Page 20 of Rookie Recovery

“It’s my specialty.” My hands stalled again, done, finished, reluctant to leave. But I was a professional, and leaving your hands on a patient’s skin just to wonder at its softness was not, in fact, professional behavior. I lifted them off.

They tingled at the lack of touch.

“Well, they say I have magic hands.” He gathered his arms under him, pressed up onto his elbows, and tilted his head towards me. “Want to find out what they can do off the ice?”

The cocky asshole was back. Undressing me with his eyes and grinning that cocky, self-assured grin as he lifted himself from the table.

Of course.

I turned away so I didn’t stare as he dragged his shirt back on those lean, beautiful abs. I bet he’d have made a show of it. One I desperately wanted to watch.

And really, really should not.

“In a city this size, Bowman,” I said, gathering up every ounce of my willpower to get the words out as I turned back to face him, “I’m sure you can find a more available sugar daddy. Please don’t come back unless you have an actual injury.”

“Right.” His eyes dipped down my shirt as he strode for the door. Paused, fingers on the knob. “Probably a shit-ton. But I’m not looking for a sugar daddy.”

And then he was gone. Leaving me alone and breathless and way, way too warm. Tense. Knotted up. I needed a whole lot of things, none of which I could take from him.

Even if he was about the most sexy, gorgeous, and adorable man I’d ever seen. Even if I was starting to think there might be something soft and real lurking under that cold, cocky mask.

Even if I kind of wanted to find that little bit of … real.

He was still my patient, and a hockey player.

What the hell was my problem?

It had been days since our little meeting in my office, and I was still thinking about it. The way his muscles and skin felt under my fingertips. The way his body went soft. The way his voice went soft as he let the mask slip. And then he’d looked at me like he was mentally tearing my clothes off. Or maybe we’d already moved past that in Bowie’s head-movie.

We certainly had in mine.

Fuck.

I was like a horny high schooler with a crush. Which I was not. Any of those things. Well, a little horny, since it had been a while, but I took care of myself when there wasn’t anybody else.

I was thirty-fucking-seven. High school was a long-ass time ago.

And I didn’t have a crush.

“Did … did you order fries with your sandwich?” Katie’s voice sounded like it was coming from the end of a very lengthy tunnel. Wherever she was, I, clearly, was not. Mentally, anyway.

I dragged myself out of my wayward horny thought-spiral with almost physical effort—goddamn, I was far out there. Katie leaned on her elbows across the sticky plastic table to peer at me from beneath dark brows furrowed tight.

Late-afternoon sunlight slanted down through the trees in the one-block urban park past the patio where we sat. Around our tiny red table, Leonard’s Grille bustled with the usual happy hour crowd, that unique mix of excitement, relaxation, and post-work grumpy exhaustion.

“Earth to James.” Katie snapped her fingers in front of my face. Aware that I was not present. “You with me?”

“I’m here.” I shifted, my knee brushing hers under the tiny table as I straightened up. This place wasn’t designed for guys with a six-four frame.

“You didn’t sub your fries for a salad.”

“Didn’t I?” I couldn’t remember ordering. I vaguely recalled a cheery, five-foot blonde bundle of golden-retriever-esk enthusiasm bustling over with a big grin and a notepad, but that’s about when my mind had traded the sunshine-blonde ponytail for tousled bed-head and her blue eyes for sparking green ones and …

There I went again.

“Where the hell are you, Sullivan?” Katie’s voice lost its normal trainer brusqueness. I liked her soft. But it scared me, too. Like she was reading my soul, and honestly, nobody should look that deep.

“Tired. Stressed.” I sighed, fished out a little piece of truth to pacify her. “This fucking business class is harder than I thought it’d be. And if I don’t pass it …”

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