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“Coming!” I call out, my steps quick toward the door.
I peek through the peephole and I’m left breathless. What’s he doing here?
I put a hand up to my mess of hair, piled haphazardly on my head. I’ve got my glasses on, which make me look owlish and nerdy. But worst of all, I’m wearing a pair of ratty cotton shorts that are way too short for company and a tank top with a built-in bra that only mostly keeps everything locked and loaded. In short, I look like shit that slept on the ground outside overnight and then lucked into a roof over its head for the day.
And I smell like Pine-Sol.
I blink, wondering again what he’s doing here. But I open the door anyway. “Bruce?”
I see the genuine surprise on his face, his brows jumping up and crinkling his forehead. But then his eyes sweep lower over me and something more animalistic takes over his expression. “Al?”
My skin tingles and there’s a tiny piece of me that preens under his heated perusal. Maybe I’m at least a hot mess?
“What are you doing here?” I say, knowing I sound ridiculously breathless for the situation.
He holds his hands up, each one clasping a gallon jug of pink liquid. “Watermelon water delivery. This is the address Shay gave me?” He answers his own question, leaning back to look at the metal numbers affixed over the mailbox beside the door.
“Oh, uh . . . yeah. Debra said she was going to order me some fancy juice she had at brunch the other day. I guess that’s you?”
Of course, it’s him, Allyson. He’s literally standing on the front porch with the juice Debra raved about. But I can’t help it that my brain cells are misfiring when he’s at my house, looking good enough to eat in worn boots, dirty jeans slung low on his hips, and a black T-shirt with the sleeves and most of the sides cut off like redneck air conditioning. I can see the sides of his torso, ridges and bumps that are new and tempt me to explore with my hands and my tongue.
Dear God, are you trying to torture me? Haven’t I earned some good favor by now?
Apparently not, because Bruce looks at me questioningly. “Where do you want it?”
It takes me a full three seconds to realize he’s talking about the watermelon water and not the other liquids my body is craving. His sweat on my skin, his hot mouth on mine, his thick cum filling me.
No. Get ahold of yourself, girl. No.
I remind myself to think about Cooper, my son, and how much football means to him. Fucking his coach would ruin all that. Not to mention, Bruce and me together is a supremely bad idea of epic proportions. Even though we still have chemistry between us—that kiss at Hank’s sure as shit proved that true—there’s been too much time and way too much has changed.
“Right in here.” I finally answer his question with something resembling a brain. I hold the door open and he steps into the living room. It’s always seemed like a perfectly respectably sized house, especially for just Cooper and me, but with Bruce in here, it feels absurdly tiny. Vaguely, I wonder if he stretched out his arms if he could touch wall to wall.
Deep inside, there’s a seed of niggling worry, but I’m easily able to hush it. Bruce would never hurt me, at least not physically. With the barest tease through my psyche, I realize that despite his overwhelming size, I actually feel safe with Bruce. I take that seriously, listening to my instincts.
I give him my back, a respectful sign he likely doesn’t even recognize the importance of, and lead him to the kitchen. “Here, let’s put them in here so they stay cold.”
I can see the condensation coming off the bottles, and Bruce tugs at the bandana knotted to his belt loop to wipe them down before setting them on the table. “One for them, one for me,” he explains, dropping the damp bandana to his side before pulling one out of his back pocket like a magician. He lifts his cap and swipes the fabric across his forehead before setting his hat back down and shoving the bandana in his pocket again.
I open the fridge, setting one jug inside, and then realize the proper thing to do here. “Would you like a glass? I haven’t had it before, but I hear great things about it.” I’m already pulling two glasses from the cabinet.
“Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.” His voice is flat, cautious like I might spook at the slightest provocation, which is understandable, I guess, after I ran out on him.
We drink, and I’m surprised at how good it tastes, even after Debra’s rousing endorsement. Bright, light, and refreshing. “Wow! So you make this?”
