Page 4 of Married to Number 22
Uh-oh.
Shaking myself, I march across the room, set the cupcake on the counter, and pull out the lighter and candles I bought, further depleting my bank account.
Thank God, payday is Friday.
Which is in far too many days, if my stomach has any say.
But don’t all those health nuts preach about fasting?
It’s good for me, right?
Meanwhile, I ignore the rumbling in my stomach saying that it may be good for me but that doesn’t mean it’s fun, and plop the “2” and “5” candles into the top of the cake.
“This is crazy, Luns.”
My heart skips at the nickname, and my stomach twists at the words.
Because he’s the only one who ever called me that.
And because he’s right.
Thisiscrazy.
But…desperate times and desperate measures.
Plus, a bit—ormore—of impulsivity that will likely blow up in my face thrown in.
I flick the lighter, sparking the little flame to life, holding it over the first wick until it catches then the second. “Happy Birthday,” I say quietly, nudging it toward him, finally finding the courage to truly look at him.
He’s gorgeous.
He was when we were teenagers and he’s even more so now. A boy grown into a man—no longer a body built on lean strength and wiry prowess, but instead he’s all broad shoulders and a flat stomach and thighs that are so powerful my mind drifts to all the naughty things that brawn could be used for.
But it’s when he turns, bends, and picks up a pillow that must have fallen off his couch at some point—whether by my buzzing about and acting like a frenzied hummingbird or earlier in the day before I intruded on his peace, I don’t know. But it’s his turning and bending that has my body going stock still for a second.
His ass.
God, his ass.
Why is it that hockey players always have the best asses?
He straightens and I jerk my gaze away, realize the candles are burning down, sending wax onto the swirls of frosting that were making my stomach hungry in a completely different way, and say, “Come make a wish.”
There’s a flicker of something across his striking green eyes, something intense that I can’t read.
But then he’s slowly striding toward me, expression inscrutable.
One hand hits the counter. Then the other.
He leans forward, lips pursed—something that sends another flare of heat through my belly—and starts to blow.
“Wait!”
He freezes aside from those green eyes.
They slide toward mine, hold.
“You didn’t make a wish.”
