Page 40 of Lucky Laces
Then wake up in the morning feeling good enough to get my ass out of here, send my parents home, and I don’t know, since I’m making all sorts of idiotic wishes, fixing my brain so that I can understand Dee’s fucking drills.
But wishes don’t come true in my world.
Never have.Never?—
For fuck’s sake.
Because seriously?I need to get my ass off the pity wagon.Oh, boo hoo, the poor professional hockey player has itsobad—a long-term contract and a nice house and car, good friends and a great retirement account.
I need to stop bitching and start problem solving.
It’s going to be a bit before I can play with this fucking leg, so I’ll use the extra time to figure them out, even if I have to hire a professional to help.
There.
Done.
Except, I can’t help but think it’s never been that easy.No one in school could help me.Not the counselors or teachers or specialists.My doctors were shit and?—
Creak!
I shift on the pillows as the door slides open a couple of feet and Dee slips inside.
Fuck, she’s even more beautiful in the moonlight, a pair of shorts putting her long, curvy legs on display, a tank telling me—and my dick—that she’s not wearing a bra.
“Oh,” she says, stopping in the opening.“I didn’t know you’d be awake.I just…” She glances down at her feet and I see they’re bare.
And seriously, why the fuck have I just developed a foot fetish?
“…wanted to check on you.”
I sit up, some perverse part of me loving the way her gaze clings to my naked chest, the small indication of her being attracted to me.
Sick and twisted and so totally bad for the both of us?
Abso-fucking-lutely.
But do I still allow the blanket to pool in my lap, to preen like a fucking peacock under that heated emerald gaze?
Yup.Yup.I sure do.
Dee isn’t one to be stymied for long, though.She’s smart and capable and recovers quickly.“Since you’re up,” she says.
Then disappears, leaving me preening in bed…and alone.
For several long minutes.
God, I’m pathetic.
Eventually—thank fuck—she reappears, a bottle and two glasses in one hand and a tray in the other.
“What’s that?”I ask, even as my brain processes that there’s fruit and cheese and meat and—fuck yes—big ass oatmeal chocolate chip cookies on the tray.
“A bribe.”She shrugs and sets it on the bed next to me then turns and puts the wine and glasses on the nightstand.
“A bribe?”
“Uh-huh.”She pulls open the drawer, starts rifling through the contents.“Ah-ha!”She holds up the remote.“Because I figure sleep is about as far away for you as it is for me.”
