Page 84 of Cross Check

“Do you mean small and boring?” He kicks off his sneakers and pushes them to the wall with his foot. “It’s not a lot of space. Sorry I’m not in a penthouse.”

“Why would you apologize for where you live? It’s inviting. Look at the pictures on the wall!” I point to the framed photos of an empty hockey arena. “Way more personable than a modern sculpture of an animal’s ass.”

“Can’t say animal asses do it for me.” Grant bursts out laughing and starts down the hall. “Way too formal.”

I unzip my boots and set them next to his shoes to follow behind him, but I freeze when I see the light gray sweatpants he’s wearing. I was too distracted in the store to notice them, but now that things are quieter, all I can process is how the material clings to his body.

Speaking of asses.

I hate myself when my gaze inevitably drops to his backside. Years of playing hockey has sculpted his ass into something I know is gloriously muscular, and it’s unfair how good he looks while dressed so casually.

“I like your kitchen,” I say when I catch up to him. “Plenty of space for people to come over and mingle.”

“We had a book club meeting here in October. Since Mav and Emmy are out in the suburbs now, we started rotating who hosts each month.” Grant puts the bags on the counter and heads for the pantry. He slips a pink apron over his head—one that says kiss the cook across the front—and tosses one to me. “I know how messy you are. Better put that on so you don’t ruin your shirt.”

“Good idea.” I tie it around my waist. “I’m not sure I own one apron, and yet you have two. Why am I not surprised?”

“Hudson’s personal chef got all of us aprons for Christmas. It’s motivated me to cook more.” He laughs and preheats the oven. “Judging by your lack of aprons, I’m guessing you don’t do much cooking at home.”

“I try to when I’m not on the road. Arena food isn’t nearly as good as the salmon I pop in the air fryer.” I point to the counter, and Grant nods. I hop on the ledge of the marble, swinging my legs while he pulls out the jar of marinara. “I have been known to make a Taco Bell run when I have no energy to cook.”

“She’s a culinary aficionado folks,” Grant teases. “Tell me your preferences that don’t include fast food or meatball subs.”

“I’m a big fan of pasta. Pancakes too.”

“We do have a habit of seeing each other in Italian restaurants.” The meatballs go in the oven, and he drapes a dish towel over his shoulder. “What about sushi? Greek food? You told me you liked Indian food.”

“I did?” I blink at him. “When?”

“A while ago. The first time we went to Pete’s, actually.”

“And you remember that? That was years ago.”

“What I told you in Vegas is still true.” Grant steps closer. With his eyes on me, he turns the top of the jar of sauce. He pops it open with an easy motion of his wrist. “I remember everything, friend.”

The word is a goddamn taunt. He’s showing me he’s better than any other friend I’ve had, and he might be right.

It’s not the first time he’s brought up something I’ve mentioned offhandedly. I don’t know how he pulls these memories out of the dredges of his mind, but when he does, I feel special. Like he’s paying attention to every nonimportant detail I’ve ever said, and no one has done that for me before.

“You should do something with that jar before it spills everywhere,” I say.

“There’s nothing wrong with a little mess. That’s the motto you live by, right?” A smirk, the curve of a dimple on a chiseled jawline that could be cut from glass. “But, fine. We’ll keep the messes to a minimum.”

We move around each other in the kitchen, warming up the sauce, toasting the bread, melting the cheese. His fingers brush against mine when he hands me a plate, and my body gets hot all over. At the table, we knock our sandwiches together and take a bite at the same time, our groans coming out in unison as we swallow.

“I’m not a guy with a big ego, but that is a fucking good sandwich,” he says.

“I’m going to lick my plate clean, and you’re not allowed to judge me,” I say.

“This is a safe space.” Grant’s voice is muffled, and when I look up at him, I find his hands covered in marinara sauce. “Lick away.”

“Don’t make me choke! I want to savor this delicious meal, not be sent to the hospital.”

“This would be a good way to go, wouldn’t it? I’d make sure you were buried with a meatball necklace and a jar of marinara.”

“Unbelievable. I’d also need a baguette.”

“There’s one final touch.” It’s his turn to cough, laughter rippling through him while he tries to take a bite of his food. “You’ll be draped in a cloak of melted provolone cheese.”