Page 4 of Wanting the Winger

He prances in a couple of excited circles, then shakes his butt as I rub his back and head.A gentle giant, he’s a hundred and sixty pounds of well-trained cuddle bug.

“Hey, you made it.”

My heart does a little leap when I see my brother’s longtime best friend walking down the wide stone stairs of his home’s front entrance.He’s not my crush anymore, but my nervous system didn’t get the memo.Bash is wearing gray shorts, a light-blue polo and—damn him—a backward baseball hat.

Adrenaline floods my bloodstream and my heart rate kicks up as he approaches, grinning lazily.I reason with myself.It’s not really butterflies in my stomach—it’s blood diverting from my digestive system toward my organs and muscles.

That backward baseball hat and grin still get me every time, even after all these years.

“Leave her alone, Bruce.”

His distinctive gruffbaritone voice stimulates the butterflies to flap even harder.He used to deejay at the high school radio station, and I never missed a second of his airtime.I had it so bad for him, even at age twelve.

He’s six foot two and I’m five foot five, so when he hugs me, my face only reaches his shoulder.It’s kind of like hugging a brick wall, his broad chest and shoulders hard with muscle.But brick walls don’t smell like eucalyptus and rich, woody amber.

I pull back, overwhelmed by being so close to my childhood crush, smelling his cologne and feeling his pecs.

“Did you know amber comes from fossilized tree resin?”I blurt, trying to get my racing heart to calm.“It takes thousands of years for the scent to develop.That’s why perfume makers combine other scents to replicate amber.”

A corner of Bash’s mouth lifts in amusement.“No, I didn’t know that.”

I’ve always loved science, and Bash knows that.But I can’t have him thinking I just randomly spit out science factoids.

“Your cologne has notes of amber in it,” I explain.“That’s what made me think of that.”

“Amber, huh?”

I nod since talking isn’t going so well for me right now.Guilt stabs me in the gut because I’m only supposed to get butterflies for Shane, my fiancé.

A glance around the driveway of Bash’s house brings me back to reality.This is where I humiliated myself seven years ago.My adrenal medulla hits the brakes on the flow of epinephrine into my system.Finally.

“I better get my stuff inside.”

“I’ll bring your stuff in.Go grab a drink and sit down.”

That—thatright there—is what makes it so hard for me to kill those butterflies Bash gives me.He’s a gentleman.Always holding doors and bringing me drinks.Even on that horrible day seven years ago, he did everything he could to try to make me feel better.

Not that any of it worked.I can still remember every giant landscaping boulder in his yard I wanted to crawl under that day and never return from.

“I’ve got it,” I assure him.“Some of this stuff is staying in the car because it’s going to the lab.”

I blow a stray strand of hair out of my face.

“Why didn’t Shane pack your car?”

A wall of defensiveness pops up inside me.Bash is always full of questions about Shane, and every one of them insinuates that he’s lacking.

“He was busy.”

“Busy with what?”

A video game tournament, but I’m not going to mention that.I just cut Bash a glare.

“I’m not a woman who needs a big, strong man taking care of me so I don’t break a sweat.”

A small snort escapes him.“Good thing, since Shane’s about a buck sixty.”

“Bash.”I fold my arms and push out a hip.“Can you not start your shit before I’m even inside the house?”

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