Page 14 of Accidentally Fudging the Beast
When I finish refolding the throw blanket for the third time, I glance back at him. He's watching me withthat lazy, satisfied-cat expression, one arm draped over the couch, the other hand twirling the lotion tube.
"Are you really okay?" I ask, my voice softer now. "Like, really,reallyokay?"
He shrugs. "Was never worried."
"You nearly stopped breathing, Trent!"
His smirk is wide and infuriating. "Would've been a pretty good way to go."
I glare at him. "You want your tombstone to read, 'Death by Fudge?'"
"That's a legacy. People would talk about it for years." He gives me a sidelong glance. "Plus, it would've been your fudge. Worth it, Dani."
He's flirting again. And I forget how to breathe for a second. Maybe it's because he's big, handsome, and so far out of my league that he orbits in a different solar system. Or maybe it's because, despite how infuriating he is, he's an incredible guy.
I am so screwed.
I barely manage to function like a human being around him in the safety of the training facility. How am I supposed to do it in the privacy of his luxury living room?
"I'd rather you live to regret eating it," I say.
He shifts, swinging his legs up so his feet land on the ottoman. "Not possible. It was the best fudge I've ever had."
I snort. "You've probably only had, like, three kinds of fudge in your life."
He grins. "And yours is the best. Case closed."
He's laying it on thick, and I'm too tired to tell if it's genuine or just the Benadryl talking. I decide to play it safe and stick to caretaker mode. I probably won't say anything that will make things awkward after the holidays that way. Probably.
I point at the hallway. "Go to bed. I'll check on you every hour."
He pouts, which is both childish and weirdly sexy on a man his size. "You're leaving me alone already?"
I blink. "Uh, yes? You need sleep, not entertainment."
He shakes his head. "That's where you're wrong. I definitely need entertainment." He pats the couch next to him. "Just until I fall asleep. It's medical best practices."
I hesitate, which is the first sign that I've completely lost the plot. Actually, that's not true. The first sign was agreeing to stay in the first place. I should be halfway back to my apartment by now, preparing to eat ice cream straight from the carton and doom-scroll social media until my eyes bleed.
Instead, I sit at the farthest edge of the couch.
He stretches toward me like a lazy bear, head tilted back, eyes half-closed. For a second, he looks so peaceful that I almost believe the whole day was just a bad dream.But then his eyes flick open, and he pins me with that intense, green-eyed stare.
"Why did you become a physical therapist?" he asks, his voice low and curious.
I blink. "What?"
"You could've done anything," he says, waving a hand. "Why sports physical therapy?"
I'm not prepared for the question, or the way he asks it—like he genuinely wants to know.
I think about the answer for a second, then shrug. "I guess because I was always the one taping up my foster brothers after their Little League disasters. Because I like helping people. Because…I don't know. It seemed like a job where I could actually fix something for someone, you know?"
He stares at me intently. "You were in foster care?"
I nod, avoiding his gaze. "From the time I was eleven until I turned eighteen."
"I didn't know that," he says softly.
