Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Jamie

The scent of stew from the slow cooker filled the kitchen, and at the kitchen table, the atmosphere bustled with the paper-and-pen-scratching, ultra concentration of homework time. Scarlett was showing off a colorful poster she'd crafted for a litter-picking event, vibrant and meticulously detailed, catching Oli's attention the moment he walked past with a mug of coffee for him and an extra one for me. He hadn't been home long but showered and dressed in his usual Storm T-shirt and shorts, he would always come and sit for homework time if he could.

"We all have homework!" Scarlett declared proudly, waving her poster at her dad.

Oli made all the right noises of approval. "Looks fantastic, Scarlett!" he praised, then leaned over to inspect Daisy's spelling homework, his expression switching seamlessly to encouragement. "Can you spell that?" he asked her, as Daisy glanced up at him and wrinkled her nose.

"Because. B-E-C-A-U-S-E. Because."

"That's amazing; I can barely spell that," Oli said and ruffled her hair.

While the girls were absorbed with their tasks, I spent any moment I wasn't needed shuffling papers and peering at an iPad, scribbling notes intermittently, deeply engrossed in a different kind of study.

"What homework do you have? Doesn't look like math," Oli asked, glancing over my shoulder with a curious frown.

"It's maths," I corrected automatically, without looking up from the screen.

"But it's not math, is it?" Oli pointed at the array of articles and notes spread out before me.

"No, I meant, maths is short for…" I glanced up and saw Oli trying not to snicker at me. Wanker. I snapped out of my research daze, realizing I hadn't explained my sudden shift in focus. "I'm researching dyslexia," I confessed, feeling weary.

"For working with Craig, right?" Oli probed gently but with a knowing tone.

I groaned, rubbing the back of my neck. "Does everyone except me know about his dyslexia?"

"Wait, you didn't know?"

I muttered no, and then sighed heavily. "No, I didn't, and so I put him in a shit situation, and now I feel guilty and stupid. I just launched into research without due diligence, which means I have to rethink with respect to accessibility, which I should have done from the start, and which I always do, but no, I was too caught up in what Sean did to me, and so desperate to get on with the project that I never even thought about the people I was researching with and…" Everything had fallen out of me in one long rush, and I exhaled noisily. "I fu—messed up," I added.

"I'm sure you didn't."

I slid my phone over to Oli and showed him the message from Craig.

Oli read it out loud. "Hey, sorry about the study incident. Totes on me. If you'd like to have me back, I'd like to try again."

"See? Now he's blaming himself, and it was I who didn't think, and I need to tell him that it wasn't on him, but he'll just think I'm being British and apologizing, when I crossed every academic line by not only making a mess in the study, but also one here." I gestured above our head at the bedrooms.

Oli chuckled, pulling out a chair to sit beside me. "I should have mentioned it."

"I should have interviewed my participants properly."

"You didn't know."

"But you did."

"Craig volunteers for the Dyslexia Foundation, works with kids, raises money for the charity. Did a half marathon last year for them and raised a hell of a lot of money. It's literally the first thing he mentions in any interview. I thought you knew."

I sighed, a flush of embarrassment warming my cheeks. "I didn't know. I didn't… research him much past…" I trailed off, aware of how it would sound admitting my initial interest in including Craig in the study had not been purely academic.

Oli gave me a sympathetic look, understanding more than I wished he would. "It's all right, Jamie. Maybe it's a good thing. You're learning more about him now, right? It's not just about the study anymore."

"Yeah," I admitted, feeling a mix of frustration and gratitude. "It's definitely more than just the study now." I took a deep breath, resolving to approach my research—and my budding relationship with Craig—with a new perspective, one that acknowledged his strengths and challenges alike, and didn't mess up.

"Uncle Jamie, can I spell favorite for you?"

I blinked at Daisy, switching back to nanny/uncle instantly. "Of course." I listened as she spelled it out, exchanging a smile with Oli at the missing U, and then praised her success. Daisy and Scarlett might not be my nieces by blood, but they were family in my heart, and everything they did made me feel light.

"Is this the right purple?" Scarlett asked me, but Oli got there first.

When they were done choosing the right pen, he turned his gaze back on me as I sipped my coffee and stared at my iPad. "You should message him back."

"And say what?"

"I'm guessing you already apologized to him?"

"Of course, the minute it happened."

"So how about skipping your insane need to apologize for apologizing about the apology, and instead, ask to talk to him about his needs, and what you want from this project with him, and also how you'd like to take him on a date because he's not been playing at his best and I can only think what you're telling me has something to do with it."

I blanched at how inappropriate that sounded, also that I'd messed with his hockey mojo. "I'll suggest a meeting."

Oli smacked the back of my head, and Scarlett snickered. "I said a date! How about asking him for a coffee? Just a chat, not a full-blown meeting with minutes, but an honest-to-goodness chat."

I considered Oli's words. "It would be good to iron out the parameters of the study."

"Just coffee! Not science."

He picked up my phone and damn him, even though it had timed out, he knew me well enough to know my code was the girls' birthdays. Before I could stop him, he was tapping away at the screen, holding me back with his hockey body, and I heard the whoosh of a message being sent.

"What did you do!" I asked as he passed me the phone with his smug I-know-everything expression.

And I stared down at the horror that was the message he'd sent.

"How about a coffee date? Are you free this evening?" I blinked and read it again. "Tonight? He won't be available on short notice to?—"

An incoming message interrupted my speech, and I handed the phone wordlessly to Oli, who grinned down at the message.

Sure, I know some places. I'll pick you up at seven, and if you haven't eaten, we can do Italian food. Or just coffee if you have.

"Girls?" Oli leaned towards Scarlett and Daisy. "Uncle Jamie has a date; you want to dress him up?"

The girls squealed so loud my eardrums hurt. Oli grinned.

And me?

I about died on the spot.

Craig's SUV pulled up right at seven. It was a couple of years old and nothing as flashy as I expected from a probably-millionaire hockey player with no family to support. Hell, I didn't know what I was expecting—maybe some low-slung, flashy sports car—but the modest Hyundai was a surprise. I stood by the curb, acutely aware of Oli and the girls peering out from the living room window. Turning to wave at them, to let them know I could see they were watching, I then slid into the passenger seat.

"Hey," Craig said with a smile.

He was dressed simply, yet every choice accentuated the best of his athletic build. His dark pants, stretched over his muscular hockey thighs, paired with a shirt casually unbuttoned at the throat, offered a glimpse of skin I wanted to taste. As I buckled myself in, I couldn't help but feel slightly out of place in my carefully chosen outfit. My favorite waistcoat felt a bit too formal now, even though I had paired it with plain trousers and a pale blue shirt. The subtle elegance of the ensemble usually gave me a comforting sense of preparation, but next to Craig's effortless style, I wondered if I was overdressed.

"Is this too much?" I gestured at myself.

"No."

Well, that was a simple answer, but it didn't alleviate my worrying. Then, there was no more time for questions as we pulled away from the curb, the car humming softly as Craig navigated the quiet evening streets. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, but my mind raced with all the words I wasn't saying. If he wasn't careful, I would end up talking about the weather just to fill the silence.

As if sensing my self-conscious musings, Craig glanced over with a small, knowing smile. "Can I say what I really think?" he asked, his voice smooth, almost cautious but he sounded as if he wanted me to answer. What was he going to say about what? What did he think?

"Okay," I responded, my voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

He kept his eyes on the road, but I saw his smile broaden. "I think you look perfect."

The words washed over me with a mix of relief and a flutter of something deeper, something that warmed me more than any compliment had in a long time.

"Thanks," I managed to say, my voice steady but my heart beating a little faster than usual. "You look perfect, too."

He smiled briefly, his attention fully on the road as he continued to drive. The ease between us grew, settling into the spaces of the car, and I found myself looking forward to not only dinner but to whatever we called this, a meeting, or a date, or whatever.

"Have you eaten?" Craig asked, his voice casual.

"No, not yet."

"There's a Thai place nearby, or I know a great Italian spot if you'd prefer?"

"Whatever you want."

"I want you to decide."

Oh, Jesus, that wasn't one of my good points. Don't overthink this. "Thai sounds good," I decided.

"Good choice. It's not far, just about ten minutes," Craig informed me, Lady Gaga humming softly through the stereo. The drive was quick, filled with trivial chat about the unusually hot weather and brief mentions of sports, topics that were safe but barely skimmed the surface of what was really on my mind.

Soon, we arrived at the Thai restaurant. Like his car, it wasn't flashy. We were greeted warmly and led to a private table at the back, each space designed to give diners a sense of privacy. As we settled in, I opened the menu, scanning the options, but then a thought struck me—how could Craig read the menu? I glanced up and the menu was closed in front of him, and I don't know what I was expecting, but my research had revealed special overlays that sometimes helped. Should I offer to read it out?

Craig seemed to notice my gaze, and my pause. "I've got my ways of dealing with everything," he said with a slight smile, "watch and learn." The waitress approached, and Craig was quick to order. "I'll have whatever the chef recommends today, and some mixed starters. No allergies," he said confidently, then asked for water.

I closed my menu, feeling slightly more at ease. "I'll have the same," I said to the waitress, "but could I get a beer with mine?"

Craig chuckled, a sparkle of humor in his eyes. "Just make sure it's not one of those warm beers, huh? Don't want Jamie here to feel too much at home."

The teasing comment eased the tension I hadn't realized I was feeling, particularly when I wasn't sure the waitress totally understood the joke. She smiled though, then walked away. When it was just the two of us, I found myself relaxing into the chair, the initial awkwardness dissipating.

As we settled into the quiet corner of the restaurant, the ambiance softened around us, filled with the gentle clatter of dishes and distant conversations. It was the right moment for more personal revelations, and I knew I needed to address the discomfort lingering between us since that meeting. Now was a good time to apologize but get him to see I'd learned from my mistake.

"Your message to me sounded as if you were apologizing."

"I was."

"It wasn't on you." He seemed as if he wanted to talk so I rushed ahead. "I want to apologize for putting you on the spot."

"I appreciate that," he responded, his voice measured but warm. "But?—"

"No, it wasn't on you. I just get overexcited, and some things have happened in my research recently, so I just barreled ahead, and I didn't take the time to consider the people aiding my research. I mean you made me think, and it was a shit thing to do to you, and I've been considering a lot about accessibility in my research—realizing not all accessibility issues are obvious. I promise to be more considerate about such things in the future."

I sat back in my chair, a knot loosening in my chest where I'd managed to get the whole thing out without going bright red.

Craig nodded, his expression softening. "Thanks for saying that. But it's my turn to explain and… hell, I'm sorry for overreacting," he said, a hint of vulnerability flashing across his face. "It's just that my ex made me feel inadequate, pointed out when I embarrassed him, which happened a lot according to him."

"What a wanker," I snapped in Craig's defense.

Craig snorted a laugh. "Say that again."

"What?"

"About my ex."

I huffed. "Wanker."

He reached for my hand. "Your accent is so sexy. Am I allowed to say that?"

Great, and now I was red, probably like a tomato.

"Yeah, as long as you don't call me cute in a Hugh Grant Four Weddings kind of way."

He bit his lip. "But you are cute. Sexy-cute. And your hair is soft and…" He leaned in a little. "I want to bury my hands in it and kiss you again."

I let out a sound that was a combination of a meep and a groan. "I want you to do that."

He lowered his voice. "The sex we had was insanely hot, right?"

I nodded. Use my words. "Yeah. Hot." Where were my words? WORDS!

"Can I ask you a question?" He sat back in his seat, and I unconsciously lifted my arse from the seat as if I was going to follow him. I nodded and sat myself back down. "Is this a date?"

Fuck. Was this a trick question? "Do you want it to be?" I hedged.

"Yes."

"Then yes, it is. I want it to be."

He dipped his gaze for a moment. "But can we take it really slow?"

I was torn between saying I wanted him to fuck me over the table and also saying I could move as slow as a glacier if that was what he wanted.

"Yeah," I said, as the waitress came over with drinks and tiny plates of starters. "We can do slow."

No one has ever died of blue balls. Right?