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I freeze.
Barely more than his fingers wrap around my wrist before sliding down until his palm catches mine.
But my entire body notices.
“Stop.”
I look at him.
Bishop is sitting on the edge of the sectional now, knees spread, my hand caught loosely in his. But I can’t meet his gaze. Because now I’m wide awake, the lights are on, and whatever this is sits between us like a freaking Zamboni.
“I’m just getting you something to eat. Or drink.”
“I already ate.”
“Oh.” I bite my lip to stop rambling.
“Team feeds us.”
“Right.” I swallow.
Obviously, I know that. I grew up around hockey players. We fed plenty of them over the years, including him.
Apparently, Bishop touching me has erased several useful sections of my brain.
His thumb moves once against the side of my hand.
“Come here.”
Two words: a hushed plea.
I should ask why. Instead, I step toward him until I’m standing between his knees.
My heart pounds.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
I’m suddenly too aware of his hand around mine. The heat coming off his body. The faint scrape of his suit pants against my bare legs when I step closer.
“Good to be home,” he says quietly.
My chest squeezes.
“I’m glad you’re home too.” The words come out barely above a whisper.
Bishop’s fingers tighten around mine. Then he releases my hand and reaches for me.
His arms slide around my waist. There isn’t anything sexual about it. It’s a hug. I’ve hugged Bishop hundreds of times. But none of those hugs happened with me standing between his knees in tiny pajama shorts at one in the morning.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders. His cheek presses lightly against my stomach, and I feel his slow breath through the thin cotton of my shirt.
Warmth spreads through me. His arms tighten once. Just once. My eyes close.
He feels solid beneath my hands. Warm. Familiar in a way he shouldn’t.
For a few seconds, neither of us says anything. Then he pulls back, and I allow myself to look at him. His face tips toward the light. And I see it.
“Oh, my God.”
