Page 10 of Mister Hockey
Her body jolted as if she was trying to suppress a shiver. The notion bored into his stomach, hot and hungry. Was she feeling it too, the same tightening in the chest as if robbed of air, this attraction, like a tether, pulling them together?
He glanced down, fighting to get a grip. After all, what culled the boys from the men was self-control. “I need a bucket, a flashlight, caulking and a tarp.”
She toyed with one of her earrings, absorbing his request. The wind picked up, branches from the cherry tree outside her window scratching at the glass. “My stepdad set up a utility area in the garage. A little ambitious of him when I can’t tell apart a Phillips and flathead screwdriver...” She broke off, as the water dripping from the ceiling gushed into an indoor waterfall.
She groaned, as chunks of plaster fell onto her bed. “I’m so freaking screwed.”
Her wide gaze was panicked,shit,those might even be tears. “No.” Before he could weigh the consequences of his action, he took hold of her upper arms, holding tight. “You’re going to be okay, understand?” It wasn’t until he spoke that he realized how fucking intense he sounded, like this was the finale in a war movie, and he was asking her to do battle by his side.
But she didn’t laugh. Hell, she didn’t even crack a smile as he released her, taking two steps back. Just gave a dazed nod, idly massaging the spot near her shoulder where his palm had touched.
“Back in a second,” he muttered, heading to her garage to rummage for the necessary tools. As he poked around the workbench, he caught himself whistling under his breath. Whistling “Eye of the Tiger” to be exact.
He gaped at the wood pegboard in front of him. Since walking into Breezy’s library, there’d been no sign of the unsettled question that had been nagging him with a near-constant tenacity since the playoffs, the one that twisted his gut in the middle of the night, woke him from a dead sleep, chest sheened in sweat, hands flung in front of his face as if bracing for impact.
Who would he be without hockey? If he quit the game.
For now, an afternoon, he seemed to be granted a reprieve. Instead, he could pretend to be an ordinary guy who helped a pretty woman fix her leaky roof, a nice, simple—ordinary—distraction from his greater problems.
He returned to the hallway and the pretty lady in question waited by the open closet door. He gave her a reassuring smile, ducked inside and lowered the attic ladder.
“Careful,” she called anxiously. “Don’t drown up there.”
“One question.” He climbed up a few rungs and paused, glancing back over one shoulder. “In case anything should happen.”
Her eyes widened. “Okay?”
“I’m dying to know.” He pointed at the front of her shirt and arched a brow. “What’s a 398.2?”
“Huh?” She peered down at her chest, and the phrase I Believe in 398.2. emblazoned across her chest. “Oh. Hah. A little Dewey decimal librarian humor. That’s the area where we shelve fairy tales.”
“I believe in fairy tales,” he mused. Something in her dreamy eyes kept him rooted to the spot. “So what, you’re an old-fashioned romantic, eh?”
“I guess.” She toyed with a stray lock of hair, twisting it absently. “But so far I’ve only kissed frogs. No princes.”
“Well, I’ll do my best to be your knight in shining armor,” he joked, hoisting himself into her attic. Inching along, he followed the wet rafter line to the source of the leak, one big enough to require tar.
She gripped the closet door as he remerged. “How bad is it?” Her words came out tight. “Don’t sugarcoat. Shoot straight. I can take it.”
“You need a handyman more than a knight. A temporary patch will stop the bleeding and last through the storm. Is there a hardware store in the neighborhood?”
She thought a moment. “Norman Tool Supplies is a few blocks away. But you’ve already gone above and beyond and this isn’t your problem. I can take it from here.”
Her confident tone belied her panicked expression.
He took another step closer and inhaled the scent in her shampoo. Sweet, but sexy, no cloying perfumes, just a hint of coconut. An image flashed in his mind. Her, oiled up on a Hawaiian beach with a colorful sarong slung around her hips, draping her curvy waist. The idea caused a low hum in his gut, like a key turning in an ignition. “I’ll be back in fifteen,” he muttered, turning for the door, his pace quick.
For all he overthought his game, his training regime, his whole damn life, for once he didn’t want to ponder his current behavior too hard. This afternoon was venturing beyond the scope of a simple Good Samaritan. But like the state of his head, maybe it was better not to know what the hell was going on.
Chapter Five
Breezy replaced the rapidly filling bucket on her bed with an empty one, trying not to stress over the fact that a sizeable section of her ceiling had crumbled over her pretty pale blue comforter. She headed for her laundry room to dump out the water in the utility sink. If Charles Dickens could be resurrected for the thankless task of penning Breezy’s biography, today’s chapter would no doubt begin with: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
Jed West was in her home. Repeat: Jed. West. Was. In. Her. Home.
And not just in her house, but up her attic, and that wasn’t a “wink nudge” euphemism. He’d driven to the neighborhood hardware store and returned with a plastic bag bulging with supplies that suggested, true to his word, he knew exactly what he was doing.
And while she didn’t want to get greedy with miracles, if the universe could allow him to halt the deluge soaking through the roof and save her room from becoming the newest city wetland, the gesture would be mightily appreciated.
