Page 42 of Slap Shot
Jesus Almighty.
I pull on the hem of my shirt, trying to make it longer, but my efforts are futile. I’m half naked in front of him, and my knotted hair and the sheet marks on my face are not helping my cause.
Determined to maintain my professionalism despite having pigs on my feet, I march over to the coffee maker and stand by his side.
“How do you take it?” he asks.
“Pardon?” I answer, my mind stuck somewhere in a gutter because I got a glimpse of his belly button.
Hudson turns toward the cabinet and reaches for the top shelf, pulling down a mug. The bastard doesn’t have to stand on his toes like I do, and I curse my five-foot-seven stature compared to his impressive six-foot-something height. “Your coffee. Milk? Sugar? Black?”
“Oh. Right. Yeah. A splash of milk and half a spoonful of sugar. How do you take yours?”
“Extra sweet. A little bit of milk but a hell of a lot of sugar.” Hudson slides the sugar my way, and I add a scoop of it to my mug. “I’m not a huge coffee drinker, but I’m dragging this morning. I need something to wake me up.”
“You and me both.” I get my coffee to the right shade and lean against the counter. I cross my ankles and take a sip from my mug, grateful to be revived. “I sent you a menu last night forthe week. I know you haven’t had a chance to look at it, but when you do, let me know if there’s anything you want to change.”
“I’ll check it out right now.” He runs a hand through his messy hair then taps his phone. He hums while he scrolls through his email and opens my color coded attachment. “I’m glad you include salmon every week. It’s one of my favorite foods.”
“Is it? I’ll keep it in the rotation, but I’ll find different variations so you don’t get bored: teriyaki. Coated with breadcrumbs. Seasoning and spices. The world is our oyster, Hayes.”
He laughs. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with. Your chicken noodle soup last week was delicious, then you went and topped it with the best steak tips I’ve ever had. Why didn’t I find you sooner?”
“If you tried to poach me from my job in Vegas, I would’ve laughed in your face. But I’m glad I’m here now.” I swallow down another sip of coffee and set my mug on the counter. “Should I get started on some food while you look over the menu? I can make an omelet and potatoes. Maybe some avocado toast so you’re carb loaded for practice?”
“We don’t have practice today because it was supposed to be a travel day, so that changes things. How do you feel about pancakes?”
“Strongly. They’re my favorite breakfast food. Might even be in my top five foods of all time.”
“That’s a bold statement. It’s a shame we can’t use the banana you launched at me.” His grin is wry and teasing as he dips his chin and scans the menu. “It’s too bruised. Like my neck.”
“Don’t you get pushed into walls for a living?”
“We call them boards, and technically I get shoved into tempered glass, but, yeah. I do, and I never thought a banana would be my demise.”
“You know what? Smart-asses don’t get pancakes. You can have toast for breakfast, and I’m going to make sure it’s dry as hell.”
“Come on.” Hudson pouts. “I need my energy for the day.”
“Fine.” I roll my eyes, pretending like he’s asking me to move mountains. “But only if you promise not to sneak around the condo anymore. Announce your presence so there are no more fruit catastrophe.”
“Would it help if I shared my location with you? Then you wouldn’t have to wonder if I’m an intruder armed with piping hot coffee as my weapon of choice or a lawful resident of the space.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“There.” He taps his screen then tosses his phone on a stack of magazines. I can’t believe he’s giving me access to his whereabouts, just like that. “Menu looks great, by the way. You don’t need to change a thing.”
“If you think of something you want to add or swap out, let me know. I’ll make adjustments as needed.”
“Sounds good to me.” He finishes off his coffee and drops his mug in the sink. “We should start on the pancakes before I wither away.”
“We wouldn’t want that, hockey guy.” I move around the island and stand on my toes to try to reach the mixing bowl. When I come up short, Hudson takes pity on me and grabs the cookware. His arm brushes against mine as he hands it my way, and a shiver races through me. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Are we doing chocolate chips? Straight-up buttermilk?”
“Lucy will be up for school soon, and she loves chocolate chips. I can make a couple batches and?—”
“Chocolate chip it is. How can I help?”
