Page 46 of The Rebound
She nods down the hall, and I let her find her way, the twins trailing behind her. The front door is still open, so I move to close it, but pause when I see a familiar face down the hall.
Saint stands at his door in his running gear, flipping through his mail.Oofta. Something about a man fresh off a long workout does it for me. His athletic shorts hang low on his hips and his T-shirt is damp with sweat, making it cling to all his muscles.
My heart hammers, and my hands itch at my sides, wanting so badly to touch him.
It’s been two weeks since I saw him last, the longest we’ve gone without seeing each other since we first met. Sure, we’ve exchanged a text or two, checking in with each other. But seeing him in the flesh, all glistening and glowing, is an entirely different experience. He’s unbelievably gorgeous. And I’m humongous.
Ugh.
“Saint,” I call out, my voice catching in my throat.
Jeez, calm down, psycho.
He turns, popping out an earbud and flashing that killer smile at me. “Hey, stranger. You look well. How’ve you been?”
“Good,” I say, leaning against the door frame as casually as I can. “My cousin and her kiddos are here for the night.”
“Oh shit, another Reeves. How many of you are there?”
“Pretty much just her. Do you want to come by for a bit? I’ve got some lemonade on ice if you’re thirsty.”
Subtle much? I hope it’s only obvious to me that I’m the thirsty one, and not for the lemonade. But the guy is a freaking thirst trap. I mean,lookat him.
Saint doesn’t hesitate for a moment. “That sounds perfect. I probably smell, though.”
“I don’t care,” I say, and I really don’t.
I hold the door open wide, and when he passes me, all I smell is that masculine musk I’ve come to crave. The pulsing of my heart is decidedly elsewhere now, warming the touch-starved territory between my legs. I need to cool down. Maybe I do need some of that lemonade after all.
Inside, Martha has reemerged from the guest room, holding her kids’ hands.
“Who’s this handsome young man?” she asks, doing her best impression of Grandma Reeves, even though my cousin is only a few years older than we are.
The older twin, Liam, immediately repeats, “Handsome,” followed by Beck, the younger.
Martha and her husband arebigalt-rock fans.
“This is Saint, my neighbor. He’s on the same team as Walker.”
“Wow, you’re just crawling with beefcake here in Boston, aren’t you? How long have you played hockey, Saint?”
Grinning good-naturedly, he says, “Oh, you know, just about forever.”
Saint takes it from there, entertaining Martha and the kids while I pour us all glasses of lemonade. I watch from the kitchen as Saint kneels down to the twins’ level, snagging a high five from each of them. Their hands look so tiny compared to his.
“Wet,” Beck says, pointing at Saint’s damp hair.
“Yeah, I’m a bit sweaty. I went for a run today. Do you two like running?”
“Yeah,” Liam chimes in, pulling on his mom’s hand.
“Why don’t you show me?” Saint asks, more to Martha than the kids.
Smart.
“Don’t knock anything over,” Martha warns before letting them both go.
Liam toddles down the hall to the living room and takes a lap around the coffee table, squealing with delight as Beck chases after him.
