“Yeah.”
Her eyes are narrowed, tentative. “If having me here is too much, I—”
“No, Nina,” I say quickly. Her leaving is not an option. I want to help her. But it’s more than that. The truth is, she’s the one bright thing in all of this. “It’s fine. You’re actually cooking for me so that’s even one up on my road to recovery.”
She sprinkles salt and pepper on the steak. “Maybe you should hire someone to help you out around here while you’re recovering.”
“No,” I say, my tone harsher than I meant. I wince when she flinches. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat.” I don’t let just anyone into my house. This place is my sanctuary and strangers aren’t welcome. “I don’t let people in here.”
“Oh, because you’re famous. I get it.”
“Yeah,” I agree, even though that’s not the real reason.
She goes quiet for a moment, then says, “Well, I could help you.”
“I never thought of that.”
Her T-shirt shifts over her cleavage as she gives a casual shrug. “I mean, if you wanted me too.”
Nina in my house. All day. Cooking and helping out. Moving around and bending over. I swallow the groan rising in my throat. Like my cock isn’t tortured enough already.
“If you don’t, I won’t be offended.”
“It’s not that at all. If I hired you, wouldn’t that take away from your writing time?”
She chokes out a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You wouldn’t have to pay me, and as far as writing time, I haven’t been doing too much of that lately.”
“I’m not going to ask you to cook and clean for me for free.”
She points a knife at me. “Hey, I didn’t say anything about cleaning.”
I flash her a smile. “Damn, I was hoping you wouldn’t pick up on that.”
She laughs. “Nice try though.”
I look her over as her laugh dissolves. What’s going on with little Nina Callaghan? “Why haven’t you been doing too much writing? Writer’s block?” I ask, even though I know as much about that as she does about hockey. Maybe it’s not even real, maybe it’s a term tossed around when you can’t get the words down right.
“Something like that, but I’m hoping to knock out a killer hockey romance.”
A commercial comes on, and when she stretches out her back like it hurts, I stand. “I’ll go light the barbecue.”
She squares her shoulders and stands up to me. “I’m capable.”
“I know. So am I.”
Ignoring her power pose, I step out into the night and flick the lights on in the pool. A soft blue glow lights up the deck as I start the BBQ.
Nina follows me out with the steaks. She slides them onto the grill and bastes them with sauce. I wonder if she even knows she’s humming softly. Maybe she really does like cooking, maybe it takes her to another place.
“How come you hate hockey?”
She closes the lid on the grill. “I never said I did.”
“You didn’t have to. You never came to any home games, that says enough.”
“I didn’t want to bother Cason,” she says, and walks back inside, abruptly putting an end to the conversation.
Why would it bother Cason? I follow her, and I’m about to ask, when she drops down into a chair at the table and picks up her pad and paper. “Tell me what’s going on?”