Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
It has to be.
We reach the arena, where the energy for the last game before Christmas is electric. The crowd is rowdy since New York fans always bring their A-game when it comes to support.
But so do I. I’m bedazzled, after all, in my number forty-four jersey.
And when the sexiest, most caring man I know flies onto the ice, he turns to our side of the rink and makes a heart gesture for the kids.
Then his eyes travel to me.
And stay there.
My breath catches. My chest flutters.
I still don’t know what to do with all of these feelings. Especially since I keep wondering what it’s going to be like later tonight when we’re in the same hotel suite, him and the kids and me.
The answer?
It’s hard. Really hard.
Especially since I’m here all alone in my hotel bed, reading, and wishing—in this moment—that things were more clear.
At least in my head. I wish I knew what I wanted. What I’m ready for. What I can handle. I just don't know yet. So much has changed in my life in the last several months.
Am I even ready for…anything more?
I turn off the lights, willing myself to sleep.
Then comes the knock on the adjoining door.
37
SOMETHING ELSE TOO
Tyler
It’s been too long.
The need to touch her is like a heavy weight on my chest. Like claws in my heart.
I’ve already put the kids to bed in the suite I’m sharing with them—that wasn’t hard. They were zonked after a late hockey game, yawning on the car ride back. Once in their jammies, they both collapsed into the big bed in their room, crashing fast and hard with me only reading a few sentences from The Peppermint Patrol—Luna’s pick, and Parker didn’t even protest.
With the lights out, I paced around the suite like a caged animal, shoveling a hand through my hair until I couldn’t wait any longer to see Sabrina. Now, just five minutes later, I’m here, slipping away from them because I have to act.
I’ve got to touch her.
I need her.
This is dangerous. I can’t be the guy who leaves his young kids alone to sneak around for a quickie with the nanny next door.
And yet, I can’t tear my gaze away from her in the faint light of her hotel room. A soft night-light glows by the bed. Her tablet sits on the covers. She was probably reading before she answered my knock. City lights glimmer in the window. The sounds of a New York night—faint honking, a siren somewhere in the distance—remind me that this is a city that never sleeps. Sabrina stands right in front of me, loose blonde hair curling over the straps of a light blue cami. She wears pajama pants and fuzzy socks with foxes on them, and this detail—her love of foxes—does unfair things to my heart.
“Hi,” I say softly, my fingers itching to touch her, my palms eager to slide up and down those bare arms, to feel her skin. To see her shiver as I touch her. Hell, I feel like I’m shivering just from looking at her.
“Hey, you,” she says.
The sound of her voice makes my pulse soar. I’m so far gone.
“I had to see you.” That feels like the truest thing I’ve ever said.
“Yeah?” A smile teases me at the corner of her lips.
“On the car ride back from the arena? I was dying to reach across the seats and hold your hand,” I say.
Her smile widens. “I wanted that too.”
More confessions pour out. “On the elevator ride up here? The four of us?”
She nods for me to keep going.
“Same thing. I just wanted to wrap my arm around you. Bring you to my side. Hold you.”
Her blue eyes dance. “I could feel it—you wanting that.”
I am so transparent, and I don’t mind at all. “And then when you went into your room, and I went into ours, I just felt anticipation climbing through me,” I say, and at last, at long last, the weight is lifting. I needed to say all this. I can’t keep it to myself anymore.
She takes a step closer, and her scent swirls around me—that orange blossom perfume. I thought it was her candles, but it has to be her lotion too. Another detail about her I file away.
“So what are you going to do about that?” she asks.
That’s the question, isn’t it? The million-dollar one I keep asking myself. It’s a question I’ve been asking myself since I left her that note card back in San Francisco. Since I booked the tickets for her and rebooked the ones for my kids. Now that she’s here, I keep thinking—this woman flew with my children across the country to spend Christmas with us.
Us.
What was I thinking when I didn’t want to define this? I need to define this fast. I can’t leave this open-ended. I can’t just go with the flow. That’s not fair to her. And it’s definitely not fair to this too-tight, too-big feeling in my chest.