Page 48 of The Huckleberry Bookshop

“You are so overly confident!” Athena complained. There was no way she’d acknowledge the little thrill that had zipped through her body like a bullet after hearing his implied offer that she could sleep in his room—with him.

“What do you mean?” Chad asked, a picture of innocence.

“You know what I mean.”

“Tina!” He stepped back with fake surprise. “I am more than just a sex symbol.”

She rolled her eyes, her unease at walking through the playboy’s bedroom replaced by exasperation. Although “exasperation” wasn’t quite right. Amusement, maybe? A feeling of unexpected adventure? Or satisfaction that even though she was a book nerd with lots of food rules, Chad still found her woman enough to flirt with?

He flirts with everyone, she reminded herself. She shook her head slightly, realizing that what she felt most right now was comfort and trust. Maybe even some weird, possibly misplaced sense of belonging.

Chad waved toward his en suite as he crossed his bedroom toward the door on the far side. To their right the windows had changed, no longer starting at the floor but just above knee height, and power shades had been drawn from the top downward so a gap of glass was exposed near the ceiling.

“You’re not an exhibitionist?” She gestured to the covered panes. “Somehow that’s surprising, but also reassuring.”

“Who says I’m not?” He grinned from the doorway, clearly eager to have her continue on. It made her want to stop and absorb even more, feeling intensely curious about what she might find in the most private room of his home. She might not ever have another excuse to nose around in here, plus there was the fact that he wanted to keep moving, which increased her desire to study everything in sight.

He’d been touchy about the homemade blanket in the guest suite, and it appeared anything to do with family closed him up like a vault.

His bed had a massive headboard, a nondescript comforter and one pillow on the left side. One. He had a bedside table, but again, just one.

“Are those walk-in closets?” She itched to open the doors flanking the king-size bed. The man had style, and she bet each space was chock-full of goodies. NHL players tended to dress in designer suits on their way to and from games, but Chad took it to another level with his one-of-a-kind flair.

“Do monkeys eat bananas?” Chad stepped from the doorway to open the closet nearest him. She peeked inside, then entered. It was bigger than most children’s bedrooms and the track lighting illuminated rows of suits, racks of perfectly lined up shoes, several tie racks, and hats resting on shelves above.

The colors. The fabrics. She longed to sit on the small bolster by the shiny shoes and beg him to put on a fashion show.

At the far end of the room was a staging area with several open garment bags hanging on hooks, and designer suitcases on a low table waiting to be filled. It was clear the man had a system. With so many away games each season, it was smart to leave things laid out in a way that didn’t mean tripping over a suitcase all the time.

She looked around for the jeans, jerseys, workout gear and sweaters she often saw him in. There were a few drawers, but they were smaller, suitable for items such as socks and trays of cufflinks. His casual wear wasn’t kept in here.

“All you wear are suits?” she asked.

“The other closet has my day-to-day items.” He pointed to an adjoining door in the corner that linked the two closets. It was closed, like most doors in his house, and she wondered why he didn’t leave them open.

“What will you do if you get married?”

“She can put her stuff in the guest room.”

Athena laughed, and he rewarded her with a small smile.

She paused on her way out of the closet, recognizing a few items on the rack labeled Cleaners. She fingered the baby blue ruffled tuxedo shirt he’d worn to the gala, surprised he hadn’t had it laundered immediately after the whiskey incident.

“You wore this well,” she said. “Not even an ironic whiff of pimp daddy.”

His eyes met hers, amusement crinkling the flesh bracketing his mouth. She felt a tremor start at her feet and work its way through her nervous system. The room was suddenly too small, too closed in, too private.

“Even though it should have been burned in the seventies,” she added in an offhand tone.

“Hey! That was custom-made.” He tapped the sleeve she was holding, breaking her grip on the fabric.

Giggling, she took another look at the shirt and its neighboring tuxedo jacket and pants. “You paid to have that made?”

Chad lowered his eyebrows and heaved a sigh, opened his mouth and then closed it again. He turned to leave, then turned back.

“Sorry?” she asked innocently. “Did you want to say something?”

“What are the odds of me finding a tux from that era that fits all of this?” He gestured to his thick quads and the way his jeans stretched tight over them. Mouthwatering.

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