Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He exhales, his sugar-scented breath warm on my forehead. “Either way, I think a hug would help.”
My brows slide up. “A hug?”
“It’s before five and we’re both sober,” he says. “I mean, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t on a sugar high right now, but we’re not counting sugar, right?”
“Right,” I affirm, but I don’t move.
A part of me is afraid to.
Afraid that I’ve overestimated how much the liquor and the late hour had to do with what happened between us last night. Afraid all it will take is one up-close-and-personal whiff of his sexy, Parker-scented skin, and I’ll be dry humping his poor, injured body in the hallway.
“Come on, Mack,” he rumbles in a soft voice that does scandalous things to my panties. “It’s just a hug. You know you want to…”
“No, I don’t,” I lie.
But I do.
I want it so much, it’s all I can do to hold back a happy sigh as I step into him and he pulls me close.
This is no quick, friendly squeeze. No sterile embrace with a side of shoulder patting. This is the real deal. His arms wrap all the way around me, cradling me like something precious. One hand rests between my shoulder blades as the other molds to my lower back, fitting me against him like I was made to fill this space.
Against my will, I press my face to his chest, breathing him in.
He smells like soap and sugar and that sexy Parker scent that makes my thoughts go sticky. I feel his heartbeat against my cheek, steady and as strong as the arms tightening around me.
I tighten my grip, too, my fingertips digging into his muscled back through his t-shirt.
All I want to do is pull him closer, press tighter to his incredible body, crawl inside his skin, and eliminate the last of the horrible distance keeping me from the safety the animal part of me insists we would find in his arms.
In his bed.
In his heart…
But that’s crazy.
I’m crazy for agreeing to hug him when I’m still suffering from trauma gratitude and post-sex-dream nipple tingling.
I’m about to pull away, to jerk myself back to reality, no matter how much effort it takes, when he whispers against the top of my head, “I’m scared. This is who I’ve always been. The game has always come first. Who the fuck am I without hockey? A clown with a broken family, four credits shy of a degree in digital marketing?”
“You’re a good man with a good heart,” I say into his shirt, squeezing him tight, willing some of my strength into his bones. “And you always will be, even if you never set foot on the ice again. And that’s no small thing in a world like this.”
He sighs. “Well…thanks. I try. But I’m also a smart-ass with a filthy mouth who will probably perform poorly in a corporate setting.”
I tilt my head back, my lips hooking up as I whisper, “Me and you both.”
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Why do you think I opened my own restaurant? I was sick of dumb corporate people telling me what to cook and what I could or couldn’t say in my own damn kitchen.”
“Dumb people are dumb,” he murmurs, his hand sliding lower on my back, dangerously close to my ass.
Heat floods between my thighs in response.
We should step apart. Right now. This hug has already lasted longer than any platonic hug has a right to. But he’s so worried and holding me like I’m the only thing keeping him upright, and I can’t seem to let go.
I lean in, my breasts flattening against his chest as I tip my chin up, moving my lips closer to his…
But instead of kissing me, he clears his throat and shifts away. “Better get that ibuprofen,” he says, his arms abandoning my body as he limps inside. “I’ll need it to drive my ass to the hospital.”
“I’ll drive you,” I say, ignoring the twinge of hurt at his rejection.
It wasn’t a rejection. It was just following the rules.
The rules we both agreed to.
“You sure?” he asks. “I mean, I know you have a lot to do, too.”
“No, I don’t,” I say. “I’ll text my dad, Elly, Charlotte, and my friends from the catering crew to let them know I’m alive, shoot an email to my insurance agent, and be ready to go in no time.” I glance down. “Well, almost ready. I should probably find something to wear that isn’t pajamas.”
“There should be some workout stuff in the guest room,” he says. “Mom loves her Lululemon.”
“Because she lives to traumatize you with see-through leggings?”
He shudders. “Ugh, don’t remind me. They aren’t see-through anymore, but when I was a kid, it was a bad scene. I still have nightmares about the time she showed up to pick me up from hockey and my youth league coach couldn’t stop staring at her ass.”