dancing on the edge of control, flaring with heat and need and the understanding that I’m desperate for something I’ve never experienced anywhere but my bedroom—alone.
I want Jackson’s hard body pressing me into my mattress, want his rough hands stroking over my skin, want him pushing inside me and—
He tears his mouth from mine, chest heaving, eyes burning, hands on my waist. “Really, kitty cat?”
My lips are tingling, along with every nerve in my body, it seems. “I’m desperate to spend time with you too.”
Silence falls between us—tense and filled with emotion and then he’s groaning and wrapping his arms around me, dropping his mouth to mine, kissing me until I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but hold on…
And kiss him back.
Knock. Knock. Knock!
He freezes, growl rumbling up the back of his throat, teasing along my tongue, vibrating against my chest, sensitizing my nipples and making me want to seal my mouth to his all over again.
In fact, I almost give in to the urge to do just that when—
Knock. Knock. Knock!
“Sir,” a voice echoes through the wood and it takes me a moment to place it, to remember that we were sitting down for dinner before I freaked out, ran off, and accosted my date in the bathroom.
Oh, God. We’re making out in the bathroom of an extremely fancy New York City restaurant and—
“Is everything okay in there?”
“It fucking isn’t,” Jackson mutters, glancing down and I follow his gaze, mouth dropping open at the—
“Is that your penis?” I exclaim softly.
“Yup.”
“It’s huge,” I say, genuinely aghast.
“The tent I’m sporting makes it look bigger than it is,” he says and the anger’s gone from his voice. Instead, there’s amusement and humor and…
Heat.
“It’ll fit, kitty cat,” he murmurs, sealing his lips to mine for a brief, scorching kiss. “I promise.”
“How?” I ask, even though I know logically he’s telling me the truth. People have sex all the time and my toys—
His rough chuckle shouldn’t gather between my legs, should have me wanting to be back in my hotel room, draining the battery of my vibrator and—
“Hold that thought,” he mutters, dropping his head again, flicking his tongue over the expanse of my throat, nipping lightly with his teeth. “Because, fuck, I need to know exactly what it was that put that look in your eyes.”
“I—”
But he presses his thumb to my bottom lip, spins us both to the door, wrenching it open as the waiter knocks again. “Hey,” he says. “We’ll take that pinot now.”
Then he’s guiding me down the hall and back through the dining room, totally ignoring the fact that the waiter is gaping at us, that I’m sputtering about explaining that we weren’t boning in the bathroom, that I’m—
Jackson pulls out my chair, nudges me down into it, and then settles across from me.
“Wine?” the waiter asks, making me jump.
Full circle.
I’ve come full circle.
And this time, I’m determined not to ruin it.
“And then you just roll your hands like this—” The chef, Kurt, who happens to be one of Jackson’s old friends, reaches around me, his arms guiding mine as we drag the pasta dough over the specially carved wooden board.
“Oh!” I say as a perfectly formed piece of pasta emerges. “That’s so cool.” Jackson growls, and I just pick up the tiny shaped noodle, grinning at him. “Isn’t that amazing?”
“Amazing,” he mutters, sounding very far from astonished about my noodle-crafting skills.
Especially since his gaze is not on the noodle I’m holding up, but instead is murderous and fixed on Kurt.
Who coughs and steps back, saying, “I’ll let you two keep going with that. I’ll finish up the sauce.”
“Exactly,” Jackson grumbles as he rounds the steel table and stands next to me. “Because we’re supposed to be eating, not cooking.”
I don’t know what propels me to do it—maybe it’s that commitment to this day, this dream, this date. Or maybe it’s just that I pay attention to the small moments, the small things—or in this case, the obvious things. I rise up on tiptoe, press my lips to his stubble-covered jaw and murmur, “Kurt’s cute but I prefer hockey players to chefs.”
He exhales.
“And thank you for bringing me here so I can learn this.”
And I get to watch the big, strong hockey player melt.
His expression is something I’ll never forget, even though I only get it for a second before he’s bending down and kissing me.
“Beautiful little kitty cat,” he says when he draws back, lightly tapping at my nose. “Now get on with those noodles. I’m hungry.”
Lips twitching, I get on with the noodles.
And so, by the time the sauce is ready and they’re dropped in the water to cook, Jackson is prebolusing for dinner, giving the insulin a head start on the carbs that are soon to follow.
“Sit, sit,” Kurt orders, gesturing toward the table he pulled us from when I started peppering him with questions thirty minutes before. Our waiter—who hasn’t been able to meet my eyes since we came face-to-face outside the bathroom—is depositing plates in front of our chairs.
Colorful salads, crusty bread, and a beautiful array of cocktails to accompany our wine.
“Enjoy,” he adds, shooing us from the kitchen and working furiously at his station.
We sit. We devour the salads, and I definitely have more than my share of the delicious bread.
And by the time my head is spinning slightly from the rainbow of cocktails, from polishing that bottle of wine off—even with all the bread soaking it up in my belly—the chef is depositing steaming plates of the most delicious pasta in front of me.
But it’s not just the food.
It’s…Jackson.
His continued awareness and consideration, the way his hand brushes mine as we share the dishes and offer each other bites, how our legs tangle beneath the table, the soft contact always there. The stories he shares of the team’s locker room antics—some I’ve heard, many I haven’t, all that have me in stitches.
And then he asks me questions about Gran, and I find myself talking about our traditions at Christmas—Chinese food and a movie at the local theater, about Junie and the bingo fiasco, about my attempts at making her a birthday cake as a teenager and not realizing that I’d swapped salt for sugar, and about the hard times too.
“…I thought I’d lose her when the cancer came back,” I admit. “I went home and cried all night, but then I did what she taught me—I got myself together, I did my research, and I made a plan. I got her doctors to get her into a clinical trial and thankfully, she responded well to it. She’s still recovering, and I hate that her journey hasn’t been easy, but she’s getting better a little more every day. And she’s been cancer free for six months now.”
Jackson squeezes my hand. “She’s lucky to have you.”
“I feel the same.”
He opens his mouth, but whatever he was going to ask is interrupted by his phone ringing.