“You keep tearing it up like you are, Admiral,” his teammate Quinn said, “and they’ll have no choice but to toss your name in the Hart Trophy ring.”
“He’s already in the running, and he’s the favorite to win,” T.J. scoffed. He slapped Gage on the back. “Our boy’s got this. No question.”
Gage raised his hands, palms out. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. There’s plenty of question. There are guys playing way better who are way more deserving than me.”
“Like who?” T.J. challenged.
“Like Mikelev! Guy’s been carrying his team on his shoulders all season.”
T.J. smirked. “So have you.”
Gage gave a headshake, his expression one of pure embarrassment. He looked around at his teammates’ faces. “No, everybody on this team’s contributing. Hell, Shanny, if I didn’t have you and Quinn for wingers, my numbers would look a whole lot different.” He pointed at Wyatt. “And look at him! What’s your goals-against average right now? One-nine-eight?”
“Two-oh-one,” Wyatt chuckled.
“That’s un-fucking-believable! You’re the stingiest netminder in the NHL. How can we lose with a goalie who stands on his head, game in, game out? Talk about an MVP.” Gage sipped his beer and steered the conversation toward recent sick—as he called them—plays by his teammates.
Was he really that humble? Shy? Or was he the quiet, still-waters type? Maybe all three. His eyes found hers with a look that flashed and sizzled like a long-tail comet. Her pulse zoomed. Quickly, he cut his gaze to his pint glass, but the effect lingered, leaving Lily a little breathless.
Oh, to know what had passed through that man’s mind. There was probably nothing shy about it. Lily raised her wineglass and hovered it in front of her mouth to hide her fluster.
“So,” he began as he walked her to her car afterward, “what’s on Goldilocks’s agenda the rest of today?”
She glanced up at a low-hanging, snow-heavy gray sky. “Scheduling a few posts for her demanding client, the Professor.”
“Ah. I hear the guy’s a real slave driver. Were you planning to do this work at his place?”
Her eyes darted from left to right and back again.
“Because if you are,” he continued, “I hear he’d like to take you to dinner or, if you prefer, he could be talked into whipping you up something to eat.”
“Really? Something other than a healthy green smoothie?”
He grinned. “Definitely something other than a healthy green smoothie.”
“What sorts of things does he cook? I could post his favorite recipes on Facebook.”
“Well, why don’t you come over and find out?” He playfully touched the tip of her nose with his finger. “His place is on your way home.”
“True.” Before she had a chance to say more, he turned and headed for his Porsche.
“See you there, Goldilocks,” he called over his shoulder.
Planting a fist on her hip, she watched him walk away with a sort of lazy swagger. Pretty sure of yourself, Mr. Cage. Oh, what the hell? Only an empty house waited for her. She’d follow him home and pick up more fan mail. A little voice popped up, warning her it would be dangerous to stick around. She told it to be quiet; skedaddling was her only agenda item once she got the letters.
Gage was waiting for her when she pulled into his driveway, and he motioned her into his wide-open, empty middle garage bay. On one side sat his Panamera. On the other, a white Range Rover.
“Why here, Professor?”
With a shrug, he depressed the garage remote, and the door began humming. “It might snow. This way your car stays dry and toasty.”
Right. Dry and toasty.
They entered his kitchen through the mudroom, where he dropped his gear. Keys and wallet landed on the kitchen desk. Something beeped.
“Be right back.” He hustled off toward the entryway.
He returned a few moments later. “Had to turn off the security cameras. Water?”
Cameras? Her mind rocketed to rifling his nightstand while her heart plunged to her stomach. Oh shit! “Water sounds good,” she choked out.
He grabbed two glasses, filled them, and passed one to her. Leaning his back against the kitchen island, he took a long drink that had his neck muscles on full display and the knot of his Adam’s apple bobbing.
She gulped a lungful of air. “How long have you had security cameras?”
He straightened, looking utterly dumbfounded. “Uh, since the system was installed?”
“I thought you didn’t use your system.” She ducked her face so her flush didn’t give her away.
“I fire it up on occasion to test everything out and because my insurance agent yells at me if I don’t keep it on,” he chuckled.
“I’ve never noticed the cameras. Where are they?”
He shrugged. “Here and there. That’s good you can’t see them. Means I can spy on you when you’re here and I’m out of town.”
Just kill me now! She ducked her face so her flush didn’t give her away and momentarily recovered her wits. “I should pick up your mail and get going.”
His blue eyes widened. “Whoa. Did I say something wrong?”
“What? No, nothing.” She flapped a hand at him and started toward his office. God, did her face have to broadcast every emotion?
His hand encircled her arm, like a cuff of heat. “That’s not nothing that went through your eyes just now.” He dipped his head and peered deep. “And your face is bright pink.”
He was all up in her personal bubble now, and she tried to break free of his grasp and his gaze.
“Lily,” he said softly. “What’s. Going. On?”
She pulled away and cinched her arms over her chest. “I … You’re not going to like me very much.”
He frowned. “I doubt that, but why?”
She puffed out a hair-lifting breath. Here goes nothing. “When you were gone a few weeks ago, Hobbes jumped on your bed and started coughing up a hairball. I was looking for something to catch it with before she got it all over your comforter, and I …” The words jammed in her throat.
His frown deepened, but one corner of
