“No way!” Bea exclaims as I return to the dining table, a buttermilk pie in one hand, the cookies she brought in the other. “You must have waited hours for Annabelle’s.”
I shrug, feigning casual, even though the long wait time at the bakery meant cutting my workout short. Will I make up the missed reps tonight? Will my training slip now that I’ve missed part of a workout? Can I even have a slice of pie after all the Primrose cupcakes I consumed last month? I clear my throat. “It wasn’t too bad.”
I can tell from Bea’s expression that she doesn’t buy it. Instead of calling me out, her smile widens. “I love Annabelle’s pies.”
“They are a massive draw of living in Tennessee,” I agree. “I’ll be right back with coffee.” As I hurry to retrieve our coffee mugs, Bea slices and serves the pie.
Sitting across from her, pie and candlesticks between us, I realize how much I’ve grown up. How much I’ve learned to let people into my life. For years, it’s been hockey over everything. In the past, I never would have shortened a workout to buy a pie.
I’m proud of myself for enjoying this evening with Bea. Right now, I’m trying to have both—a professional and personal life—and I think I’m pulling it off okay.
“Do you like living here?” Bea asks, taking a sip of coffee.
I nod. “I like anywhere that allows me to play hockey for a living. But, yes, the Bolts are a great group of guys. I’m lucky to be on the team.”
“Not luck. You worked for it.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “But the work doesn’t go away. If anything, it gets more intense.”
“Is it worth it?” Her fork hovers over her plate, her eyes pinned on mine.
“I think so,” I admit. “To live your passion as a career? What could be more worth it than that?”
Bea gives me a little smile and a nod. Then, she uses the edge of her fork to cut a bite of pie and places it in her mouth. Her eyes close and the most appreciative, most uninhibited sound, rings out.
I can’t tear my eyes away from watching her enjoy buttermilk pie. My jeans feel too tight. My shirt, restrictive. Bea Turner is one of the most innocent, sweet, genuine women I’ve ever met.
But behind her rounded shoulders and creamy skin is a strong, fierce, gorgeous woman desperate to be seen. And I see her.
I want to see all of her.
“Do you want to get out of here after coffee and pie?” I ask, surprising myself as the thought pops into my mind.
Any other guy I know—River Patton comes to mind—would try to get Bea to stay. He’d want to relax with some drinks, mess around a little, get a girl in his bed for sunrise.
Bea quirks an eyebrow, a mischievous smirk curling half of her mouth. “What are you thinking?”
“You been to the Art Attic yet?”
Confusion ripples over Bea’s face and she shakes her head.
“Brawler—you know Axel Daire?”
Bea nods.
“He took his girl Maisy there a few months ago for a wine and paint night. Apparently, it’s a new place, combining art classes with a little bistro and bar.”
“Here? In our tiny town?” Bea sounds skeptical. I understand her surprise. Only forty minutes outside of Knoxville, this town has managed to stay off the radar and maintain a quiet, country lane feel.
But as the city expands outward, coupled with the University of Tennessee campus, more small businesses and storefronts are popping up. The Art Attic, a space for creatives and amateurs alike, is one of those spots. I glance at my watch. It’s nearly eight but since the Art Attic draws a lot of students, it keeps late hours.
“You want to check it out?” I ask. By the curiosity shading Bea’s eyes, she’s definitely intrigued. I want her to see the space and I want to experience it with her. That joy, that excitement, that need, that fills your veins when you’re passionate about something.
Bea stares at me, her expression unreadable. An intensity shimmers around her, like an aura. “You’ll take me?”
“I want to take you.”
“Then, yes. Let’s go.”
I take a small bite of the pie, my shortened workout shadowing the back of my mind. Bea finishes her coffee. We stand up and she reaches for our dirty plates, stacking them. I touch her wrist. “Leave them.”
“What?” Her eyebrows bend as if she misheard me.
I shake my head. “You want to see the Art Attic or clean my kitchen?”
“But when you get back tonight—”
“I’ll wash the dishes,” I assure her. “Come on.” I shrug into a zip up and grab my keys, wallet, and phone off the kitchen counter.
Bea settles the strap of her purse across her chest. An excited, almost childish gleam brightens her eyes. “You sure about this, Cole?”
“Surer than anything else,” I toss out, locking the door behind us.
As we walk down my driveway, a breeze kicks up and Bea shivers. I wrap an arm around her shoulders. “You want a hoodie?” Even though she’s wearing a sweater, the material is thin, and tonight is cooler than usual.
She looks up at me, her grey eyes dark, her lips pursed. I stop walking. Bea stills beside me, a small gasp falling from her lips.
“Bea,” I whisper, “are you cold?”
She shakes her head. The movement is slow. Her gaze doesn’t waver from mine. Around us, the sky darkens and the stars blink. The wind ripples over us, a cool blast that brushes Bea’s hair back from her face. She turns into me and my other arm lifts, my hand palming her hip.
My heart is thrumming so loudly, it pounds in my eardrums. My fingers curl into her softness, soaking up the heat of her skin through her thin sweater. God, she’s gorgeous. Her grey eyes are slate, shadowed in sadness, shimmering with an edge of hope. She tips her head back farther, giving me her expressions, the want and desire she’s too nervous to act on.
I work a swallow, my throat clogged with sand. Do I make a move? If I kiss her, will it change things? Will it cross the line of casually getting to know each other into something more serious?
I don’t do anything by halves. I’m always all in or all out. For years, hockey has been my everything. Prove them all wrong. Why would my relationship with a woman be anything less than all I’m capable of giving?
Bea’s lips part, soft and inviting.
Desire flares to life in my limbs, sweeping my body with heat I’ve only felt in the middle of sex. Never over the anticipation of a simple kiss. Never this quickly and fervently.
“Bea,” I murmur her name. Tell me what you want. Grant me the permission to take your mouth and devour it.
As if she hears my silent plea, her chin lifts, her eyes widen, and my mouth lands on hers. I grip Bea, pulling her against my chest, as my arms encircle her frame. Her hands are trapped between us, palms flat on my chest. But she pushes up onto her toes and deepens our kiss.
Our lips brush, gentle and sweet. But when Bea dips her tongue into my mouth, everything escalates. I slant my mouth over hers and kiss her with years of pent-up desire, with years of wanting to find a woman as breathtakingly beautiful as her.
She makes a little sound in the back of her throat, a tiny mewl, like a kitten lapping at milk. Satisfied yet greedy for more. The sound clangs in my head, both a warning and an encouragement.
I want to devour Bea. I want to haul her back inside my house and lay her out in my bed. I want to see her auburn ringlets on my pillowcase and breathe in the scent of her skin—vanilla and lavender.
But I also want her to know how much I respect her. How much I value her and this thing brewing between us. That I don’t do things like this with random women. I play hockey and I go home. I train and I hang with my team.
For me, women have always been a beautiful distraction. With Bea, I want more.
Forcing myself to break our connection, I step back. I grip her waist, holding her until she meets my gaze. Desire clouds her eyes, a flicker of vulnerability flaring from their depths.
“I don’t want to rush this with you, Bea,” I blurt out the truth. “I want this to mean something.”
“It does.”
“Good.” I grin. “Then let’s give it the time it deserves.”
A surprised chuckle falls from her mouth. “I’ve never been given the letdown so sweetly before.”
I wrap my arm around her shoulder and steer her toward my car. “It’s not a letdown, lioness. It’s a pledge.”
“A pledge?”
I open the passenger door. Before she can slip inside, I grip her hand and place it flat against my heart. “I promise to be a man worthy of your attention. Affection. Of whatever the hell you give me, I’ll keep it safe, Bea.”
“You’re messing this up, big-time, for any other guy I ever date.” She bites her bottom lip. Her tone is amused but I see the seriousness in her expression, I note the hint of vulnerability in her eyes.
I chuckle to lighten the mood, kiss the tip of her fingers, and release her.
As I round the car, I realize how much Bea doesn’t know about me. In all fairness, how could she? We’re just getting to know each other. And it’s not the norm for a hockey player, for a professional athlete, to only play for keeps.
But if I have my way, there won’t be any other men dating Bea. Because I’ll be enough. I’ll be her last first everything. And neither of us will have any regrets.
I slide behind the wheel of my car and glance over at Bea. She’s buckled in, her body humming with the same excitement, the same hope, that sparks in mine.
Our drive to the Art Attic is comfortable. A Sam Hunt song plays quietly in the background. We’re both lost in our thoughts. I’m consumed by the kiss we shared and the promise of a night that isn’t over yet. I hope she is too.
When we enter the Art Attic, a striking woman greets us. “Welcome to the Art Attic. I’m Mel.”
“Bea.” Bea sticks out a hand. “I had no idea this even opened.” A thread of awe weaves through her words, her eyes drinking in the space. “This is incredible.”
“Cole.” I wave in introduction.
Mel smiles. “Let me show you around. Then, you can tell me what you’re interested in creating tonight. And, of course, if you’re hungry.”
Bea falls into step with Mel. Mel points out different workspaces and fills Bea in on the different classes and artistic mediums utilized by the teachers here.
“Bea Turner?” Mel says after a beat. “I saw your showcase in Nashville last year.”
Bea comes to a complete halt, her cheeks burning bright red. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth.
“It was incredible,” Mel gushes, unaware just how nervous Bea is for her approval. “You are so talented, and I loved your collection of vases.”
Bea’s eyes swim with emotion and I step behind her, placing a hand in the center of her back to steady her.
Mel tips her head. “Have you considered teaching? We could use someone with your expertise with some of the pottery classes, especially for our advanced students.”
Bea’s fingers press against her chest, as if confirming that Mel is speaking to her. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Mel says, holding up a finger. “Let me give you my card. I’d love to sit down this week and discuss your availability, if you’re interested?”
“I’m interested.”
Mel grins. “I’ll be right back.”
As Mel moves back to the front desk for a card, Bea turns into me. Wonder washes over her expression. “Can you believe that? I could work here, work with clay, and be…in an art world. Every day, Cole. I could do this every day.”
At the unbridled happiness, the pride, in her tone, I dip my head and brush a kiss to her lips. I can’t help myself. I love seeing my lioness embrace her purpose. Revel in it. “They’d be lucky to have you.”
Mel returns and settles us into a workspace. “What are you going to sculpt?”
Bea smirks. “Want to start with a little vase? For a succulent?”
I laugh and stretch out my palms, wiggling my fingers. “I’m ready, babe. Teach me.”
Mel leaves us to it and after a quick introduction, Bea places her hands over mine and teaches me how to shape clay before we move toward a spinning wheel. “You ready?”
I fall into the softness of her grey eyes. Am I ready for everything Bea Turner is gifting me?
“Let’s do it.”