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Swinging it open, I hold out his delivery— two sets of men’s reusable rubber gloves for household cleaning. “Sylvia, I presume?”
His eyes bug, and he takes a step back like a vampire confronted by a garlic-basted crucifix. At least he has the decency to look guilty.
For a second. But only one. In the next, the shutters are down and he’s adapted this air of casual nonchalance. “Huh?”
“Admit it.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about. Those are for Sylvia. We have the supplies delivered here.”
My mouth drops open, and his brow lifts as he turns back for the living room.
Oh no, he doesn’t! “You mean, because she lives here and moonlights as a hunky hockey player?”
“Love it when you call me hunky.”
Wait, did I?
Doesn’t matter. He shakes his head. “That would be crazy.”
Arms crossed, I follow after him as he moves back to the table with the rest of the mail and starts sorting.
“I knew there was something funny about our mysterious housekeeper. The way Bowie and Piper always give her so much shit.” I gasp. “They know!”
That smirk! “You’re confused.”
“That’s how you’re playing this?”
“You don’t have anything other than the gloves of a hardworking woman.” He opens more mail. Tears open a pouch and spills out some fan mail forwarded from the league.
“Ben. They are men’s. Sized extra, extra large.”
The corner of his mouth quirks. “I mean, that does sound like me. Big. Everywhere. But no. She’s a champion weightlifter with extraordinarily strong, capable, and large hands.”
He opens the first of the fan mail and— gag —a pair of women’s panties spill out.
“Don’t touch those,” he mutters, lip curled.
I offer the gloves, but he ignores them.
Using two pieces of discarded mail, he sweeps the fan panties of unknown origins into the bin. Washes his hands. Grabs the spray bottle of disinfectant and some paper towels for the table.
“Gross. Do you get stuff like that a lot?”
Shrug.
Wow.
He moves on to the rest of the mail. “Back to Sylvia. In the off-season, she arm wrestles for money at truck stops across the US. She’s TikTok famous.”
“Ben.”
He bites his lip, and it should not be sexy. “So maybe the gloves are mine… It— it’s a kink!”
“A kink.”
Oh my God, the hopeful look in his eyes right now.
“Yeah, it’s a dirty, dirty sex thing. Blow-your-mind dirty. Dirty AF. Too bad we’ve just signed a thirty-year mortgage for a house in the friend zone. You’ll never see the epic dirtiness.”
