Chapter 10

King comes home from practice angry and sporting a black eye.

Which means I give him a wide berth after telling him I made him some food and it's on a covered plate in the oven.

He doesn't snap at me, isn't mean, doesn't take out what had clearly been a shit day on me.

He just murmurs, "Thanks" and disappears upstairs.

A few moments later I hear water running.

Kingston Bang in the shower.

Kingston Bang naked and soapy and?—

My stomach tightens, a bolt of desire winding through my belly.

Retreating from the thoughts, the temptations, I stick to my work in the office, not coming out until I'm fighting to keep my eyes open and exhaustion clings to every one of my cells. I'm still recovering, but this need for an afternoon nap is ridiculous.

I've barely gotten through my backlog of emails.

Sighing, I make a pit stop in the kitchen, get myself a glass of water. But then my curiosity gets the better of me and I can't stop myself from peeking in the oven. Strictly for safety purposes. I need to make sure that it's off. Can't have the house burning down around us.

But really, I want to see if he's eaten.

If he hasn't…

Well, I don't know what I'll do.

Take it upstairs and return some of his pushy by force-feeding it to him?

He's a big man and has a demanding job and was at the rink early that morning. He needs fuel.

Unfortunately, I find myself strangely disappointed.

The oven is empty.

And the plate is sitting in the sink.

I move to the trash, glanceinside.

No food dumped there.

And that…well, it's stupid, but it eases something inside my chest. Phillip?—

I don't want to think about Phillip, but I can't help it. Because I know I would have found the food uneaten in the trash. Because it wouldn't have mattered if I hadn't done anything to make his day bad.

That food would have been in the trash.

I quietly close the lid, nibble at my bottom lip.

I should go take a nap.

I should go to sleep and when I wake up, start getting back to normal. Find an apartment because—after everything—I can't go back to Phillip's and my place (really, Phillip's, since I moved in with him). I need to move on, to find a way to start over.

Find a way to begin again.

Again.

I sigh.

But instead of going to the guest room, I move to the fridge, pull out the bowl of cookie dough I made earlier when I was feeling energetic and spritely and…

Then had run out of steam.

I'd made a half-hearted attempt at covering it with plastic wrap, but now I pull that off, move to the oven and turn it back on.

King has a well-stocked kitchen for a bachelor, and I open the drawer beneath the oven, extract a pair of cookie sheets.

One of which I load up with my Everything dough.

MMs, peanut butter chips, bits of marshmallow, crunched-up graham crackers, sprinkles—basically everything and the kitchen sink.

A.k.a. every sugar-filled, calorie-laden deliciousness.

And hot, gooey, straight-out-of-the-oven Everything cookies are the perfect remedy for a shitty day.

Something that proves Chrissy knows me too well because she'd brought the supplies yesterday, knew that at some point in the near future, I'd need the power of Everything cookies.

My heart squeezes.

I'm lucky—despite everything, I'm lucky.

"Lucky," I whisper, holding that thought close as I slide the tray into the oven and set the timer.

Then I snag the other baking sheet and fill it with balls of dough, and when the timer goes, I remove the golden-brown cookies from the oven, swapping it for the tray loaded with the unbaked ones. And then I repeat the process—roll, bake, remove, put on the rack to cool—until all of the dough is used up and the kitchen is filled with the delicious smell of Everything cookies.

Do I sample?

Hell yes, I do.

But do I also load a plate with five huge, hot cookies when I pull that final baking sheet out?

Yup.

Leaving the others to cool, I snag the plate and ignore the fact that my heart is beating fast enough to make me dizzy.

He had a bad day.

He helped me when he didn't have to.

I can do this one small thing for him.

I just…well, I hope he?—

"What are you doing?"

I spin so fast that the cookies nearly slide off the plate, seeing King standing in the doorway, face unreadable, big body still and eyes locked on me.

"I—" I swallow hard. "Baking cookies?"

Only it's more question than statement.

And I watch his face soften. "You're baking cookies?"

"You had a bad day," I murmur. "And I made Everything dough earlier, so I thought…" I shrug, continue inanely, "Well, Everything cookies make everything better."

His head tilts to the side, eyes still on mine, and I freeze, heart in my throat.

Why does this suddenly feel like a big deal?

"What are Everything cookies?" he asks.

My pulse speeds, mind spinning.

Then I hear my dad's voice again, and it settles me.

Be brave and kind.

I blow out a silent breath and smile at him. "They're my specialty," I say, offering up the plate. "Want to try one?"

He's still and focused, but then his mouth turns up at the corners, just slightly, as he reaches forward and takes a cookie from the plate I'm offering. It's huge—because cookies should be delicious and huge and not something that people skimp calories on—but it looks tiny in his hand.

Big and strong and fierce.

But…I'm not scared of him.

Maybe I should be, especially after Phillip.

But…I'm not.

"Fuck," he snaps and I jump, skitter back a step.

Or maybe I am.

"Woman," he says, wiping the crumbs from the corners of his lips, his gaze going disapproving, "this is just plain mean."

My brows shoot up. "Um?—"

He takes the plate, holds it against his chest. "These are mine," he says. "They're going to make me absolutely sick with sugar and crap, but they're all mine."

I blink.

"My precious," he says in a Gollum voice.

I blink again.

"Okay fine," he says, "I'll share one with you."

I blink a third time.

And then, because the begrudging expression on his face is so freaking adorable, I find myself laughing. "Gee, thanks," I mutter.

He winks but passes the plate back over. "Thanks, princess," he says softly. "That was nice of you."

"These are actually"—I return the plate—"for you." I tilt my head toward the container I'd filled with the rest of the cookies. "And those are too." I shrug. "I know it's not much, but sugary, not-good-for-you cookies have excellent healing properties."

He studies me closely.

Too closely.

"What about you?" he eventually asks. "Were you able to partake in those same healing properties?"

Something warm bubbles in my belly. I inhale, nod.

But he doesn't press me further, just says, "Good." Then goes to the fridge, pulls out the carton of milk, and pours himself a glass. "Do you want—?" He holds it up.

"No," I whisper.

A nod before he puts it back, closes the door. "Work go okay?"

It's small talk.

But it feels like more.

Probably because we're not arguing for once.

But also maybe…because it is more.

"Yeah," I say after a moment, answering his question about work. "Lots of emails and then I worked a bit on the planning for our fundraising gala."

He takes a bite, decimating half of the cookie with that one action. "The one for Chrissy's charity?" he asks around it.

"Yes," I say. "Though it's also going to benefit my dogs."

Blue eyes softening further. "I'm glad." He juts a chin toward the hall, and I turn to see a sleepy-eyed Zeus laying like a little potato in the opening. "I wouldn't have him if not for the work you do."

My heart squeezes. "He's a good boy."

"The goodest." A wink before he moves to the doggy cookie jar, and I watch the sleep clear from the pup's golden-brown eyes, see the razor-sharp focus snap into place as King pops open the top of the container, reaches inside.

Click-click. Click-click.

Zeus is in front of him in a flash.

"It's the last one, bud," King says, holding out the treat.

Zeus takes it like the goodest boy he is—gently. Then he spends the next few seconds chomping noisily, leaving a trail of crumbs in his wake that he deliberately licks up. But even though the little-legged fluffer is adorable and normally I could watch him just be a dog for hours, I find my gaze drawn to King. He's gone to a cabinet near the hall that leads to the garage, pulls a binder off the open shelf there, and sets it on the counter. A flick opens the cover and then he's flipping to a page?—

"What's that?" I ask.

He snags a pen from the little cup on that same shelf. "What's what?"

I tilt my head in the direction of the binder. "That."

"My Life Planner." Said matter-of-factly.

Both like this is common…and like I should know what a Life Planner is.

My brows shoot up, nearly to my hairline. "Your Life Planner?"

He lifts and drops one big shoulder in an approximation of a shrug as his eyes scan the page. "Yup."

"Your Life Planner?" I don't know what that is, just that the name makes it seems intense and far too much work.

"Yup," he says, jotting something down in it.

"I don't understand."

His gaze flicks to mine. "It's a binder I use to keep track of everything I need to keep track of—shopping and road trips, appointments and shit that needs to be done on the house."

"Oh."

This big, giant hockey player with the hard body and black eye from practice and beard that's thick and rough that I want running over my naked skin, has a binder he uses to plan his life?

I just?—

"How? Why?"

"What?" His tone is light, eyes dancing, obviously enjoying my shock. "Do Prickle Princesses not organize their own lives?" A tap to his chin. "Oh no, of course they don't. They have servants for that—tiny, fluffy servants who are magically trained to complete the most common of household tasks."

I narrow my eyes at him. "Really?"

He grins. "And, let me guess." Another tap. "Ms. Pricklestein doesn't believe in organization without the aid of her fluffy servants either?" He smirks. "Or maybe you use your spikes to prompt them into action when they move too slow?"

"Okay," I mutter. "This is getting ridiculous."

"What about Spiny Sweetie? Does she organize? Or Barbarella? She has to plan at least something. No? Maybe Your Thorny Highness does?"

I groan.

"No?" he asks. "None of them like to plan ahead either?"

"That is far too much talk of pokey things," I tell him. "Plus, I have enough deadlines with my design work and the rescue. I don't need to hold myself to firm targets in my own life."

"That's an excellent point," he says lightly then hops up on the counter, nudging the binder toward me. "But I don't make deadlines for myself. See?" He taps a finger on the page. "It's just to keep track of all the moving parts." A beat, his lips curving. "Like when the dog treat jar gets low."

Now that's smart.

I have to give him that much.

His expression is confident bordering on cocky. "I see that my Princess of the Pointiness understands my logic."

Oy.

This man pushes my buttons like no other.

And yet…I'm enjoying myself.

Dumb. So fucking dumb.

"King," I say, sighing heavily even as amusement coils in my belly. I turn the binder toward me, start to study what's on the page—a note for dog treats in the pet section of his grocery list. "I'm going to need you to stop with the prickly references."

"So, switch over to scientifically proper cactus references then?" His lips twitch. "I'll call you Queen of the Night. Ooooo." He wiggles his fingers.

I choke on my laughter—goddamn he's funny.

And annoying.

And…not what I thought he was.

Which makes me feel even more like a jerk for judging him…and for being the aforementioned prickly.

Something I swear he clocks because he looks far too proud of himself.

I sigh again.

But I'm still biting back laughter.

I ignore the amusement threatening to escape—and his spirit fingers—as I flip through the pages of his binder, clocking a meal plan and grocery list, a cleaning and chore schedule, exercise and training plans (for both himself and Zeus). Contact lists—his local vet and several emergency clinics, his own doctors, a nutritionist and skating coach and physical therapist.

The man is organized, almost to a frightening extent.

And I love that he owns it.

That he's not embarrassed.

Though, I suppose I should have picked up on those organization skills when I was pilfering his pantry's contents for Everything cookie ingredients and saw the little clipboard with a pen attached hanging on the wall just inside the door. It held a pad of paper beneath the metal clamp, a scrawled out list of items written on it.

"I'll give you Queen of the Night," I mutter instead of letting him know he's won the conversational battle—at least so far. Then I flip the page and freeze at the sight of a color-coordinated calendar that's so prettily organized, it makes my graphic designer heart thud with joy.

It's so pretty it takes me a minute to process all that's on it.

Games and practices. Vet appointments for Zeus. Skating sessions for King. Travel schedules with the team. And?—

"You have a schedule for when you call and text your family?"