Page 13 of Playing the Field
“A week, maybe two. Depends on whether I come home between meetings. But if I can set one more in the middle, I’ll stay on the road.”
Kyler has thrown me my first curveball. Well, second, if you count Hunter living here and walking around shirtless—a minor daily distraction I try to avoid. I get up early for work, and he trains late and comes back after I’m safely ensconced inmy room with a book.
We don’t really impact each other, and that’s fine with me because he still makes me nervous. Part of it is his sheer strength and size, and the other part is my lady parts staging an all-out coup. Talking them down is a little nightly ritual I’ve added in alongside teeth-whitening strips and an avocado moisturizing mask.
Kyler sprinkles granola on his yogurt parfait, which is topped with organic strawberries and spirulina powder. How he and I are from the same gene pool, I’ll never know.
I dig my box of frosted cornflakes out of the cabinet and shake it into a red ceramic bowl. Kyler raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. When I add whole milk, he opens his mouth and closes it again. Clearly, he values his life.
Filling a coffee cup for me and pushing it across the countertop, Kyler thumbs through messages on his phone for more information and shakes his head. “Not sure yet, but I’ll be in Spain at least a week. It’ll be good for you. You’ll have the place to yourself.”
“Not exactly.”
I squint at his incorrect information, and he waves a hand. “You mean Hunter? He’ll be at the training facility night and day. You’ll never see him. I promise he won’t cramp your style.”
“Ha. You say that as though I have style to cramp. We haven’t spent much time together lately, little brother, but an exciting night for me consists of a takeout cheeseburger and a national parks documentary on TV.”
Kyler bites his cheek, and I know he’s trying hard not to comment on my so-called life.
“It’s fine, you can say it.” I sigh. “It’s not like I don’t know I’m a homebody.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not that. It’s just…” He grimaces and waves a hand. “Never mind.”
“No way. Now you have to tell me.”
From the crease in his brow and his downturned mouth, he looks like he’s suffering, or like that green smoothie he made really tastes as bad as it looks. “You’re a catch, Gracie. You should act like it, is all.”
He kisses me on the cheek and hefts his backpack luggage over his shoulder. I’m still stunned at the unexpected compliment from my normally stoic brother. It’s why I don’t have time to make fun of all the pockets and gadgets on his bag before he goes out the door. But I make a mental note to do it later.
Who needs so many eyeglass cases, carabiners, tool kits, and bandannas?
For a few minutes, I sip my coffee quietly in the kitchen that I’ll have to myself in the mornings for the next week. I need to leave for the Devils offices soon, but for now, I like the peace and quiet.
“Morning.” The deep baritone of Hunter’s voice shatters the silence like a wrecking ball.
And…there go the lady parts. My core aches, and my nipples stand at attention like Navy SEALs.
At least now I’m dressed for work and somewhat buried under a cardigan sweater. I’ve eaten a few spoonsful of my sugary cereal, so I can dart out of the house without having to make too much small talk.
“Good morning,” I mumble. Taking a sip of coffee, I swivel on the barstool and immediately spray the mouthful onto Hunter. In my defense, he’s standing there in a pair of low-slung navy sweatpants, and that’s it. Dammit.
He’s a walking anatomy lesson, his abs rippling and his chest looking like it was carved from marble.
Mortified, I leap from the barstool and grab a kitchen towel, but my attempt to mop up the spray only emphasizes how incredibly hard and sculpted those abs are. My mouth fills with saliva, and I swallow hard. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting…you.”
Hunter shoves a hand through his hair, which makes it stand up before flopping over his forehead. He looks younger than his twenty-eight years, and I suddenly feel much older than thirty-three. He lets out a deep sigh.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Just heard from my contractor. Even if everything goes smoothly with the insurance company, it’s going to be at least a year before I’ll have a house to move into.”
He looks so lost that I want to wrap him up in a blanket, tuck him into a corner of the couch, and make him hot chocolate.
Instead, I rush over to the coffee pot. Coffee fixes everything. Pouring the hot liquid into a yellow mug from some surf brand, I hand it to him wordlessly and go to the fridge for the coveted oat milk.
“Thanks,” he says, holding the cup in one hand and the carton of milk in the other, looking confused about what to do with them. I take the milk out of his hand and pour a splash into the cup. Darting around the kitchen, I return the milk to the refrigerator and mistakenly open three wrong drawers before I find a spoon.
Still standing frozen, he takes the spoon and drops it into his cup. As he absently stirs, the muscles of his tattooed forearms flex.
