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“Mm-hmm. I get it. You were excited to watch.”
“I was. But I promise, we can watch it again later, together.”
I close the door behind me, because after running around in secret for so long, these two sometimes forget when other people are around.
They’ll come up for air in a minute or twenty and rejoin the party then. But for now they deserve to be alone.
There’s a crowd in the living room watching Greg Baxter get his ass handed to him by his wife on Xbox. FIFA, it looks like. I watch for a minute because Julia’s such a badass, but then head for the kitchen to grab a beer. Not noticing until it’s too late there’s someone else there.
Once again, my body gives that single short jolt of reaction. The unwelcome tug of awareness. A pull toward the thing it wants, even knowing better.
Quinn. “O’Brian.”
He’s got a bottle of water in his hand and glances up at me as he tosses the cap in the trash under the sink.
“Hey, Georgeous.” Leaning back against the sink, he takes a swig and gives me another one of those rated-M-for-mature smiles. “What can I get for you?”
A little peace of mind would be nice, but when he crosses his arms over the powerful expanse of his chest, flaunting his biceps without even trying, I know I’m not going to get it.
I don’t care about this guy’s body.
I care about who he is and what he did.
Only even as I think it, I hear that quiet, divisive voice in my head asking, who heisor who hewas?
It doesn’t matter. Giving him the flat expression I’ve taken to hiding behind, I move to the fridge. “Just grabbing a beer.”
He nods. “How long you been coaching with Nat?”
I check the counter for an opener. The drawer next to the fridge. “Few years.”
“That’s pretty cool. I bet the girls love you,” he says, watching me move around the kitchen in search of the opener. There's a glint of challenge in his eyes, like he knows what I’m after but won’t let on until I ask.
Forget that.
I search another drawer and double check that the cap isn’t a screw off. It’s not.
“What the heck?” I grumble.
He pushes off the counter, but as he walks past me, his big hand wraps around the beer, pulling it from my hand as he crosses to the butcher block where—sure enough—there’s an opener mounted beneath.
Thank God.
I hold out my hand, but he doesn’t give it back.
“Come on, Georgie. Tell me I’m your hero.”
“Pass.”
He takes a step closer, the deep green of his eyes roaming over my face. “Why not? I just saved your beer.”
“Because I think your ego’s big enough,” I say, reaching for the bottle, ready to be done with this. Only I’m too caught up in the smug challenge in his eyes, and when my fingers wrap around the bottle, they brush his, causing a tingly shock to run up my arm and squeeze my heart enough to cause the smallest betraying gasp.
His eyes darken and he rasps my name like a plea. “Georgie.”
I blink as time touches back on itself, to that night in Mexico. The gravel-rough sound of his voice at my ear. My fingers tangled in his hair.
He’s looking at me with those too-hungry eyes. Giving me the same pickup bullshit he’s probably doled out to every bunny since high school. In a way it’s a relief. Because superficial is straightforward. It’s simple.
