The Husband Game

He turns his palm up, lacing his fingers through mine easily, as if he’s done it a thousand times before. His palm fits exactly around mine, engulfing my hand. I swallow, liking the sensation a little too much.

“So… did you like, give up ice skating for life after that?” I ask with a small smile.

“Actually, I became a hockey player,” he replies, that wry little grin widening.

Now I really do laugh, and he squeezes my hand, and fuck. I could stare into this man’s eyes forever. Get lost in him, in this moment. “You’re right,” I murmur, the words feeling tight in my throat. “That does tell me a lot about you.”

He arches a brow. “Such as what?”

“Such as the fact that you’re stubborn.” I grin. “Most people would never want to go near ice again after something that traumatizing. But you faced your fears and went back over and over.”

“I don’t like to let anything get the better of me,” he replies. His gaze jumps back and forth as he searches mine. “I’m in charge of any situation I’m in. I make sure of it.”

A curl of desire unravels in my belly. Fuck. Well, that answers my other, unasked question. He’s definitely an alpha in the sheets. If I had any doubts about it before, they’re gone now.

It’s funny, that normally isn’t my type. Like I said, I love a good enemies-to-lovers story, but usually with guys who seem mean and turn out to be sweethearts underneath. Charlie strikes me as the opposite—not that he’s mean. But he comes across so good-natured and sweet. Yet I can tell there’s a dark side under there, a dangerous bad boy who would love to control me…

And I can’t lie. Some part of me is curious about how that would feel. Getting bossed around in the bedroom…

“Any situation, huh?” I ask, before my brain can tell my lips to think better of it.

Charlie’s grin widens. “Any and every.” His gaze drops to my mouth, before it jumps back to mine. “For example, this one.” With that, he pushes back from me and rises to his feet. He puts space between us so fast and unexpectedly that it makes me gasp, my head reeling. All I want is to be that close to him again, inches from kissing.

Dammit.

And he knows exactly the effect he’s having, smirking down at me like that. “Come on,” he says, with a nod around us. “We ought to get out of their way.”

Only then do I realize that the coffee shop is closing—the baristas have started placing chairs on top of tables, and someone flips a closed sign in the window. One of the cashiers eyes us with the patented “I hope these people leave soon” stare that I’ve come to recognize and sympathize with in retail workers.

My cheeks flush. I’d been so caught up in that story—in Charlie—that I didn’t even notice the shop closing up. I swallow hard. “Right. Yeah, we should go.” I reach for my gear, but Charlie’s already picking it up for me once more.

“Don’t worry,” he calls over his shoulder. “As long as you aren’t ready to leave just yet, I have another destination in mind.”

I know I should say no. I should tell him I need to run. I should head home and try to figure out what parts of this day I might be able to salvage to write an article about, something approximating the assignment that I failed to really get off the ground today. Somewhere out there, I can practically sense Fiona waiting for me to do just that, to get my work done, the way I promised her.

But instead, I rise to my feet, snatch up my bag, and nod at Charlie. “You lead,” I tell him. “I’ll follow.”

And I swear, those words make his eyes flash, make him get every bit as hot as he made me earlier. His lips curl in a smile that’s more sensuous than before, slyer and knowing. “Be careful what you wish for,” he warns, as he leads me out of the coffee shop and deeper into his world.

3

We wind up stopping by a nearby bar, a surprisingly tasteful little spot that, despite having lived in this area my whole life, I’d never actually set foot inside before. It looks like a total dive bar from the outside, but inside it’s all cozy ski lodge vibes, with a roaring fire pit and fun, locally-themed cocktails. I sip on one that’s named after one of the main streets in town, some delicious rum concoction, while Charlie enjoys a Hartford twist on the Manhattan. As far as I can tell, that just means even more whiskey.

But Charlie barely seems to notice the drink. Or anything around us, except for me. The whole time we talk in the bar, we inch closer to one another, until we’re sitting pressed together in side-by-side chairs, his arm draped over the back of mine, his free hand tracing easy patterns on my thigh as we chat. The sensation of his fingertip trailing over my skin drives me wild, makes my heart race and my skin itch to get closer to him.