CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

F inn

"I should say hello to my parents," Noah says, backing away.

I'm sure I know what's tucked in the back of the waistband of his boxer briefs. I grin. "Don't you want to put clothes on before you greet them, honey bunny?"

"Honey bunny?" His eyes are wide and startled and oh so green.

I don't bother to swallow my mirth. "I'm testing out pet names. What do you think? Or more hockey related ones? My sturdy stick? My sharp shooter?"

His face flames.

"Oh, um, whatever you think?" His voice rises as he speaks, and he flings his gaze back and forth, probably wondering how he's going to gather his clothes without me seeing the various tissues he has tucked inside his waistband.

I flop onto my stomach, because to tell the truth I'm getting hard, but I'm not going to miss this.

Noah backs into the wardrobe we now share and scrambles for some clothes. He doesn't look at them, he just grabs a t-shirt from the top drawer, then some sweatpants from the middle drawer.

Then he scurries to the ensuite.

The shower sounds, which is probably a good idea since he must be sticky, and I gather some clothes for myself.

Noah was saying my name.

And coming .

I mean, the guy was asleep, so it doesn't count. But it sort of counts.

The tension I was feeling last night has dissolved into bubbles, and I don't tease Noah when he strolls out of the shower looking super lickable in clashing clothes.

I hurry to take my shower and get dressed. I enjoy spending time with Mama. and Papa Fitzpatrick.

Noah is cooking breakfast. Avocado and smoked salmon eggs Benedict. My eyes gleam. "My favorite."

Noah's cheeks pinken. "Uh-huh. I'm going to make smoothies too, but I wanted to wait until you got out of the shower so they can be fresh."

I wrap my arm around his waist. "I wasn't going to take a long shower this morning."

His eyes widen.

Maybe he doesn't think that I need to get all lovey-dovey since his parents already seem to be under the impression that Noah and I are not only a couple, but a great couple, but I know better. I'm onto him.

And we're so going to have a big, serious talk after his parents leave.

Probably good to eat lots of protein first and stock up on vitamins and micronutrients.

"I'll plate the breakfast, babe," I say. "You blend the smoothies."

He nods and scuttles toward the refrigerator. He's still under the impression he can avoid me. But he doesn't need to do that. No way .

Maybe I should be freaked out that this fake marriage doesn't feel so fake now, but I'm mostly thrilled that Noah's feelings might be aligned to my own.

The day is good.

Mama Fitzpatrick invites us to New Hampshire for Thanksgiving.

"I mean, obviously, you don't have to come," Noah says quickly.

I slide my arm around his chair. "I'm coming."

"Why wouldn't Finn want to come, sweetie?"

"He has a demanding schedule."

"So do you, sweetie," I say, enjoying the way that pink moves over Noah's face. I want to follow the pink with my fingers. I want to see how far the color creeps down his chest and back. I want to give him a thorough examination.

I stare at Noah.

Noah stares at me.

A throat clearing noise sounds, and when I look across the table, Noah's dad is grinning.

"Now you're going to take care of my son, Finn?"

"Absolutely."

Papa Fitzpatrick rises. "Then we'll leave you to it. Let's hit the road, Tracy."

Mama Fitzpatrick nods and rises. "We'll help them clear the table."

"That's not necessary," I say.

"We've been imposing on the newlyweds for two whole days," Papa Fitzpatrick says, and Papa Fitzpatrick is totally the man.

"Oh." Mama Fitzpatrick pales. "I see. Well, it is a long drive. We should leave."

Noah's eyes round. He's obviously torn between begging his parents to stay and to not making them do the dishes.

Mama and Papa Fitzpatrick's small suitcase is already waiting at the door, and they wrap both of us in a hug and say goodbye before Noah can decide how to stop them.

Then the door closes behind them, and we're alone.

Noah steps away, his gaze fixed on me.

I put my arms on my waist. "Time to talk, my sweet puck."

NOAH

I take a step back and collide with the door. Finn is on me at once. I suddenly have sympathy for all the players who've tried to play against him at hockey.

Finn's gaze does not waver, and even though, technically I'm two inches taller than him, I feel about ten inches shorter.

I aim for innocence. "You want to talk?"

His eyes dance. "Uh-huh."

"About, um, the news? I think, um, something political happened lately."

"Something political happened? You think? Remind me never to sit you next to my dad at dinner."

"Okay." I duck from his arms, happy to take advantage of his confusion and sprint toward our bedroom.

His bedroom .

Obviously.

"I'll move my things to the other room..."

Then Finn's muscular arms wrap around my waist, and his clean scent and Tom Ford cologne waft around me. His voice is low. "Not so fast, mister."

I squirm, but he pushes me against the wall, then rearranges me so we're facing each other.

His eyes dilate, and I'm quiet, staring back into them.

"We're alone," he says finally.

"Uh-huh."

He narrows his eyes. His nostrils flare. My heart takes off.

His eyes are stern and unwavering, and I lose myself in them, even though I know better.

His chest practically touches mine, and my eyes widen.

"I saw something interesting this morning," he says.

"You did?" My voice squeaks, and I feel way too young.

I don't know how to handle this.

I don't know how to handle 190 pounds of NHL crafted muscle pressing me into the wall.

My cock thickens, and at any moment he's going to know.

He's going to know I'm super turned on, and he's probably trying to tell me that what I was doing was inappropriate.

Because of course that's what's he's going to say, right?

There's no world where Finn Carrington, one of Boston's darlings and skating's superstars, has feelings for me. Even if he's looking at me with a lot of intensity. I mean, that could mean he's intensely amused and upset with me.

I mean, I did come all over him at night. Even the best bros don't do that, right? Not bro code. Absolutely not skating code.

My heart patters.

His face grows larger, and it takes me another moment to realize that's because he's leaning closer to me. God, my brain must be sluggish, because if I didn't know better, I swear I might think—

And then he kisses me.

And I know I was correct.

Finn Carrington was about to kiss me. And, apparently, he's still doing so.

His lips press against mine, and his tongue slips in after half a second, because this is Finn Carrington. No way are we doing a closed mouth kiss if he wants to kiss me. No way at all.