Fallon paused mid-march—because the woman did not walk, she attacked—from the kitchen island to the card table where he sat on the one chair. She glanced down at her outfit. “You mean clothes?”
The woman was annoyingly obtuse. “What do you wear out on dates?”
“Why?” she asked, setting a bowl in front of him filled with soup that smelled like heaven, a massive endorsement deal, and the best orgasm of his life. “Are you asking?”
It took a second for his brain to make sense of her words. The soup really did smell that good. He wasn’t asking. He didn’t ask. He hadn’t asked since before he’d gotten a four-year ride at Michigan. The women just sort of appeared by his side when it was time to leave the bar or asked him to go out. The idea of having to ask a woman out on a date was almost as weird as actually going out on one. He didn’t do that. He hooked up.
Still… “Would you go?”
“Do I look like I have a head injury?” She rolled her eyes and marched back to the island, where her own bowl waited. “Hell, no.”
The fuck? Sure, he was an asshole, but in his experience, that didn’t stop people from wanting to be close to him. Turned out that was because they wanted something from him—money, their name in bold letters on a gossip site, bragging rights for having banged a pro hockey player—but a hard no was basically unheard of.
He sat up straighter on the folding chair. “Why not?”
She didn’t even bother to look up from her bowl. “You’re not my type,” she said before putting a spoonful of soup in her mouth.
“What is your type?” And why did he care? Damned if he could answer either one.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re annoying when you aren’t throwing up?” she asked.
He shrugged and had his first spoonful of the soup she’d made from a can and some random veggies she’d found in his fridge. Damn, it was good. “Do you really think there’s an insult that hasn’t been lobbed my way?”
Those pale-pink lips of hers curled into a smile. “Probably not.”
The woman was as cold as the ice he usually skated on. “If I had feelings, they’d be hurt right now.”
“Uh-huh. I’m very worried,” she said, putting down her spoon and giving him an assessing look before walking back over to him at the card table. “Okay, let me feel your cheek just to make sure the food poisoning is just that. I still don’t understand how you don’t have a thermometer.”
“Any preference on which set of cheeks?” The words were out before he could stop them—even if he wanted to. His goal was, after all, to get this woman out of his house.
“Do you know how many times patients have said things like that to me? Or worse? Or accidentally let their paper gown slip? You’d think someone being injured enough to go to the emergency room would impede their wandering hands. You’d be wrong.”
By the time she’d finished, a red splotch had appeared at the base of her throat. Zach was beyond used to being the goat in any situation. He asked for it. He relished it. He craved it as a kind of defiant defensiveness. Usually, any evidence of a verbal bomb’s direct hit loosened some of the tension stringing him tight—at least for a few moments. But with Fallon? It kinda felt like kicking a puppy—one that was a snarling, snipping cur, sure, but a puppy all the same.
“I’m sorry,” he said before shoving another spoonful of soup in his mouth and swallowing as soon as the hot brew hit his tongue, so that it burned all the way down his throat. “Won’t happen again.”
“Good,” she said, her voice curt. “Now, let me feel your cheek.”
Grudgingly, he turned his face to the side and upward. There wasn’t a reason why he was holding his breath, but he was as she pressed the back of her hand against his cheek. It wasn’t that no one touched him. That puck bunny from the club had touched him a lot before leaving him a basket of adulterated muffins. Trainers had their hands on him, checking out a tweaked ankle or easing sore muscles. This was different, though, more intimate. She didn’t care about how quickly he could get out on the ice or how he could get her name in the paper or how much he could line her pockets. And that made it awkward. Everyone always wanted something from him. If there was one thing he could count on in life, it was that. From his parents to agents to fans to puck bunnies, everyone just wanted to use him for their own benefit.
She moved her hand to his forehead, her touch reassuring, and he let out the breath he’d been holding.
“Looks like you’ll live.” Fallon took a step back, the color in her cheeks a little deeper than it had been a minute ago, and cleared her throat. “Lucky for you, you had a somewhat mild case of food poisoning. As long as you stop banging Cajun Rage fans, you should be all right.”
The doorbell rang before he could say anything. Annoyed at the interruption, he slid his thumb across his phone screen and brought up his security system’s app. As soon as he spotted the woman wearing a tight, tiny nurse’s uniform, unbuttoned enough to show off her damn impressive rack, he let out a groan.
Fallon glanced down at his screen. “Is that Miss Muffin?”
His gut rumbled in remembered agony. “Yes.”
Coming in closer, so they were practically cheek to cheek, she stared harder at his phone and then sucked in a harsh breath. “Is she wearing a nurse costume?” she asked in a tone that set off every alarm bell in his head.
Glancing down as if he needed to confirm it, he said, “Looks like it.”
Fallon straightened with a huff and jammed her hands on her hips, grumbling something under her breath that he didn’t quite catch.
“Well,” she said, turning away from him. “That takes the guesswork out of whether or not she gave you food poisoning on purpose.”