Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“Let’s see this plan.”
She yelps again—but this time from surprise—when I drag her off the edge of the low-slung bed and onto the fluffy rug. I position her on her knees, body draped over the bed. “Leave your arms still, okay?” I run my hands down her body and cup her ass in my hands. “This is going to be a rough ride, but not for your wrists.”
Her response is a low moan.
My hands take a trip around the front of her body, while I kiss the back of her neck. She shivers in response. And when I bite the juncture between her neck and her shoulder, she moans again. “Hurry.”
“You’ll get it when I’m good and ready.”
But the truth is that I’ve been ready for weeks. Ready to love her. And when I slide home a minute later, we’re both grateful.
I wake up sprawled out in Darcy’s bed some hours later.
We’ll have a grueling morning skate at nine, and I’m pretty sure Darcy has to be at work, too. But I feel nothing but peace. The whole day—no, the whole season—feels infinitely more expansive to me than it did just yesterday.
And it’s only seven, which means there’s still time to take my girl out on a date. I pick up my phone and find the number for Café Chelsea on Twenty-Third. I ring them, and when someone answers, I’m ready. “Good morning. Do you have linen napkins?”
Beside me, Darcy rolls over and slurs, “What are you doing? I thought that was a joke.”
In my ear, the hostess says, “Um, they’re fabric, if that’s what you’re asking?”
“Wonderful. Do I need a reservation for breakfast for two within the hour?”
“Walk right in, sir.”
I thank her and hang up. “Get up, baby. Our first secret date is on.”
Chapter 44
All the Lucky Ties
Darcy
October
I wake up starfished in the king-sized bed in Eric’s penthouse bedroom, to the sound of the gentle beep that his coffeepot makes when it’s done brewing. He walks into the bedroom a beat later, wearing nothing but a towel, two mugs in his hands. “Wake up, princess. Breakfast in forty minutes. And I need help choosing a tie.”
“How come?” I force myself upright to take my coffee mug from him.
“We’ve rumpled some of my usual picks,” he says, pacing into his vast closet. “And I almost always wear a blue or red tie on game day.”
“Oh no.” It’s still early, but the ramifications of wearing inauspicious ties at the start of the season are important enough that I catch on right away. “Why did we rumple those, then? Obviously, we should be playing our naked games with the unlucky ties.”
His head pokes out of the closet. “Bite your tongue. I need all the lucky ties for getting lucky.”
“Hmm.” It isn’t, I guess, any more or less ridiculous of an idea than any other athlete’s superstition. “Okay, clearly, we need to go shopping. But in the meantime, what are we working with?”
Eric emerges from the closet holding two ties. “This one,” he says, indicating the blue one draped over his left arm, “has a little orange on it, which is not ideal. And this one,” he holds up his right hand, “is red with a white stripe. Classic, but maybe boring?”
I examine both options, taking this decision as seriously as he is. “The blue one is handsome, but you’re right—we can’t take that risk on a road trip to Philly.” I reach for the red tie. “This is better. It’s not boring, it’s confident.”
“Sold,” he says, gulping his coffee and walking back into the closet.
I pry myself out of the bed, admiring the sparkles on the water of the distant river. It’s shaping up to be a classic autumn day. “Where’s breakfast?” I call as I head for his bathroom.
“The NoMad!” he calls.
“Ooh, my favorite. You spoil me.”
“It’s intentional!”
It so happens that Eric and I are as good at secret dating as we were at fake dating. Possibly even better. Breakfast dates have become our thing—it’s easier to schedule outings together in the mornings than it is in the evenings.
Fortunately, there are a lot of linen-napkin restaurants in the Flatiron neighborhood and the west twenties—all of them in a reasonable proximity to our apartments.
I’d have guessed that a surreptitious relationship would be awkward and uncomfortable. But that’s not the case at all. It’s dreamy. All those stolen glances and the occasional copy machine alcove kiss.
It turns out that being a secret couple makes you focus on the way you treat each other. You have to work for those special moments. You have to show how much you care in subtle ways—like when I occasionally have lunch waiting for Eric after a grueling practice, or when he quietly leaves a cappuccino on my desk.
For two people who haven’t enjoyed a long history of successful dating, it’s kind of perfect. Like we’re wearing training wheels.