“Okay,” I say, even though nothing is okay. “The two of us are speaking with a lawyer tonight. We’re hoping to resolve this quickly.”
“Right,” Georgia says, fighting a smile. “Still, we have to decide our plan of attack. What am I telling this reporter?”
“Nothing,” Charli spits. “It’s none of his damn business.”
“Saying nothing never works,” I point out. “If it’s a gossip site, they’ll publish whatever they want. What if our statement just said—Charli and Neil Drake are not a couple.”
Charli’s eyes cut to mine. For a split second, hers look guilty. But they quickly return to angry.
“Guys, I’m not sure you’ll be able to contain this story,” Georgia says. “Marriages are public information. I don’t know how many days it takes the Clark County clerk’s office to post them on their website, but sooner or later the marriage will be searchable.”
“Oh, no,” Charli gasps.
“Oh, yes,” Georgia says. “I just checked, and it’s not up there yet. But unless you guys failed to make it legal somehow, it will be.”
Charli groans. “Can we just, like, give it a day? We really don’t know what this lawyer is going to tell us.”
“Sure,” Georgia says soothingly. “Call me tomorrow morning. Can I ask if your teammates know?”
“No,” Charli says immediately. “And we plan to keep it that way.”
Our publicist sighs. “Fine. Steal all my fun. What good is the best gossip in the world if you can’t share it?”
“Georgia,” I warn.
“Okay, okay,” she says with a smile. “I’m a vault when I need to be. Call me tomorrow when you sort this all out. I can’t keep the journalist off our heels forever.”
“I’m late for practice,” Charli says. She looks panicked.
“Go,” Georgia and I say at the same time.
“It will be fine,” I add. “We’ll keep this quiet.”
I hope we actually can.
At home, I cook a really nice meal to soften Charli up. By the time she arrives at my apartment after practice, I’ve got marinated eggplant and a cauliflower gratin in the oven. I’ve got steaks ready to grill, and one piece of cheesecake chilling in the fridge.
“You didn’t have to cook,” Charli says, even as she eyes the vegetables through the oven’s glass door. “We could have just gotten takeout.”
“I was in the mood for a steak,” I explain. “And it’s just no good as takeout food.”
“Why not?” She pulls out a barstool and sinks down onto it.
When I glance over at her, I lose my train of thought for a second. Because she’s so fucking pretty. Even in an enemy T-shirt—the Flyers? Please. Even with her hair still damp from the shower. She’s got luminous skin, a spray of freckles across her nose, and giant blue-green eyes.
I kissed her last night. I only remember the night in blurry snippets, but I’ll never forget that I’d had my hands on her smooth skin. On her body.
I’d liked it. A lot.
She’s blinking up at me, waiting for an answer, and it takes me another beat to dredge our conversation from the murky depths of my lust. “A steak has to be eaten right off the heat, or it loses its crust.” I open the first package of meat and put the steak onto a plate. Then I grab my salt grinder and go to town. I do the same with the pepper grinder.
“If you say so,” she says. “That looks like a lot of pepper.”
“Shut up. I know what I’m doing.”
She gives me a tiny smile. “I had no idea you could cook. If I had limitless resources, I’m not sure if I’d bother.”
“I like it,” I insist. Although, I have a lot of guilt over my limitless resources, as she calls them. I learned to cook because nobody else in my family ever did. “And nutrition is a big deal for me.” Diabetes means watching what I eat. “It’s easier to know what’s in your food if you make it yourself.”
“True. But where are you going to cook that?”
“On the grill, of course. Like real men do.”
Charli snorts. “Where’s the grill? On your super fancy oven?”
“No—on the roof. I have a Weber up there.” I point at the spiral staircase in the corner.
“Get out of town!” she squeaks. “You’re like a suburban dad.”
“I know.” I shrug. “It suits me.”
“What else is on the roof?” she asks.
“Nothing. I didn’t bother with furniture. Wasn’t sure if I’d get to stay in Brooklyn, you know?” Not every rookie makes it. “Besides, the grill is actually against the building’s policy. Don’t turn me in.”
“Me?” Her smile is amused. “Are you kidding? You’re the rule-follower in this marriage.”
I bark out a laugh. She’s right. I am a rule-follower. But, man, the word marriage sounds so wrong. All day I’ve been having these moments of cognitive dissonance.
It’s freaky to hear her say it out loud.
Charli must think so, too, because she changes the subject. “So how do you decide what kind of steak to make?”
“Well, I got you a filet mignon.” I nudge the second package toward her. “And me a sirloin.”
She glances at the label. “Thank you for buying me a steak I can’t pronounce.”
“Really? You can’t say filet?” I say lightly. “Something wrong with your tongue?”
Our eyes meet for a split second right after I say the word tongue. And then we both look away. I open the package and toss the filet on the plate for the salt and pepper treatment.
I need to stop picturing Charli naked.
I need to feed her dinner.
And I need to figure out how to unwind the mess we’re in.
In that order.
A half an hour later, I’ve got Charli moaning. “Oh God, oh God.” She lets out a dreamy sigh. “I didn’t know it could be this good.”
If only she’d take her clothes off and say that again.
For the moment, we’re sitting at the table, enjoying a nice steak.
“It’s like butter,” she says, wiping her mouth. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“That’s what all the girls say when they taste my meat.”
She reaches around the table and slaps my arm. “Don’t ruin this sensuous experience for me.”
“Have some more of the cauliflower,” I offer, scooting the dish towards her. I’d heard some moaning over that, too. “You know you want to.”
“I have to slow down,” she says, plopping another scoop of it onto her plate anyway.
“You really don’t. Go hard, baby. Go all night long.” She kicks me under the table, and I chuckle as I cut another bite of my own steak.
“Linen napkins, though? You complain about your rep as the fancy guy on the team, but you don’t fight the cliché very hard.”
“Cloth napkins aren’t fancy. They’re better for the environment.” I lift the wine bottle and top up her glass. I can’t enjoy a good steak without a nice, full-bodied red. “Do me a favor, though, and don’t mention the truffle butter at the rink.”