Kane (Arizona Vengeance 8)

“Have you called the detective?” Kane asks, moving to the refrigerator to pull out two bottles of water. He sets one down near the stove as I rummage through his lower cabinets for a sauté pan.

“Nothing new to report,” I mumble, rising with a deep stainless-steel pan. Kane made me promise to call today, so I did, even though I didn’t want to.

I didn’t want to call the detective in North Carolina who’s overseeing the arrest warrant issued for Matthew. He’d been charged with assault and battery with intent to commit serious bodily injury, but he was lost in the wind.

“Are they not searching for him?” Kane asks, belligerence in his tone. I understand it’s not intended for me, but for the situation.

“They’re doing what they can,” I murmur, turning on the flame on one of the burners and setting the pan on it.

“Which is nothing,” he growls. Kane moves over to the right of the stove, pivots, and leans back against it to watch me cook. He eyeballs the bowl of spiced chicken appreciatively, but I can’t wait until he sees the mango-and-red-pepper salad I’m going to whip together to go with it.

“They can’t send every cop out to look for him.” I attempt a soothing tone, but it falls short. I’m as frustrated as he is, but the difference is I’ve given up expecting Matthew to face justice while Kane refuses to accept anything less. “If he gets picked up or stopped, they’ll see he has a warrant out for him.”

I expect Kane to want to quibble about it more. Over the last few days, he’s ranted a time or two about what he’d love to do to Matthew if he ever got his hands on him.

Instead, he completely surprises me when he asks, “Mind if I come home with you this weekend?”

“Of course I don’t mind,” I reply. I step past him to the fridge to grab the butter. He stops me with his hand grabbing mine, causing me to half turn to give him my attention.

“That’s sort of a big deal,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Being a couple in front of your parents. Think we can have sex in your bedroom—be really quiet about it?”

I snort, jerking my hand away. “You’re such a man-child,” I chastise. In truth, though, that idea has merit. “But… you have time to make the trip?”

“This weekend will be the last for a while that won’t be chaotic. Pre-season games start next week. So, I’m in if you’ll have me.”

Butter in hand, I move back to the stove. “It’s a date then.”

I busy myself heating the butter to sauté the chicken. Kane asks if I’m making the same spicy chicken my mom makes, which he’s had on occasion. We lapse into small talk while I cook, and he tells me all about the first day of training camp. It consisted of meetings, some ice drills, and physical evaluations. Kane is pumped—there’s no hiding it. Ever since I saw him in his first hockey game at Boston College, I knew his destiny was on the ice. It’s as much a part of him as the blood and bone that make up his composition.

He chatters on about how good it felt to be back on the ice, how despite the hard training efforts he put in over the summer, his legs are still wobbly from the ice time, and how the team is excited to take home the Cup again this year.

After I sauté the chicken, I start putting the salad together. At some point, Kane pulls out a bottle of white wine and pours us each a glass.

It feels so weird and natural at the same time. As friends, we’ve never had a lull in our conversations. We’ve shared food and talks many times. But now there are little changes that, quite frankly, thrill me.

Kane needing to shift past me to the cabinet where the wineglasses are kept, putting a hand to my waist to move past.

Or the way, after we tapped our glasses together but before that first sip, I went up to my tiptoes and kissed him on the mouth.

Those are things we’ve never done before. Yes, they feel slightly weird because it’s new, but it’s so fucking right all the same.

We choose to eat in the formal dining room, carrying our plates and wineglasses in there. Samson, ever hopeful of getting a stray bit of food, settles in at my feet.

“So, one of my teammates, Aaron, is dating a girl named Clarke. She owns a bookstore not far from here,” Kane says as he spears a piece of chicken and brings it to his mouth. He chews with a delighted expression. When he swallows, he says, “Goddamn, Mollie, that’s amazing.”

Cheeks heating, I feel my belly start to flutter over the praise. I had wanted to make a nice meal for Kane—as part of our new relationship—and it appears to be a success.