Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Chapter 143

TESSA

The second my apartment door clicks shut behind us, I'm slammed against it. His mouth on mine, one strong hand braced against the wood beside my head, the other at my waist like it's been waiting years for this. I gasp into the kiss, half-laugh, half-hungry, tugging at the lapel of his jacket like I'm pulling him down into me.

God, finally.

The air between us has been nothing but teasing and almosts and interruptions, and now it's just us. No little nieces, no Claire, no fluorescent office lights. Just heat and his lips on mine.

"Wow," I murmur against his mouth when we finally break apart, already breathless. "Is it insane if I say you kiss the way you talk?"

Aaron's lips tilt into the smallest smirk, that maddening, quiet little twist that somehow punches me straight in the chest. "You talk too much."

"Oh, don't even start. You like it." I shove off the door and back him into the living room, my blazer already abandoned somewhere on the floor. His laugh — soft, startled — buzzes against my skin as I rise on my toes and kiss him again.

He kisses differently than you'd imagine. Less hesitant. More sure. Like he's already decided what he wants, and apparently, it's me.

By the time we collapse onto the couch, I'm curled against him sideways, hair wrecked, lips swollen, legs tucked up. I tilt my head, grin. "So. This is the part where we learn about each other, right? Deep stuff, tragic backstories, favourite pizza toppings?"

"Pepperoni."

"Boring."

His mouth twitches but he doesn't argue, just leans his head back against the couch. "You first."

"Okay." I pause dramatically, then: "I'm afraid of rabbits."

One dark eyebrow shoots up. Then he laughs — low, warm — the sound vibrating right through his chest. His hand drags through his hair, while his thumb skims across his swollen lower lip like he doesn't even notice he's doing it.

"You look it, actually."

My eyes narrow. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

He doesn't answer. Just ducks down to press a smug kiss to my forehead.

"Fine." I sigh, but lean into him anyway, because I'm weak like that. "Your turn. And don't tell me you're fearless."

He hums. "Kenzie swimming. Cam's health shakes. Claire's driving." He waits a beat, lulling me with sincerity, then drops the hammer. "Your cooking."

I jerk back, scandalized. "Excuse me?"

"Fire hazard." His lips twitch like he's trying not to laugh.

It's true — Emilia's the one always threatening me with food poisoning, but Aaron? Aaron looks more concerned about whether the smoke alarms in my apartment are functional.

"You're one to talk. Like you can do better."

He doesn't even blink. "I can."

Annoyingly, he's proved it. Multiple times. But I refuse to concede. Who even cares about cooking anyway?

"You preheated plastic containers once," he adds, deadpan. "And you've forgotten oil on the stove. Twice."

"I don't recall either of those things happening," I say primly. "So they're obviously false."

His eyes glint with quiet amusement. "That's because you were half-asleep when I told you."

I scoff. "Why are you here again? The door's right there, you know."

He just arches a brow like the infuriating man he is. I sigh and begrudgingly shift away from him, snatching up the remote to start flipping through channels.

"Do you like soap operas?" I ask, mostly to fill the air.

He hums, slow. "So that's why every show you watch is so dramatic."

"Shut up."

The silence stretches — him watching me, me pretending not to notice, scrolling past news anchors and game shows until I finally stop on a telenovela, all dramatic stares and violins. My thumb hovers over the remote, but the question's already pressing against my teeth.

"So what's the expiration date?"

His brows knit. "What?"

I wave the remote vaguely between us. "This. Us. What's the shelf life here? A week? A couple months? Maybe a year if we're really overachieving?" My tone's lighter than the thud in my chest. "I just... I'm trying to be realistic about what this is, keep my head on straight. The last thing I want is to fall for you if this is just—" I search for the word, then find it like it tastes sour. "—a pastime to you."

I expect him to snort. Deflect. Remind me that I talk too much.

Instead, Aaron just looks at me. Really looks at me. His eyes don't flinch, don't soften, don't run away. When he finally speaks, it's low and certain, every word like it's carved in stone.

"I don't do pastimes, Tess."

The remote stills in my hand.

"I don't waste time with people I don't mean to keep around," he says simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "So if you're worried about falling... do it. I'll catch you."

My throat goes dry. "That sounds oddly permanent. Are you trying to wife me up, Mr. Cobalt?"

He reaches over, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth where my lipstick's smudged. His own lips are flushed, but somehow he looks unfairly perfect, like he was made to ruin me on a Tuesday night. "Would you say yes?"

"If the ring's pretty enough."

Aaron smiles, and I really can't help it. "I don't want kids," I blurt.

His fingers pause, caught just as they were trailing up to my ear. I push forward before I can lose nerve.

"I don't mean it in some deep, wounded trauma way," I add quickly. "I just don't. I like them, sure. I like the way they say unhinged things at dinner tables and how everything is a disaster waiting to happen. But the best part about kids is giving them back. Hand them over and go home to your own mess, you know?"

Aaron is quiet for a beat, then: "I know."

I blink. "You do?"

He shifts, his hand brushing mine, deliberate, warm. "I don't want them either."

"Wait." I squint at him, dramatic. "You're telling me the six-foot-something family guy, doting uncle, reliable as hell — you don't want kids?"

"I love Kenzie," he says simply. "But being an uncle is enough. I don't need more."

For a second, I just stare at him. Then I laugh, this startled, slightly giddy sound I didn't expect to make. "Wow. Guess we're both terrible disappointments to our mothers."

That makes his mouth twitch again, and he leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek. Just that. Gentle. Sweet. Like we're shifting into something softer. "We're compatible," he murmurs against my skin. "We don't want kids. I know everything about you, and I'm rich enough to indulge your materialism for the rest of our lives. I'll teach you not to burn kitchens, watch your soap operas, massage your feet and shoulders while you work..." His brow furrows, as though he's seriously drafting this plan. "I'll travel a lot for hockey, but you'll be busy enough to forget I'm gone. So... what else do we need to get married?"

That might be the most words he's ever strung together, but of course my brain only latches onto one. "Calm down, loverboy. I don't even know your middle name. You haven't bought me my dream ring. It's been, what, a few weeks? And aren't we supposed to be head-over-heels drowning in love before talking Vegas weddings?"

He doesn't flinch. "Mortimer."

I freeze. "...Goth?"

He barrels right past it. "You'd hate a huge ring. You'd hate a giant stone, too."

And annoyingly, he's dead right.

"I'm dating you to marry you, Tessa."

My lips curve despite myself. "Is that what this is? Dating? Wow. I really had no clue."

And because he's pettier than I gave him credit for—something I've only recently learned—his mouth tips into a smug smile. "Of course you did. You wasted years on that bastard. You don't even know what a normal relationship looks like."

I roll my eyes, but the words spill out before I can stop them. "Thank God I've got you to teach me then. But fair warning: I get jealous easily. So keep your fan club at arm's length, because I don't share. If you're mine, you're mine. No secrets. No hiding. And I expect a fairytale wedding — massive, dramatic, the works. If I don't get that, I'm not walking down the aisle. Are we clear?"

It's only after I stop ranting that I realize he's staring at me. Soft. Warm. Like I've just handed him the world.

"Everything I've ever wanted to hear you say," he murmurs, and before I can come up with a snarky reply, I'm pulled into his arms, his lips pressing to the crown of my head. He mouths something against my hair, and it makes me smile.

"I know," I whisper back, wriggling free before he can get too smug. "Now let go, I've got work to do."

I feel steadier once my laptop is open on my lap, feet thrown across his thighs. He doesn't even blink, just starts massaging absentminded circles into my arches while flipping through channels. My whole body melts against the cushions, and for one stolen second, I wonder how the hell I got this lucky.

He pauses on the news channel I skipped earlier, fingers tightening around my left foot. "Have you seen this?"

From the headlines on my screen, I already know. Still, the sight of it knocks a curse out of me. "Fucking hell. That bastard actually got the case dropped."