Page 51 of Patrick

He wraps his arms around me like that’s where they belong, like I’m his home base. “You have my vote for Miss Congeniality of this beauty pageant. It’s almost not fair though,” he whispers in my ear, disturbing the fine hairs at my temple and making me shiver. Then he nibbles on my earlobe, and I nearly collapse against him.

“Not fair…” I parrot absently, relishing every hot breath he releases against the sensitive skin around my ear and neck.

“Because you also have my vote as the most beautiful girl in the room, in every room.”

“I bet you…” I’m about to give him the standard cliché response I give for wild flattery by boys, but I stop myself. Because this isn’t any boy; this is Trick. And maybe it’s not wild flattery—what if he means it?

“You bet me what?” He smirks like he’s reading my mind. So I tell him what I’m thinking.

“I bet you’re serious, that you’re not just saying that to flatter me.”

He goes still, and his blue eyes flash like an aurora borealis, showing waves of all kinds of emotion I don’t usually see.

“You’d win your bet.” His voice is quiet and solemn, and I don’t know what to say.

But I realize I’m holding the hockey jersey between us and pull it out to look at it, separating us and ending the moment.

“Thank you so much for getting this for me. It means a lot. Kind of like getting your letter jacket like they used to do in the old days. At least that’s what Grandma says.”

He grins. “Right. I remember seeing an old movie once where guys got letter jackets. But my jersey is cooler than that.”

“Yes, it is.” I recognize his moment of vulnerability, his need for assurance, and my heart softens. “How about if I put it on now?”

“That would be hot.” He sits on my bed and pulls me to stand in front of him. Then he yawns, and not the small bored kind of yawn, the big open, fist in the mouth, and his whole body shuddering from it kind of yawn.

He chuckles. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.” He shakes his head. “I don’t believe I’m crashing now.” Then he turns me around and smacks my butt playfully. “Go change into my jersey. I have an unreasonable need to see you in it.” He yawns again. “Before I fall asleep.”

I laugh as he lies back on the pillows, and I take the shirt to my en-suite bathroom to change and get ready for bed. When I return, he’s barely awake.

“What do you think?” I spin around and model the jersey, which is apparently designed to fit a small rhino or a massive hockey player wearing thick layers of all kinds of padding.

“Fishing for compliments, Fifi. That’s so beneath you. You know you make anything on you look gorgeous.”

“I think I really could make this gorgeous.” I look down and inspect the material. “With a bit of jazzing up, I think this jersey has promise as formal wear.”

One eyebrow lifts, and he grins. “Formal wear? How about bedtime wear?” He reaches for me, but I step back because my designer mind is spinning, and I’m excited about my idea.

“Did I tell you about the project we were assigned in my design class?”

“The one with your famous professor?” He sits up and gives me his attention, like he’s listening seriously now.

“That’s the one. We need to design formal wear, and she’s planning to arrange a fashion show for us. It’s worth half our grade. The design will literally make or break our grade for the class, which in turn could make or break our chance to write our career ticket when we graduate.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about, Fifi baby, because you always look exciting in everything you wear. Nothing about you is boring, especially not your fashion sense. You’re the most delectable woman I’ve ever met. You always look like the prettiest cookie on the dish, the way you dress and, more importantly, the way you carry yourself, like you’re a fairy princess—not one of those snobby catty mean queens.”

My smile grows wider and wider until my face might split in two when he’s finished with his speech or pep talk.

“You sound like my coach in the fashion show dressing room just before I’m about to go on.” I throw myself at him, joining him in bed, kissing him to show how much I appreciate his confidence, even if he knows nothing at all about fashion.

He squeezes me tight, tucking me into his side, trying to hold back another yawn.

“You have a big game tomorrow. You should probably go to sleep.” Part of me is disappointed, but another part of me is happy just to lie in his arms, snuggled against him, feeling his heat and his solid presence.

“I should.” He strokes my back. “You know I want to fuck you like there’s no tomorrow, but⁠—”

I put a finger on his lips. “There is a tomorrow, Trick. And tomorrow is your game against B.C., and I want nothing more than to see you kick the bejesus out of Vince and his team, especially after the way he treated you.”

“He didn’t treat you very well, either.” His voice rumbles dark and edgy.