Page 37 of Breaking Point
He shrugs, grabbing two bottles of waters from the fridge. “Whatever makes you more comfortable. I was joking, though. I hope you don’t think I’m a sleaze or something.”
“What would make me think you are?” I ask innocently, blinking.
“The two naked puck bunnies sure would do the trick.”
“You said it, not me.”
That blush makes a reappearance, along with his lone dimple as his lips slowly spread into a smile.
Adverting my eyes, I pull up my email. “Okay, I need your training schedule, game schedule, and any physio or private training.” I pause, pursing my lips. “Basically, I need everything.”
He whips out his phone. “On it, along with my number.” He holds up his free hand in mock surrender. “Only for business purposes, of course.”
Ignoring the cheeky glint in his gaze, I shove down the fluttering in my stomach.Men are not trustworthy, I remind myself.Especiallynot attractive NHL players.
“Can you also forward the number to your chef? I don’t want to think there’s an intruder in the house or something.”
I’m typing away furiously on my keyboard as I go through everything that he’s sending me through email, until I realize thatthe notifications have stopped rolling in and Grayson hasn’t said anything in a while. Lifting my head, I find him looking out toward the backyard where I notice a pool and a hot tub for the first time. But the faraway look in his gaze tells me he isn’t thinking about soaking in either of them.
“Grayson?” I probe.
He straightens. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Okay…” Shaking off the odd sensation, I ask, “Is there anything you need from me today? Any errands, cleaning? Scheduling?”
“Not particularly.”
His tone has gone flat, his eyes no longer sparking with that mischievous look.
Did I say something to offend him?
I’m raking my brain when he suddenly announces, “I usually schedule my assistants to have their days off when I have mine.”
“Is today an off day?”
His nod is clipped. “One of the rare ones, yes.”
My lips pinch. I want to give him his privacy but I also live nearly forty minutes away. There’s still so much to sort out, not to mention how he can’t seem to find his own belongings. Then an idea comes to mind.
“I’m great at reorganizing,” I admit, not disclosing that I actually just have OCD and if this house is all out of whack, my anxiety will rear its ugly head and I’ll no doubt begin to touch everything in threes. I’ve found that if I don’t start in a new location, I can keep the counting away…for a short period of time. “How about I start helping you reorganize some rooms? I noticed there’s a junk room”—that’s putting it mildly—“upstairs. I could start there?”
He blinks a few times, life slowly returning to his gaze. “Oh, okay.” He flashes me a smile and I don’t know why but my heart leaps at the fact that the somber mood he fell into has been pushed away with my idea. “I’d love that, actually. There’s a charity event next weekend and I’d love to donate clothes as well.”
My brows rise high. “A charity event?” Most men with his bank account just write a check and call it a day.
“Yes, it’s for children in the foster system, specifically those that are older than most people want to adopt.”
I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading even if I tried.
Where did this man come from? And why couldn’t I have met him before my father showed me that you can never trust a man with your heart? Perhaps then he would have burrowed too deep into my emotions I couldn’t let him go.
I rise from the stool. “I’ll get started on the room upstairs?—”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Oh, I can sort items into piles for you to assess later on whether you want to donate?—”
Grayson ignores my protests, already heading for the stairs as he says, “I have two hands. I’m more than capable of helping.”
