Page 97 of The Goalie in Room 1

Christmas Eve surfaced without warning.

His face in my doorway.

His eyes dropping below my waist.

The rough sound of his breathing when I walked into his room and found his hand moving over his flesh.

I shifted under him.

Cash glanced down at my lap. “Problem, Doc?”

“Yes.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“No.”

“Shame.”

He turned back to the television, but his fingers continued their slow path along my arm.

I caught his hand.

Cash looked at our joined hands and then at me. His eyes had gone darker.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” I said.

“Doing what?” The twitch at the corner of his mouth ruined the innocent act.

With my free hand, I caught his chin and turned his face toward mine. His pupils widened as I leaned closer.

“Testing me.”

“Maybe I’m checking your reflexes.”

“My reflexes are fine.”

“We’ll see.”

I loosened my grip on his chin but didn’t move away. My thumb moved over the center of his palm. Cash’s fingers curled around mine.

The crowd on the television began counting down.

Ten.

Nine.

Cash pushed himself higher against the cushions, his free hand curling around my bicep, hugging it to his chest.

Eight.

Seven.

His gaze dropped to my mouth. Every reason not to kiss him lined up inside my head. His surgery. His recovery. The fact that I was still responsible for both.

Six.

Five.