Page 7 of Playing the Field
“Thanks for letting me crash, man.” He hugs my brother with a clap on the back.
“Of course.” If he thinks I’m acting strangely, he doesn’t say. “You remember my sister, obviously.”
I suck in a sharp breath at the sheer size of him—over six feet and muscled from shoulders to calves. He’s even more beautiful than I remember. I swear I can see the contours of his pecs and abs right through the fabric of his long-sleeved Devils jacket. His track pants do no better at covering what looks like an anatomy textbook of muscle below the waist.
And…my eyes linger there until I hear a low chuckle. I tear my gaze away from Hunter’s physique to glance down at my enormous but also threadbare sleep shirt. It billows around my waist and hides whatever curves have managed to develop since my teen years. Over that, I have on a stretched-out gray cardigan with Minnie Mouse on the back and a pair of black shorts. My feet are stuffed into bunny slippers, complete with actual ears.
Because this is my brother’s house.
Because I’m not expecting strangers to walk in. I can only hope that he’s less angry and aggressive than he is on the soccer pitch. Otherwise, I’ll be spending a lot of time hiding in my room.
My head feels like a pool table with thoughts rebounding and knocking other ones out.Butter the toast. Yell at my brother. Stare at the muscles. Act aloof and unaffected by said muscles.
Fortunately, common sense finds its way through the conflicting bat signals in my brain. “Hunter, I’m sorry to hear about your house.” I force my gaze past his muscles and all the way to his face, where I stare at his unblinking eyes.
After a while, he waves a hand, and I realize I have no idea how long I’ve been eyeing him like a psychopath. I blink several times and smile nervously.
You’d think that all of this ineptitude around athletes means I have no business working for a professional sports team. But the issue isn’t people. Or men. It’s this man.
Twelve YearsEarlier
The kitchen is my safe space. Or at least it was. Then I left for college, and Kyler took over the house, which is why he’s hunkered over a sandwich at the table with Hunter Reyes, his muscly sidekick who barely acknowledges my presence. All the better since I’m nestled in gray sweats, hair in a pony, glasses on my nose so I can read a blueberry coffee cake recipe from one of my mom’s cookbooks.
He may not notice me, but I’m very aware of him. I feel like a lecherous older woman, ogling a teenager when I’m twenty-one. I don’t realize how long I’ve been holding a mixing spoon and staring at Hunter’s strong shoulders and biceps until he picks his head up, grayeyes pinning me in place. His lips twist into a smirk, and I realize he knows I’ve been looking this whole time.
“What’cha baking?” he asks.
“Um, cake.”
“I like cake.” He grins like I’ve asked him to have sex.
“Blueberry. It’s a blueberry cake. The eggs are too cold, which will make the batter stiff.”
“Stiff?”
My cheeks heat, but I can’t stop my scientific blather. “Yes. Cold eggs are more viscous. They don’t mix as well with fats, and that makes the cake dense and potentially lumpy. I need it light and fluffy, and I can’t heat the eggs, and I don’t have time to let them warm on their own. It’s…a quandary.”
“I’ll bet.” Hunter’s nod makes me feel even more like a dork.
Kyler looks up from his plate and rolls his eyes, accustomed to how my brain works. But Hunter can’t seem to wipe the grin off his face, which somehow makes me insecure and turned on at the same time. I dash from the kitchen and abandon the cake.
Nope,nothing has changed.
He gestures to a large piece of luggage and a black gym bag emblazoned with the Devils logo. “Where should I dump this stuff?”
Kyler trots over and grabs the two bags. “I’ll put ’em in the guest room. Well, the other guest room, since Gracie is set up in my spare bedroom. You okay with the fold-out couch in the den?”
Hunter puts his hands together, gratefully. “Are you kidding? I appreciate the assist.” He gestures to the heavier bag. “Didn’t even unpack from a game on the road and I’ve had enough of hotels, so you’re really doing me a solid.”
“Stop. You’re like family.” Kyler’s voice trails off as he goes down the hall toward the den.
Hunter rakes a lock of hair away with his long fingers, reminding me of how I ogled his hands at the airport a month ago. I shiver with mortification.
“So that was you at the airport.” His voice is low and gruff but teasing. His eyes dance, and the corner of his mouth pulls back, revealing that damn dimple.
I look in the direction where Kyler went, but he’s not on his way back yet. “Sorry I didn’t say something when I figured it out.”
“Figured what out?” Kyler pipes in, suddenly back.
