“I worked the sideline last night.”
“Which doesn’t explain why you’re sleeping in the stadium.” Bowen was in a Browns, tight-fitting performance shirt—without his sling.
“Oh, that. My car wouldn’t start after the game.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, glowering down at her. “And no one was willing to give you a ride? Did you call anyone? Taxi? Lyft? Uber?”
“People were rushing out because of the snow. By the time I got out there, well... I live alone, and anyone I could call has a car even crappier than mine.”
“Instead, you slept in the locker room. Overnight. Alone. By yourself.” Bowen got louder and angrier with every sentence.
“That is what ‘alone’ means.” The sleep must have been affecting her brain, because she was finding angry Bowen unbelievably hot. There was a YouTube reel of his angry face—more added in the past four weeks—and it didn’t compare to the real deal (which she did not have saved in her favorites or had watched on repeat). “I’m fine. Everything is fine.”
“Everything is not fine.”
“I’ll see if I can get it started. If not, I’ll call someone or an Uber now.” She found her messenger bag to check her phone. It said it was around six-thirty a.m., with no bars, and the battery was low.
“You will do no such thing. The city is under a snow emergency. No one is coming to get anyone. Plowing the stadium parking lot isn’t a high priority, even if your car starts.”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“You’re coming home with me,” he announced.
Big ‘no’ on that.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not? There’s food at my apartment and blankets and a bed.”
“First of all, I’ve seen your fridge. Protein drinks and forty pounds of salmon isn’t exactly comfort food. Second, no, no, and no.” He was offering exactly what she wasn’t allowed to accept.
“You have an objection to the blankets and the bed? Do you like sleeping in the locker-room?”
“I’ve slept in worse places at MetroGen. A nap on the OR floor is a zillion times safer than your giant giant, king-sized bed.” She got up, wincing at her muscles and tendons’ complaint of whatever position she’d slept in.
His face was a storm cloud in human form, gray eyes flat. “It wasn’t a dream. You were in my bedroom.”
The blush rose over her cheeks. “I helped you get home. That’s it.”
“The shower. You were there.” He was suddenly closer to her, her body reacting to his nearness. “I had sex with you.”
“No.” She raised her hand to stop his speech by covering his mouth. Before she touched him, she pulled back. “We didn’t have sex. We didn’t even kiss.”
“You were in the shower with me. That happened.” Bowen didn’t retreat.
For a few seconds, she hated him. Their whole situationship tortured her enough. Was it necessary to re-live the closest taste of what they could not have? “I did my job. You had an injury and had meds in your system. Someone had to monitor you, keep you from re-dislocating your arm, and wash the places you couldn’t reach.”
He loomed over her, bracketing her against the edge of the wall. “Did I imagine you in my jersey? And nothing else.”
She bit her lip. He was going there. “Yes, it was necessary because I didn’t have another change of clothes. When you were done, I helped you re-dress and walked you home.”
“Were you wet?”
Rory couldn’t look at his face without giving herself away. She kept her eyes fixed on sinews of his neck, right where the black ink of his tattoos crept around his perfectly formed sternocleidomastoid. Right where she could see the speeding of his pulse.
Hers couldn’t be in better shape.
“Obviously, we were in a shower.”
