It was a baby step, and while Brienne is right—most people didn’t bat an eye—the truth is the one person who reacted horribly to it at first had ogled me.
I went from a sexy, desirable woman to being repulsive, and it’s hard to reconcile which is the true me. Maybe I’m both, but if that’s true, how can Gage even look at me?
Glancing at the firmly closed door, I drop the sheet. I trust Gage to give me complete privacy. I use the bathroom to dress, brushing tangles from my hair as best I can with my fingers. Staring at myself in the mirror, I try to see the new woman I’ve become over the last few weeks.
Brushing my hair back, I study the scars on my jaw and neck. Imperfections that most people don’t pay attention to but visibly repulsed Keller to the point he commented about it. Unfortunately for him, he made the comment to the man who happens to… love me.
How did that happen? I move my face, study it from different angles. He loves Jenna Holland, scars and all.
Why did it happen? It’s a marvel to me.
I smile at myself, accepting the reflection smiling back. If Gage can love it, so can I.
In the kitchen, I find Gage with his back to me, moving a spatula around a pan of eggs. The broad expanse of his back is gorgeous, his hair mussed from sleep. He hums a low, snappy tune that I can’t place, bopping his head along with it.
I could sit here and stare at him forever—a perfect combo of male beauty and down-to-earth goodness.
“What are you singing?” I ask, moving to the coffee pot.
He glances over his shoulder at me and grins. “‘Are You Gonna Be My Girl?’”
“By Jet?” I ask with a laugh.
“That’s the one.” He tips the pan over a plate and fills it with a huge pile of eggs, far more than I can eat.
I grab my coffee, refill a cup for Gage, and we settle at the kitchen table set in a round cubby with windows overlooking a backyard heavy with shade trees just finished with their spring unfurling.
Gage provides two forks and hands one to me for us to share from the same plate. It’s quaint, cozy, and intimate.
“I love you too,” I say just as he dips his fork into the fluffy eggs. His head snaps up, eyes boring into mine. “How could I not?”
A slow smile spreads over his face, and he lifts from his chair, leans across the table, and captures my mouth for a short kiss. As he sits back down, he says, “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
“Isn’t it weird?” I stab some eggs and hold them before my face. “How we’re just having a casual conversation about it? I thought most declarations of love came on the heels of massive orgasms or romantic, moonlit kisses.”
Gage laughs. “I can’t even speak after one of my orgasms with you, much less form coherent thoughts. But it would’ve been a nice memory to have told you under a bright moon.”
I shake my head emphatically. “No. The way you said it was perfect. The timing was perfect. It’s when I needed it most.”
“Yeah, it’s really only you who was weird about it… tossing it across the plate of eggs,” he teases.
“I’ll have to work on my romance, then.” I take a bite and note the eggs could use some salt, but it’s not important enough to leave this conversation to get it.
“I got a text from Darius Cermak this morning. He and his wife are hosting a cocktail party tonight at their home to celebrate us making the playoffs. It’s a good time to have a party since our next game is at home day after tomorrow.” While the Titans secured a playoff spot, there are still two more regular season games. “Figured it would be a lot of fun for us to dress fancy and kick up our heels a bit. What do you think?”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth as I stare at him. “Aneta is his wife?”
“Yeah,” he says with his mouth drawn down in distaste. “But there will be so many people there, we can avoid her. Plus I’ll be at your side—”
“I don’t want to go,” I blurt out, dropping my fork to the plate.
Gage frowns, putting his own utensil down. “Why not?”
“I just… that’s not my type of thing. I don’t enjoy big parties, and I’m not really part of that scene…”
“That scene?” he repeats.
“You know… all your hockey teammates and their wives. That’s sort of a family thing.”
“Girlfriends are invited,” he says. “In fact, a plus-one is invited, so it can be a wife, girlfriend, fuck buddy, or a friend. It’s a party. A time to celebrate.”
My eyes drop to the plate briefly before I glance back up again. “I don’t feel comfortable.”