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I straighten with a moan as my muscles adjust. And then, overwhelmed by gratitude and relief, I throw my arms around the big sweaty giant. “My hero! Thank you, thankyouthankyou!”
This guy used to give the most incredible hugs. The kind where his arms wrapped all the way around you. And just when you thought it couldn’t get any better than the warmth of his body and the feel of being enveloped in that oversized hold, he’d pull you in just a little tighter.
It was the best.
But now? Ben doesn’t return the hug, instead clearing his throat as he takes a step back. His eyes go to the ceiling, the window… the floor?
Anywhere but me.
It’s only when the cool air and damp clothing combine that I look down and?—
“Ack!” My arms fly across my chest, and a shocked laugh bursts free. Because yep, there’s my nipple peeking through the pink polka-dot fabric of my PJs that, at this point, are essentially transparent.
Ben’s eyes snap to mine, twitch, and dip again.
“Fuck,” he hisses, eyes returning to the ceiling once more. There’s a dishrag at the side of the sink, and he blindly grabs it, though I’m not sure for what. To wash out his eyes maybe.
Except point two seconds later… It hits me.
With a splat.
Straight in the face.
Sputtering, I squint through one eye as he holds his hand in front of him, trying to blot out the view of my body.
“Go change, Elliot. Right this fucking minute.” His face is red. His ears are red. And he’s chanting “Don’t look” again and again… while looking.
And I’m trying to leave. I want to.
I actually make it a few steps before I glance down at the dripping wet, seven-inch-square towel in my hands and crack, because… really?
“Stop laughing,” he begs, only at this point he’s laughing too. Laughing, still holding his hand up between us while I collapse in the doorway, using my arm to block my boobs.
Lifting the rag with my free hand, I try to keep a straight face. “What is this?”
“I was trying to help,” he argues back, trying for indignant.
“It hit me in the face!” And now the moment has well and truly gotten away from me, like I’m laughing so hard there are tears.
I fling it back, aiming for his neck, but this is Ben Boerboom, one of the top defenders in the NHL, and he catches it out of the air before it even gets close.
It’s hilarious. It’s mightily hot too, not that I should notice.
The oven timer dings, and I perk up. This is my moment.
Scrambling to my feet, I grab the hot pads and give Ben my most winning smile. This is going to knock his sporty ankle-cut socks off. “I made you pretzels.”
And oh my God, the look on his face.
“Your mom’s?” At my nod, he completely forgets about my boobs. “Get ’em out, get ’em out.”
I give him a hip-check and bend down to open the oven?—
“Motherfucker.”
* * *
Ben
