Page 75 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show
My heartbeat quickens despite myself, and I don’t think it’s because I’m being held by a beautiful man, the man who is literally the archetype of romantic perfection in this entire country, and with the countries Falcon Productions secured distribution deals for. People now are translating Luke’s words to gorgeous women into other languages, concentrating on fitting their own work into Luke’s mouth, filling their words with emotion, so hearts in France and Latin America and Japan will flutter with the same force as the hearts here.
It’s not that.
It’s that Luke knows everything.
“It’s okay, baby,” Luke says, stroking my hair, and I suddenly remember the only reason I’m alone with Luke now is because I’m supposed to be taking care of him.
“You have a concussion,” I say. “I’m supposed to take care of you.”
He grins. “Well, you did help me out of my clothes.”
“And I didn’t get you pajamas!” I scramble from his lap and fling my arms up. I hasten to his suitcase, find the luggage rack and drag his suitcase up.
He starts to rise, but I gesture for him to sit with an impatient wave of my hand. “I can do that.”
“You were carrying me!” I exclaim. “You were supposed to not physically exert yourself. It says so on the paper your team doctor gave me. I’m supposed to ask you regular questions so you make sure you know your name!”
“I know my name.” His eyes dance. “And I know your name! And your old name!”
“Now is not the time to joke about that,” I huff.
I turn and focus on unzipping his bag.
Luke sighs. “You don’t need—”
I wave my palm at him again, and he stops and smiles. I fling open the lid of his suitcase, and it hits the wall with a bang. “Oops.”
He chuckles, the sound warm. It seems to wrap around me, even though he’s ten feet away, even though the sound of laughter isn’t supposed to feel as soothing as a hug, even though sounds in general aren’t supposed to do that.
But it’s his sound.
His laugh.
And my body longs for it.
I fix my gaze on the contents of his suitcase.
“No dildo, unfortunately,” Luke says.
I frown and toss a t-shirt at him. It sails through the air, and he catches it with all his NHL grace.
“Shit. I threw something at you.”
“Cotton isn’t harmful, Sebastian.”
“But you’re injured. You’re concussed.”
“A slight concussion,” he says.
‘They didn’t put you on the team plane!”
“For precautionary measures. Altitude issues.” He shrugs nonchalantly, but my heart still beats way too fast, guilt as effective as any pedal.
I focus on his clothes.
I only see some sweatpants and t-shirts.
“Which ones are your pajamas?”
