Page 62 of Gloves Off

And now I’m stuck sharing a bed with Volkov.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

My eyes close. Why didn’t I think of this?

“We can’t ask for another room with two beds,” he says with a warning look. “We have to share.”

“I know, Volkov.”

He heads into the washroom, the shower starts, and I run through my options.

Sleeping without pajama pants isn’t a big deal. He won’t even notice.

When I open my bag to pull out my sleep shirt, though, it’s not there. My stomach flips. I have nothing to wear to bed.

Oh god. Okay.

We went straight from the airport to the arena. I was working at the game so I couldn’t step away, and now it’s late. Everything is closed.

I could sleep in my work clothes, but I know myself. I’ll get too warm and in the middle of the night, fast asleep, I’ll unzip my dress and yank it off. Volkov will wake to me laying on top of the covers with my ass and tits spilling out of my navy blue Agent Provocateur set.

I could ask Volkov if I can borrow a T-shirt but... no. It would smell like him, and I’d look adorable in it. No way. We’re not going there.

When the bathroom door opens, I’m still standing over my bag, wracking my brain for any other solution. He leaves the room and by the time he returns with an ice pack, I’ve brushed my teeth and washed my face, but I still haven’t come up with a solution. I’m back to standing over my bag, feeling the weight of his attention as he heads to the bed and settles on top of the covers, placing the ice pack across his shoulder.

It doesn’t help that he looks painfully hot. He’s shirtless, which I saw in Hawaii, but there’s something about a man lounging against the headboard, all rippling muscles and broad shoulders. I’m rendered helpless by the smattering of dark chest hair snaking down his carved abs into the waistband of his boxers.

He’s wearing glasses, too. Hockey players shouldn’t wear glasses. It makes them look too hot.

He rolls his shoulder, wincing, and I frown down at my suitcase. “Shoulder hurting?”

He took a hard hit during tonight’s game, the kind that made me feel sick.

“No.”

“You should take an anti-inflammatory.”

“Doctor.” He sighs, reaching for his e-reader. “I’m not your patient anymore. You made sure of that.”

In my mind, I see him and the player collide again before I shove the replay out of my head. Our gazes meet, and his eyes flick over me, standing tense and frozen over my bag.

“What’s wrong with you?”

My face goes hot. After the sleepwalking thing, which he clearly didn’t believe, he’s probably going to think I planned this. “I didn’t bring pajamas.”

“What do you mean, you didn’t bring pajamas?”

“I mean,” I inhale a sharp breath, “I thought I’d be in my own room likealways,and I didn’t bring anything to sleep in.”

“Nothing?”

My face is probably bright red. “Nothing appropriate.”

His gaze sharpens. “What does that mean?”

“You know I love beautiful things, Volkov.”

I study my nails without seeing them, acting aloof. My heart’s beating out of my chest. A long moment passes in silence.

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