Page 132 of Smitten Pucking Orc

She meowed again, telling me she only cared about breakfast.

The coffee sat on the counter in my favorite mug, the one that said, World’s Okayest Doctor. Steam still rose from the surface.

He’d learned exactly how I took it. Two creams, no sugar. I’d learned he needed his hip stretched before morning skate or he’d be stiff all day.

The instruction sheets hung on the wall above the coffeemaker, in matching frames. My handwriting and his notes filling every margin. Our whole story lived there. Proof we’d been building something together before we knew we were doing it.

I fed Marzipan, who ate like she’d been starving for weeks instead of hours, and took my coffee to the couch.

The research protocol sat on my laptop, preliminary data sprawled across the screen. Patty and I were presenting on the topic at a league conference next month. My name, Dr. Eleanor Lundrig, would one day be on methodology that could change how every team handled soft tissue injuries.

Six months ago, I’d almost gone to Denver to prove I was good enough.

Now I knew I’d been good enough already.

The shower turned off. A short time later, the bathroom door opened. Brashe emerged with a towel around his waist, his hair still damp, water droplets trailing down his chest. He held my sticky note, reading it with a small smile.

“Rain check accepted,” he said. “How about tonight?”

“Tonight works.” We were volunteering at a soup kitchen later, but after that, the rest of the night was ours.

He sat beside me on the couch, smelling like soap and something woodsy I couldn’t name but would recognize anywhere.

I grabbed another sticky note from the coffee table and wrote while he watched. Only if you promise to make it worth my while.

I handed it to him.

He read it and laughed. “Fair.”

“I’m practical.”

“It’s one of the things I love about you.”

“Just one?”

“I have a list.”

“How long?”