Page 84 of Hot Puck
“What are you doing?”
“Touching you.”
“I...” She swallows, the pulse at her throat fluttering like crazy, and I’m pleased to see I’m not the only one unsure of what’s happening.
“Is it okay?” I spread my hand, trail all my fingers across her torso from hipbone to hipbone. “Me touching you?”
“It’s fi—” She sucks in a breath when I place my whole hand over her bellybutton, slide up until my fingertips hit the bottom of the sports bra she’s got on.
I smile. I like that I make her speechless. And I’m not referring to the no talking we’ve been doing for the last month. “You’re so soft.”
Her belly quivers beneath my hand and my smile grows wider.
“You know, I’ve imagined you like this, so many times I’ve lost count, and yet nothing I thought was right, or did you justice.”
“Chase.” There’s a plea in her voice, a tremor of something I can’t place, and when my eyes land on hers again, I know whatever this is has to stop.
Something happened and had her coming home dirty and disheveled, left her shaken and unsure, in need of a breather and a bottle of wine and there is no way—no matter how much I want to fuck her—I will take advantage of her vulnerable state.
Pulling my hand away, I roll off the bed and stand beside her. I study her a few seconds more before I cup her face with one hand and brush my thumb over the wetness still on her chin.
“When you’re ready to tell me what happened to bring you home in this state I’ll be in the kitchen. We’ve got a few hours before the twins are home and Candace is still at the arena daycare. I’ll stay out of your way, let you work your way through whatever you need to on your own. But if you want to talk, want someone to listen, I’m your man and I’ll be waiting.”
I don’t stay in her room. I do exactly what I told her I would. I go to the kitchen and, to keep myself busy while I wait to see what she’ll do, pull out the ingredients for dinner and hope she’ll come find me.
Hope she’ll let me in.
Nat
Something changed between me and Chase the day I came home after changing a flat tire. I’d been on my way from a meeting with the construction company contracted to build the mall when it deflated. Obviously, I’d picked up something at the worksite.
It wasn’t the first time I had to change a tire. Eli made sure I mastered that skill years ago. But for some reason the tire represented everything in my life that was out of my control.
Or more specifically, my relationship with Chase.
The nuts on the wheel weren’t the only things that gave and by the time I’d switched the flat for the spare I did something I so rarely do that I can count the times on one hand.
I retreated.
I went straight home thinking I’d have the house to myself only to find the man causing most of my anxiety right inside the door.
I’m pretty sure we haven’t let our animosity—if that’s even what it is—affect us outside the house. And the girls haven’t picked up on the tension between us inside the house, so I have to assume the only people caught in the spiraling tension are me and Chase.
And since we called a kind of truce, things have shifted again. We are back to how it was before all the drama with Cami happened. Back to being two people who share a house and the parenting duties of three young girls.
It helps that we both aired our troubles, mine being I hate that we were at odds. And unsurprisingly, his being the same.
Once we worked out that we were on the same side of this marriage of convenience, things smoothed out and our interactions got better. Life got better.
They’re so good I’m currently waiting in the bigger of the two living rooms in our house, the lights of the Christmas tree flashing rainbows all over the room, wondering if I’m going to have to go upstairs and start waking people up.
I haven’t been quiet either. I made sure to bang around in the kitchen when I made pancakes—now keeping warm in the oven—cutting up fresh fruit to go with them, and making myself three cups of coffee.
That was almost an hour ago. It’s just shy of nine and I can’t stand waiting any longer.
Shoving out of my seat, I put my empty coffee mug on the side table and head toward the stairs. Fingers around the railing, I take the steps two at a time, making sure to stomp my feet as much as possible.
I’m grinning when I get to the top. And not because my burst of energy—probably the three cups of coffee—makes me feel good.
