Page 59 of No Contest
I watched Hog's breathing slow, and I felt the tension leave his body bit by bit. His hand went slack in mine, and I knew he was nearly asleep.
"Hog?"
"Mmm?"
"You can stay. Tonight. However long you want."
His eyes opened, finding mine in the dim light. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Even if I snore? Even if I steal all the covers? Even if I wake up at five AM because my brain won't shut up?"
"Even then."
He studied my face for a long moment, looking for the catch.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Yeah. I'd like that."
I pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
"Rhett?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm probably going to wake up and think this was a dream."
"Then I'll remind you it wasn't."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Within minutes, his breathing had evened out into sleep. I lay there listening to it, feeling the solid weight of him pressed against me, one arm trapped beneath him, going numb.
I'd never been happier to lose feeling in a limb. I fell asleep with Hog's name on my lips and the certainty that everything had changed.
For the better.
Chapter eleven
Hog
I'd stolen Rhett's shirt.
Not on purpose—well, notentirelyon purpose. My clothes lay scattered around the bedroom with the sound of the shower in the distance.
I panicked. Couldn't walk around naked. Couldn't put on last night's sweaty practice gear. So I'd grabbed the soft gray henley draped over his chair.
It fit like skintight scuba gear—shoulders straining the seams, sleeves barely past my elbows. It smelled like him—cedar and sawdust.
I padded my way to the kitchen. It was smaller than mine but infinitely more organized. Mugs hung on hooks under the cabinet, each aligned like he'd measured the spacing.
Domesticity. That's what this was. Foreign but addictive. I wanted to mainline it directly into my veins.
I measured coffee grounds into a filter, my hands shaking slightly. Two scoops for me, three for both of us. Did he take it black? With cream? I had no idea. We'd had coffee together exactly once, and I'd been too busy spiraling to pay attention.
The snow outside his window drifted past in fat, lazy flakes. Thunder Bay winter—endless and brutal and somehow beautiful when you looked at it from somewhere warm.
