Page 27 of Three Hockey Hotties

She looks from me to the panties over to her suitcase and realizes I’ve been packing.

Then she shrugs. “I guess you’re right.”

She’s not going to argue. Thank God.

“You’re packing everything, though?” She now notices her empty closet.

“Well, yes.”

I’m not the most articulate, even at my best, and holding the underwear of the woman with whom I am now obsessed is definitely not a moment when my brain is at its sharpest.

“How long do you think I’m going to be gone?”

Just then, I hear the sound of something falling, then Benjamin saying, “Fucking son of a bitch.”

I’m going to guess another chunk of ceiling just hit the floor.

I look at Abby. “Forever.”

I expect her to protest. Maybe cry? I mean, her apartment is a disaster, and it is literally falling apart around her. Three men she barely knows have stormed in and are essentially forcing her to leave. Being angry or sad or just overwhelmed would all make sense.

But instead, she nods. Then laughs lightly and says, “Thank God.”

I feel my eyebrows climb toward my hairline. “You’re glad?”

She blows out a breath. “That the three of you showed up when I had absolutely no idea what to do? And you’re here helping me gather all my stuff when I have no one else? And that you're going to give me a ride to a hotel, so I don’t have to cart all of my stuff on the bus?” She nods again, her smile genuine. “Yes, Dash, I’m very glad.”

It’s probably her using my name and the way it makes my heart turn over in my chest, but it takes me a second to realize that she thinks we’re taking her to a hotel.

“Did Benjamin mention a hotel?”

Her smile is big and bright. “He’s getting a room for Mrs. Litwinski too.” Her expression softens slightly. “He’s a good guy, isn’t he?”

I nod. “Benjamin is the best.”

I turn and pull her top drawer out of the dresser, carrying it to the suitcase and dumping it over. Then I return to the dresser and pull out the second drawer.

Jackpot. Here are her comfortable hooded sweatshirts and sweatpants.

I pull two of each out and add them to the suitcase, then grab the third. They’re the softest. I hand them to her. “Put these on.”

“I’m…”

I know she’s about to tell me that she’s fine, so I decide to pull a Benjamin.

“Abby,” I say firmly. “Put them on. You need to be completely dry and warm. And comfortable,” I add. Then I realize I can’t be totally stern with her. “Please,” I add.

It’s driving me crazy that she’s dressed in the same clothes she was in before, and while they might be dry now—though I have a hard time believing they’re not still slightly damp—she needs to change into something warmer and more comfortable.

I need her to be comfortable. To feel warm and cozy. I don’t get it, but I have to make that happen.

“Or I’ll put them on for you.”

I’m not sure where the words came from, but the way her pupils dilate and the way she clutches the clothes against her chest and her pretty lips fall open, I’m glad they came out.

“Okay,” she says softly.

I pull open the final drawer in her dresser and find it empty.