10. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

Carissa

I don't know why Cole wanted me to come with him, but I'm leaning into Moxie's insistence that he can only have good intentions. Then again, there's that saying about the road to Hell being paved with good intentions, and Darcy has always told me I am too trusting. Am I about to be murdered by a surly rugby player who may or may not be cursed?

What kind of curse are we talking about anyway? I've been desperate to ask more about that little bit of conversation I accidentally overheard, but Cole clearly didn't want to talk about it.

It feels like the kind of thing he should talk about, but so far Cole hasn't been much of a talker. He's certainly not talking now as he unlocks his front door and steps inside the house, sliding his shoes off onto a mat in the entryway. He moves to the side to give me space to follow him in, and I stop dead.

I don't know what I would have expected an ex-football player's house to look like, but it wouldn't have been this. Given his friendship with the likes of movie stars and an actual princess, I probably would have imagined a sterile, oversized mansion if I'd had the chance to imagine in the first place. But this is…

"Darling," I breathe, my eyes jumping around to take it all in. The front room is smaller than I expected and tells me that the house must have been built several decades ago, though everything looks updated and cared for. The floors are a polished dark wood, the walls a buttery yellow, and plants are everywhere. His hodgepodge furnishings all somehow match despite being various colors and styles, and there's a noticeable lack of a TV, which is not something I would have expected from a sports guy. And every wall is peppered with paintings, none of them matching in technique or subject.

I can feel Cole's eyes on me, but I'm pretty sure my face is the color of a tomato based on the heat blazing beneath my skin, so I keep my head turned away from him.

"I have to be honest with you," I tell him. "This is not what I expected."

He chuckles, the sound a deep rumble in his chest. "What did you expect?"

"Not this."

"You expected something like Derek's house."

I look at him now, if only because he sounds like he's trying not to laugh. His expression holds no humor, but I can almost see it in his eyes, hiding behind the armor he wears.

There's a chance I looked up more articles about him while Mel and I were watching the guys practice today, and if I can believe half of what the internet says about Cole Evanson, he has good reasons for being a little grumpy. He got dumped last fall, and the internet decided to air all his dirty laundry, consistently calling back to the fact that he lost the Super Bowl right before he quit football and took up rugby. Add in the fact that his girlfriend is engaged to one of his old teammates, and I'd be gruff too !

"I guess…" I tilt my head, still trying to see more of that amusement that I heard in his voice just now. "I guess I don't know you enough to know what to expect with you." Especially because I don't think he said anything about Darcy.

Throughout all of practice, I kept waiting for the guys to start confronting me about my relation to someone they have every reason to be wary of, but they were all just as friendly as they were yesterday. Maybe even more so. Cole was in the weight room for pretty much all of practice, like he was actively avoiding his teammates.

Cole purses his lips and glances into the kitchen behind him. "Thirsty?"

"No, I'm curious." But I scrunch up my face as I get a sudden awareness of my dry throat. "Actually, yeah, I am thirsty."

Nodding once, Cole slips into the kitchen, and I follow him as he pulls a glass pitcher from the fridge, which looks just as retro as the rest of his house with its avocado-green doors and rounded edges. He pours what looks like lemonade into two glasses and holds one out to me.

"I'm sorry," I say, taking the glass, "but did we go back in time at some point?"

Cole chuckles as he returns the pitcher to the fridge. "I'm well aware my tastes are far from modern."

That's putting it lightly, and the aesthetic is nowhere near what I expected with a guy like him. Taking a sip of the lemonade, I'm about to tell him how much I like his tastes when the sourness of real lemon hits my tongue. I choke as I inhale a drop of my drink in my surprise, but thankfully I cough it out quickly.

Cole grimaces. "Is it bad?"

"It's delicious!" To prove it, I chug half the glass, then regret my choice when I think about how much I could have savored the flavor. I don't even remember the last time I had real lemonade. "Did you make it?"

He shrugs .

"Cole, this might be the best lemonade I've ever had." Now I'm wondering if he can make anything else, or if this lemonade is a one hit wonder. Based on the appliances sitting on the kitchen counter—the KitchenAid mixer is not retro—I get the feeling he spends a decent amount of time in this kitchen.

A man who can cook? If he wasn't so gruff, I'd probably be falling hard and fast for this guy.

The lemonade suddenly tastes bitter as that thought rolls over me. It's a good thing Cole is as sour as the lemons he used because I can't afford to fall for any of my patients. Not even the cute ones like Cole.

Especially not the cute ones.

"So," I say, tracing the condensation that has already formed on the outside of my glass. "I'm assuming the reason you brought me here isn't to cater to my sweet tooth."

Though Cole isn't the most expressive of people, I can still see his expression fall. For a moment, we sort of bonded over the lemonade, but I just brought the tension back.

"Right," he says, rinsing his cup before putting it in the dishwasher. Be still my soul . He's clean too. He does the same with my cup and then grabs a keychain from a hook on the wall. He pulls open a door on the other end of the kitchen, reaching around in the darkness for something, and a second later a garage door opens and fills the space with the golden light of sunset.

Curious, I step closer and peer past him to find a shiny, deep blue car sitting prettily in the garage. "You have a car? Why don't you drive it?" But I wince as soon as the words are out of my mouth. There are plenty of reasons why a person does not or cannot drive, and I don't want to come across as judgy. "I didn't mean—"

"I get severe anxiety when I drive." Cole speaks so quietly that I almost don't hear him. "I can drive. And I do. Sometimes. But only when I have to." His lips press together as he meets my gaze. I can practically feel his discomfort as he adds, "I don't generally tell people that."

"So why did you tell me?" I'm whispering like he is. I don't know if it's because I don't want him to stop telling me things or because I'm standing with my back against the doorframe mirroring him, so we're standing just a few inches apart. Maybe it's because my heart is aching for him. There's enough emotion in his words that I would guess there's a reason he gets anxiety when he drives. One that will make me feel a connection to him I probably shouldn't feel.

This is my problem. As soon as people open up to me, I get attached. What is it about vulnerability that is so compelling?

Cole swallows, his eyes dropping to the keychain in his hand. "I don't know." He shakes his head. "You are dangerous, Carissa Paxton."

This moment feels safe, a strange thing when Cole Evanson is involved, which probably explains the question that shoots out of my mouth. "Why didn't you tell Moxie about Darcy?"

He looks up again, cocking his head to one side. "What makes you think I didn't?"

I cock my head to match him. "Why, Cole?"

"Because it's not my secret to tell."

That surprises me more than he would probably like, but after the way he reacted to finding out about Darcy's alter-ego, I was so sure he would tell as many people as he could. "Thank you."

"You have a license, right?"

The question catches me off guard. "To practice PT in California? Of course." When he lifts a dark eyebrow, my eyes drop to the keychain in his hand. "Oh wait, did you mean to drive?"

Cole snorts. "No, to kill," he drawls. "Obviously I mean to drive, though I'm glad to know you're licensed for your job."

Was he actually wondering if I'm allowed to work in this state? I might have made some mistakes with my last job, but I'm not stupid enough to risk liability. But I choose to ignore that and focus on his actual question. "Yeah, I have a driver's license. Why?"

He stuffs the keychain into my hand, and I look down to see the keys for the fancy car next to us. I don't recognize the brand, which probably means it's expensive.

"Cole?" I say the word breathlessly as I try to understand what's happening right now. "Are you giving me a car?"

He barks out a laugh and moves out of the doorway to open the driver's side door of the car. Instead of getting in, he holds it open and gestures inside. "Of course not. But I'm letting you borrow it for a while if you agree to take me to practice every day." He says it so matter-of-factly, like he's not letting a virtual stranger use his very nice, very expensive car.

"But you don't know if I'm a good driver."

He lifts that eyebrow again, and I can't help but study his face as he waits for me to move from the doorway. Something has changed between this morning and now, and I don't know what it is. But he looks different. "Are you a good driver?"

Part of me wants to tell him no, but I'm rather proud of my perfect record. "I'm a great driver."

"Then what's the issue?"

I step forward if only to not feel like I have to shout at him. The problem is this is a single-car garage, so there are not a lot of places for me to go without standing directly in front of him, with the open car right next to me. It smells like a new car, and I can't help but take a deep breath of the smell of leather. Moxie's car is nice but smells a bit like gym socks, and Bean's car was…a little terrifying. Coming closer was a bad idea because now that I have a clear view of the pristine interior, my resolve is crumbling by the second.

I badly want to say yes to his offer, no matter how ridiculous it is .

"Cole," I say, forcing my eyes to him. His house faces west, which means the sinking sun is glowing directly behind him and making it difficult to see his expression. "I can't take your car."

He folds his big arms, which feels a bit like a cheap trick, given the sheer amount of muscle on him. I'm a sucker for a strong and functional muscle group. "Why not?"

"Because you don't even know me. What if I steal it?"

"You won't."

"How do you know?"

"I don't."

"I can't take your car, Cole."

Instead of continuing what feels like would be a never ending argument between us, Cole leans closer. Closer. Closer until I shrink away from him and run into the car, losing my balance. His hand tucks behind my head to prevent me from hitting it against the frame, but he does nothing else to stop my fall onto the driver seat. "Great," he says, bending down and picking up my feet to stuff them inside. He shuts the door before I can react.

And at this point, I already know I'm not going to be able to say no. Not only does the car smell so good , but it's so pretty inside. And insanely comfortable. And it's one of the fancy ones that doesn't even need a key because I just push a button and it rumbles to life beneath my touch.

I'm stroking the steering wheel when Cole slides into the passenger seat and gives me a smirk. "You're taking the car," he says. Not a question.

I sigh. "Fine. But you'll tell me if you ever need it?"

"I won't need it."

"But in case you do, you should have my number." I hold out my hand for his phone, ignoring the thrill that runs through me when he places it in my palm without hesitation. The sun is on his face now, illuminating his dark eyes so I can see the flecks of caramel in the brown, and everything about him looks so much warmer than it has so far. There's definitely something different about him, but I still can't quite place what it is.

Clearing my throat, I force my focus to the phone and add my contact info, complete with a selfie that I take because the lighting is fantastic right now. "I'll have you know," I say as I hand it back to him, "I told the rest of the guys on the team that they couldn't have my number."

Cole's eyebrows shoot up, though his gaze is on the phone in his hand. On my picture. "Why?"

"Because I believe in boundaries. And I don't date people at work." Never again , I silently add.

"Why?" he asks again, this time while looking at me.

I don't want to admit the truth, but he told me something so personal when he explained why he doesn't drive. I owe him something personal in return. My heart kicks up into an uneven rhythm as I curl my fingers around the steering wheel and speak to my lap, my throat growing tight. "Because the last time I did that," I say, my voice strained, "it didn't end well for me."

Dang it, I wasn't supposed to start crying!

I sniff and reach for the gear shift, as if I can drive away from the wounds that are still raw and ragged.

But Cole wraps his hand over mine, and with his other hand he pushes the start button and turns the car off again. "I've already told you I'm a good listener," he says, his voice impossibly gentle, "but you should also know that I wasn't raised to let a woman cry if I can do something about it. Can I make you dinner?"

Is he serious? Based on the concerned look in his eyes, I think he is. I nod slowly. "I was planning on popping in a TV dinner and watching Bridgerton on my phone until I fell asleep in the hopes of keeping my mind off the fact that I'm three thousand miles away from home and don't know anyone in this city. But your idea sounds better."

He wrinkles his nose. " Bridgerton ? "

"Don't knock it until you've tried it."

"I have tried it." He slips out of the car and opens my door before I can figure out where the handle is. "My ex was a fan. Me, not so much."

I nearly say ‘Your ex sounds like my kind of gal' but stop myself at the last minute because that's probably not the sort of thing he wants to hear. "Too much lovey dovey nonsense?" I guess, taking his hand and letting him help me up.

Cole looks like he's chewing on his words as we stand there for a moment, still hand in hand. He seems to be debating the merits of answering my question. "I don't mind romance," he says after a moment, and his words come out gruff. "Aspects of it, anyway. Sage, my ex, loved reading those hockey books that are popular, but I've always thought they were…" He coughs and drops my hand. "Problematic is the nicest way to put it."

Snickering, I bite my lip and try to imagine someone like Cole reading a hockey romance. "Did she like the spicy ones or the strictly kissing ones?" Huh. Apparently big burly guys can blush, and that answers my question. "The spicy ones? While I can't say I generally read those ones, I hear they're fun."

"They're something," Cole agrees and leads the way back into the kitchen. "Are you sure you want to stay for dinner? I don't want to pressure you into—"

"I was serious when I said I was going to use questionably historical television to soothe my loneliness," I say, settling myself down on one of the kitchen chairs. I'm immensely grateful for the distraction this conversation is offering. "And I haven't had a chance to do much grocery shopping. Plus, you've already caught my interest in your cooking skills with your lemonade, so I was probably going to beg you to cook for me at some point anyway. "

He grunts and starts rummaging around in the pantry next to the fridge. "Lemonade isn't cooking, so you might be putting too much faith in my skills. I'm not Derek."

It takes me a second to process that, but when I do, my jaw drops. "Wait, are you saying Derek Riley can cook ? I thought he would have people for that."

"He does have people for that, but he only uses them when he has to. Did you ever see the movie Food for Thoughtless ?"

I shrug. "Hasn't everyone seen that movie? But just because Derek played a chef, it doesn't mean he is a chef."

Cole is nearly smiling when he emerges from the pantry with a box of pasta in his hand, and the sight of him is breathtaking. Which is a problem. I've already broken my rule about not giving out my phone number, which is dangerous enough. I don't need to start making plans to get another smile out of the man. There's no way I wouldn't get attached.

"Not many people know this about Derek," he says casually, like we're not talking about one of the most famous people in the country, "but he never does something on screen that he can't do in real life. He worked undercover in a restaurant for three months before he started filming Thoughtless ."

I may have spent an afternoon with Derek and found him to be as stunningly handsome in real life as he is in the movies, but I refuse to think he can actually play the piano or shoot a bow and arrow with perfect accuracy. "There's no way. He probably told you he can do all those things to make himself look better."

The laughter that comes out of Cole makes me jump, not because it's loud or sudden but because I honestly wasn't sure if he knew how to laugh. In the time I've known him, he's been so stoic and has only given me a single real smile. Granted, I haven't spent all that much time around him, but his teammates have had plenty to say about their total grump of a scrum-half. They've said he rarely showed emotion, even before he got dumped. Then again, maybe I shouldn't listen to guys who are unafraid of expressing how much they don't like their rookie teammate.

"I've known Derek Riley for eight years," Cole says as he fills a pot with water, "which means I knew him before he knew how to cook. I'm the one who taught him to surf. He took guitar lessons from Liam, who more than once declared Derek a hopeless cause because he was so bad at it starting out." Pausing, he frowns and cocks his head. "Maybe don't tell your sister any of that."

I grin. "I promise Darcy has no reason to besmirch any names. She prefers telling uplifting stories anyway, and the main reason she came to the field as Tamlin was because she helped me get the job with the Thunder."

Though he moves to the fridge, he stops with his hand on the handle and looks back at me. "Can I ask you something?"

Shrugging, I brace myself for whatever it might be. If he has to ask about asking, that means I probably won't like it. "Sure."

"Why come all the way to Los Angeles when you don't know anyone here?"

Yep. I don't like it. But the man is making me dinner, so I force a smile and get to my feet. "Can I answer that later? I promise I'll tell you, but I'm going to have to work up to it."

He waits until I approach him and am only a foot away, and he studies me as if hoping to find the answer to his question on my face. "You don't have to tell me anything, Carissa."

There's no unspoken ‘but' in his sentence, which I appreciate, but I can see it in his eyes. He's curious, and that curiosity probably isn't going to go away if we start carpooling. And since I don't especially want to take the bus again, that carpooling thing will for sure be happening.

I won't be able to avoid the question for very long, so I might as well get it over with. "I want to tell you," I say quietly. "But first, how can I help with dinner?"