“Georgia,” I warn.

“Okay, okay,” she says with a smile. “I’m a vault when I need to be. Call me tomorrow when you sort this all out. I can’t keep the journalist off our heels forever.”

“I’m late for practice,” Charli says. She looks panicked.

“Go,” Georgia and I say at the same time.

“It will be fine,” I add. “We’ll keep this quiet.”

I hope we actually can.

* * *

At home, I cook a really nice meal to soften Charli up. By the time she arrives at my apartment after practice, I’ve got marinated eggplant and a cauliflower gratin in the oven. I’ve got steaks ready to grill, and one piece of cheesecake chilling in the fridge.

“You didn’t have to cook,” Charli says, even as she eyes the vegetables through the oven’s glass door. “We could have just gotten takeout.”

“I was in the mood for a steak,” I explain. “And it’s just no good as takeout food.”

“Why not?” She pulls out a barstool and sinks down onto it.

When I glance over at her, I lose my train of thought for a second. Because she’s so fucking pretty. Even in an enemy T-shirt—the Flyers? Please. Even with her hair still damp from the shower. She’s got luminous skin, a spray of freckles across her nose, and giant blue-green eyes.

I kissed her last night. I only remember the night in blurry snippets, but I’ll never forget that I’d had my hands on her smooth skin. On her body.

I’d liked it. A lot.

She’s blinking up at me, waiting for an answer, and it takes me another beat to dredge our conversation from the murky depths of my lust. “A steak has to be eaten right off the heat, or it loses its crust.” I open the first package of meat and put the steak onto a plate. Then I grab my salt grinder and go to town. I do the same with the pepper grinder.

“If you say so,” she says. “That looks like a lot of pepper.”

“Shut up. I know what I’m doing.”

She gives me a tiny smile. “I had no idea you could cook. If I had limitless resources, I’m not sure if I’d bother.”

“I like it,” I insist. Although, I have a lot of guilt over my limitless resources, as she calls them. I learned to cook because nobody else in my family ever did. “And nutrition is a big deal for me.” Diabetes means watching what I eat. “It’s easier to know what’s in your food if you make it yourself.”

“True. But where are you going to cook that?”

“On the grill, of course. Like real men do.”

Charli snorts. “Where’s the grill? On your super fancy oven?”

“No—on the roof. I have a Weber up there.” I point at the spiral staircase in the corner.

“Get out of town!” she squeaks. “You’re like a suburban dad.”