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How stupid was I, falling into his arms and staying there?
What the hell was I thinking?
It just felt so nice, being held like that. Being looked after the way Rhett looks after all the people he cares about.
It felt nice, indulging my simmering need for a split second. I won’t allow myself to have this man, but it seems I have no control over whether or not I want him.
Today showed me I want him. Badly.
Hence the shaking hands. I don’t know who I think I’m kidding by calling it exhaustion, whatever this feeling is. It has nothing to do with being tired.
It has everything to do with the man who’s currently upstairs, reading his son a book before he puts him to bed.
My eyes squeeze shut as I drop the plate I’m rinsing. I rest my hands on the lip of the sink and take a deep breath, a futile attempt to calm the tingly rush inside my skin. It intensifies as I relive the feeling over and over again of Rhett’s naked torso pressed against mine, his body warm and solid, his hands certain as they moved over my skin.
He’d looked at me, and I’d looked back, and my heart exploded not because I realized we were about to kiss—don’t get me wrong, that was great too—but because the whole thing felt right.
At that moment, it felt right and uncomplicated and real in a way things with Jim never did.
But the reality is, wanting Rhett is very complicated and not at all right. And who even knows if it’s real? There was no mistaking the hard-edged lust in his eyes. I’m not questioning that.
I’m questioning his intentions. Because if there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, it’s that we’re different people who want different things. He still wants big fancy titles and a big fancy life. I don’t.
But then watching him with Liam—watching him choose to come play with us rather than keep working out—has been a bit of an eye-opener.
We’re only on day three, so that could obviously change. He might lose interest and go back to his single-guy hedonism. This . . . it’s not real yet. We’re also not in Vegas, where football will once again dominate his life.
But he’s stepping up and being a great dad. Is that part of his winning-is-what-matters mentality, I wonder? Or is it just confirmation that Rhett Beauregard is the excellent person I knew he’d always be?
Ugh, I don’t know what to think anymore, and the seed of doubt planted is suddenly sprouting desire so potent I’m having the hardest time fighting it.
Lord, I really need to quit before I do something stupid and seal my fate as a horny outcast in the educational community of Asheville forever.
“You all right?”
Startling, I glance over my shoulder to see Rhett standing behind me, his brow furrowed. He’s barefoot, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt that’s somehow as deliciously revealing as him being naked would be: biceps that bulge out of the sleeves, pecs for days, shoulders that strain against the fabric.
I imagine putting my hands on him there. I imagine the feel of the fabric, broken-in, soft. The subtle shift of the muscles underneath as Rhett moves to take me in his arms. I imagine I loop mine around his neck, I play with his hair as I pull him down for a kiss.
The blue in his eyes deepens as though he knows exactly what I’m imagining because he’s imagining it too.
Yep, definitely need to quit. Tomorrow, when I’m not on the verge of an emotional breakdown.
Of sexual combustion.
“Long day.” I turn back to the sink and shut off the water, putting the plate in the dishwasher. “I’m gonna head out.”
Grabbing a towel, I use it to dry my hands before reaching for my keys on the counter.
“Wait,” Rhett says, extending his arm just short of touching me. “Can we talk for a minute?”
My heart takes off at a sprint. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry. About this afternoon. I . . . um, touched you in a way I shouldn’t have, and I feel like an ass. I know how much your work means to you, A, and I respect you as a professional. It won’t happen again.”
But what if I want it to?
“Thanks for that,” I manage, balling my fingers into a fist around my keys. “To be fair, I got a little carried away too, so you’re not the only one at fault here.”
My words—my confession—hang between us. My face burns.
“You’re really good at this,” Rhett says at last. “With kids, I mean. You know how to make it fun.”
“You don’t? You literally play a game for a living.”
He shrugs. “Meh. The more I’m with Liam, the more I’m starting to think football stopped being fun a long time ago.”
Now it’s his confession that hangs between us. I really should go, but I’m too curious not to ask, “So you don’t think playing football is fun anymore?”
