much he hated to have it ridiculed.
Grown men chasing a black disk around the ice and getting paid a fortune to do it. Yes, but clearly there was more to it. She didn’t understand hockey, but he’d taken her a step closer. She did understandsincerity, and the passion to do something well. Not to mention, he looked incredibly sexy when he spoke with that passion.
“I’m sorry. I had no idea. I never thought about it that way, and I should have. Woody, there are things you need to teach me too.” Without thinking, she reached across the table and rested her hand on his forearm, bare and muscular below the pulled-up sleeve of his jersey. His flesh was firm and warm under her hand and she could sense the energy just below the surface. Her palm tingled and a current ran up her arm and zinged through her body, straight to her sex.
This man had been inside her.
It had been a bad idea. They both knew that. She forced herself to remove her hand.
But she couldn’t look away from those indigo eyes.
Woody opened his mouth, but their waitress arrived with their lunches.
He must have been grateful for the interruption, because he began demolishing his food. Georgia turned her attention to her risotto, which was delicious.
Woody’s left arm was on the table, curved protectively around his meal. He leaned forward over the pizza plate and ate methodically, without a break.
She sighed. “No one’s going to take your food away before you’re finished.”
Bent forward as he was, his face was close to hers when he looked up, startled. “What?”
“A deportment lesson. You eat as if it’s a race to get through the meal before someone takes it away from you.”
Something flashed in his eyes. Something dark; a hint of pain, perhaps. It reminded her that his bio didn’t say much about his childhood, but suggested it had been rough.
Softly, she went on. “Meals—especially meals with friends orcolleagues—are supposed to be relaxed and social. People eat a bit, chat, eat some more. They take it slowly.”
He frowned as if he didn’t understand.
“Look around,” she suggested. “See how that man is sitting, listening, while the woman across from him talks? Then he takes a forkful of salad, sits back, says something to her. There’s a pace and balance.”
“Oh yeah? I never think about it when I’m out with the guys. We’re hungry; we eat.”
“What about when you’re on a date?”
His gaze flicked downward. “Guess I eat my meal, and talk before and after. No one’s ever said anything,” he added, a little belligerently.
“When you’re finished with your meal, what’s the woman doing? Is she finished too?”
“I guess not. Women are such slow eaters. You pick at food like you feel guilty about every calorie.”
Georgia chuckled. “I’m not suggesting you act that way either.” She had an inspiration. “When you tell sports stories, you do great imitations of people. You’re a good observer and mimic. Why don’t you use that man as a model, and try imitating him?”
Woody was still staring down at his plate. She’d embarrassed him and, while his table manners were poor, the blame likely lay with his upbringing. “It’s like what I said about wine and beer, and knowing what fits the circumstances. If you’re out with the guys on the team, and you’re all ravenous after a game, then it would probably be natural to, uh …”
“Chow down like pigs at a trough?” Now he looked up, a dangerous gleam in his eye.
He really did have a knack for reading her mind, and calling her on it. “Uh, well, maybe not quite like that.”
Fortunately, his gleam turned into a twinkle. “Whereas when I’m with a lady I oughta eat like a constipated Englishman?”
She remembered his imitation of a snotty English accent. “What have you got against Englishmen, anyway?” The thought of the novel she was reading flashed into her mind. Lady Emma might agree with Woody about the stodginess of upper-class
Grown men chasing a black disk around the ice and getting paid a fortune to do it. Yes, but clearly there was more to it. She didn’t understand hockey, but he’d taken her a step closer. She did understandsincerity, and the passion to do something well. Not to mention, he looked incredibly sexy when he spoke with that passion.
“I’m sorry. I had no idea. I never thought about it that way, and I should have. Woody, there are things you need to teach me too.” Without thinking, she reached across the table and rested her hand on his forearm, bare and muscular below the pulled-up sleeve of his jersey. His flesh was firm and warm under her hand and she could sense the energy just below the surface. Her palm tingled and a current ran up her arm and zinged through her body, straight to her sex.
This man had been inside her.
It had been a bad idea. They both knew that. She forced herself to remove her hand.
But she couldn’t look away from those indigo eyes.
Woody opened his mouth, but their waitress arrived with their lunches.
He must have been grateful for the interruption, because he began demolishing his food. Georgia turned her attention to her risotto, which was delicious.
Woody’s left arm was on the table, curved protectively around his meal. He leaned forward over the pizza plate and ate methodically, without a break.
She sighed. “No one’s going to take your food away before you’re finished.”
Bent forward as he was, his face was close to hers when he looked up, startled. “What?”
“A deportment lesson. You eat as if it’s a race to get through the meal before someone takes it away from you.”
Something flashed in his eyes. Something dark; a hint of pain, perhaps. It reminded her that his bio didn’t say much about his childhood, but suggested it had been rough.
Softly, she went on. “Meals—especially meals with friends orcolleagues—are supposed to be relaxed and social. People eat a bit, chat, eat some more. They take it slowly.”
He frowned as if he didn’t understand.
“Look around,” she suggested. “See how that man is sitting, listening, while the woman across from him talks? Then he takes a forkful of salad, sits back, says something to her. There’s a pace and balance.”
“Oh yeah? I never think about it when I’m out with the guys. We’re hungry; we eat.”
“What about when you’re on a date?”
His gaze flicked downward. “Guess I eat my meal, and talk before and after. No one’s ever said anything,” he added, a little belligerently.
“When you’re finished with your meal, what’s the woman doing? Is she finished too?”
“I guess not. Women are such slow eaters. You pick at food like you feel guilty about every calorie.”
Georgia chuckled. “I’m not suggesting you act that way either.” She had an inspiration. “When you tell sports stories, you do great imitations of people. You’re a good observer and mimic. Why don’t you use that man as a model, and try imitating him?”
Woody was still staring down at his plate. She’d embarrassed him and, while his table manners were poor, the blame likely lay with his upbringing. “It’s like what I said about wine and beer, and knowing what fits the circumstances. If you’re out with the guys on the team, and you’re all ravenous after a game, then it would probably be natural to, uh …”
“Chow down like pigs at a trough?” Now he looked up, a dangerous gleam in his eye.
He really did have a knack for reading her mind, and calling her on it. “Uh, well, maybe not quite like that.”
Fortunately, his gleam turned into a twinkle. “Whereas when I’m with a lady I oughta eat like a constipated Englishman?”
She remembered his imitation of a snotty English accent. “What have you got against Englishmen, anyway?” The thought of the novel she was reading flashed into her mind. Lady Emma might agree with Woody about the stodginess of upper-class
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