“No,” I said, the smile slipping out. “It wasn’t.”
“I’m usually better with words,” he assured me.
“Are you?” I asked playfully, unable to help myself.
He looked back at me. “No. But I thought saying that might help.”
A laugh slipped out of me, and some of the pressure in the room eased. Because his face was still flushed, his breathing still uneven, and he was still looking at me like he remembered exactly what my body looked like under running water.
“I know it was an accident,” I said.
His expression sobered. “It was. I didn’t know you were in there. I apologized.”
“I know.”
He nodded once, too fast, like he wanted to leave it there, neat and safe and handled. But it wasn’t handled. At least not for me.
“And I also know,” I continued carefully, “that neither of us moved at first.”
His jaw tightened. There it was. Not shame or regret. He knew it like I knew it. Something had sparked between us. His eyes held mine, and the air between us changed so sharply I felt it beneath my skin.
“Yeah, uh… we didn’t,” he admitted.
My pulse jumped at his admission. I should’ve stopped there. I really should have. But the memory had been sitting between us for a week, and pretending it had been only embarrassing felt like a lie neither of us believed.
“I wasn’t horrified,” I said. I was pushing, but he was standing in front of me sweaty and looking sexy as hell, and for some reason my hormones were raging. I wanted to say it was months without sex having an impact on me, but it wasn’t that. It was him.
Hunter’s breath left him slowly. “No,” he said again, rougher this time. “Neither was I.”
His admission landed low in my stomach. My body understood before my brain could protect me from it. Neither was I. He wasn’t horrified, but was he as turned on as I was? Hunter shifted, maybe to put space between us or maybe because standing still had become too much. His sneaker caught on the loose lace of his other shoe, and he stumbled half a step. His hand shot toward the weight rack, and the terrifyingly controlled professional athlete in front of me turned into a flustered man nearly taken down by his own footwear.
“Shit,” he muttered, catching himself.
I blinked. He stared down at his shoes like they had personally betrayed him. “Very smooth.”
The laugh burst out of me before I could stop it. Hunter shot me a look, but there was no real heat in it. His ears had gone red, and somehow that was worse for my self-control than the muscles and the sweat and the dark, hungry way he’d looked at me a second ago.
“I’m sorry,” I said, still laughing softly. “I’m not laughing at you.”
“You’re absolutely laughing at me.” He grinned.
“A little.” I pressed my pointer finger and thumb together.
“Good. Great.” He crouched to tie his shoe, muttering under his breath. “Thirty-three years old. Professional athlete. Almost killed by a shoelace while discussing an accidental shower incident with my coach’s daughter.”
That made me laugh harder. He glanced up from where he was crouched, his hands working the laces into an aggressive double knot. “For the record, I haven’t had a conversation like this in a very long time.”
I leaned back against the weight rack, amused despite the heat still crawling under my skin. “A conversation about accidental shower incidents?”
“A conversation with a woman who makes me forget how to stand upright,” he corrected. His candidness made my pulse trip. Although maybe he wasn’t being candid because the words slipped out before he seemed to realize he had said them.
My smile faded. Hunter stood slowly.
He gave a short, humorless laugh and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Catherine, I just tripped over my own shoe.”
“That could happen to anyone.”
“I play hockey for a living.”
