Page 44 of Cross-Checked

“C’mon,” I say, nodding my chin toward the ensuite bathroom.

Her eyebrows dip. “What?”

“I’ll help you.”

Her laughter is the awkward kind that bubbles up when you don’t want it to. “I’m not showering with you.”

“I’m not offering.” Not because I don’t want that—fuck, my body wants that so badly I’m about fully hard just thinking about it—but because I knowshedoesn’t want that. “But I’ll draw you a bubble bath, so you can rest your splinted arm on the rim of the tub. And once you’re settled, I’ll come in and wash your hair for you.”

“You...?” She shakes her head, and with her lips parted and her eyebrows still dipped in confusion, she looks like she can’t make sense of anything I’m saying.

“C’mon, Sunshine, think how good it’ll feel to be clean. When’s the last time you took a shower?”

“Yesterday morning.”

I guide her into the bathroom with my hand resting lightly on her lower back, taking care to avoid the bruised side. And as she stands on the tiled floor, she turns so her back is to the huge, framed mirror that runs above the vanity, and looks over her shoulder. “Yep,” she sighs. “It looks about how it feels.”

“I can’t believe you went to work today,” I say, turning on the tap and letting the water run into the tub. When I get it nice and warm, I flip the lever next to the spout to close the drain.

“I never even considered staying home,” she admits quietly, and I get the sense that this is an important realization for her.

“Why not?” I keep my eyes focused on the tub that’s slowly filling with water. I’m avoiding looking at her in that sexy thong and bra, trying to stop wondering why she’s wearing sexy lingerie to work, because I need this fucking hard-on to disappear before she notices it.

“I don’t know. Work is sort of...” There’s a long pause, and I don’t fill the silence. I want to know what she’s thinking, and I sense that she’s working it out in her own mind. Getting to hear her thought process feels kind of like an unexpected gift. “...what I do.”

I pick up the bubble bath sitting on the ledge above the big freestanding tub. “What do you do besides work?” I ask as I squeeze the liquid into the tub.

“Why do you have bubble bath?” she asks with a laugh, like the fact that I said I’d draw her a bubble bath didn’t actually register until she saw me pouring it in.

“Abby loves bubbles. I hope you won’t mind smelling like coconut?”

“Love coconut. I actually have a candle in my living room calledBeach Day. It smells like coconut-scented sunscreen, and I burn it all summer long.”

There are so many questions surfacing...things I want to know about her everyday life. But I shouldn’t be trying to figure out what her life is like outside of work, and she was the first to remind me of that by the way she tried to change the conversation when I asked.

“You want to feel the water and make sure it’s the right temperature?”

“Sure,” she says, stepping toward the tub. I stand and move away, otherwise her tits would be right at eye level and there’s no way I should be looking at her like that. But I do glance over as she bends to test the water with her good hand, and that’s a mistake. Because Alessandra Jones bent over in that sexy thong is a sight that has me just about ready to come in my fucking pants like some sort of middle school boy.

“I’m going to give you some privacy so you can get in the tub when there’s as much water as you want,” I say quickly, turning away so that she won’t be able to see the enormous boner I’m sporting if she looks back at me. “Call me once you’re in.”

And then I rush out the door, and when it’s shut, I rest my hands on either side of the frame, taking deep breaths and reminding myself that no matter what I want to happen, she wants to keep things professional.

Trying to convince myself that I’m not just respecting her boundaries here, but that I actually don’twantanything to happen either, doesn’t pan out.You don’t even like her, I remind myself. But is that really true? The years I spent holding that grudge about the trade feel like wasted energy.

The unmistakable sound of sloshing water as her body sinks into the bath has me picturing the scene clearly in my head, which is doing nothing to help the situation in my pants. I try anything that might help...I think about my high school gym teacher who liked to bite his nails and spit them at us if he thought we weren’t doing sit-ups fast enough, I remember the time in elementary school when I didn’t notice the maggots in my box of raisins until I started popping them into my mouth, I think of all the gross shit I’ve seen in locker rooms over the years. And then, with those memories and mental images circulating in my brain, I take a lap around my bedroom, walking back and forth, again and again.

“Alright,” AJ calls from the bathroom. “I’m in.”

God, even the sound of her voice does it for me. How did I go so quickly from hating her for years, right back to this crush I once had?

But as I walk toward the bathroom, I realize that’s not what this is. This isn’t the pathetic crush of a guy in his early twenties, lusting after the powerful but married woman who he knows he can’t have. That crush was safe—or so I thought, until it ended my career in St. Louis.

But this...the way I can’t stop thinking about her? The way I moved her into my condo with a flimsy excuse the second I saw the opportunity? The way she is with Abby? All of it makes me wantmore, andthatis the part that’s dangerous.

It could ruin her career, make her a laughingstock among her peers, and ensure that she doesn’t win an award she more than deserves.

And for me? She’s already made it clear she’s not trying to keep me in Boston next season. So getting involved with her? Or worse—letting myself fall for her? That would be the most wildly stupid thing I’ve ever done.

---