Page 77 of Rookie Recovery

“You played in college, right?”

I chucked my bag into the bed, paused as he leaned against the driver’s side door. “Yeah. Boston University.”

His brows lifted. “All right, that’s pretty impressive.”

“But that’s not where”—I blew out a quiet breath, because it was time to come clean—“Bowie, I used to play pro.”

“What?“ His eyebrows disappeared into his wet hairline, his face opening up with shock. “How—why—for who—You didn’t tell me? Why did you stop?”

“For the Boston Bears,” I said, because that much I could give him. “It’s sort of a long story. I don’t want to get into it right now. I didn’t tell you because it’s a thing in the past. But … I’ll tell you all about it later. Okay?”

His forehead wrinkled with thought, and I figured he’d protest, demand the whole story. But he nodded. “Yeah, okay. But I won’t forget.”

I rolled my eyes. “I know.”

His face softened into faint amusement. “That explains some fucking things though.”

“Such as?” I shifted forward a step. The sheer gravity of his presence reeled me in, and I couldn’t help but be drawn into his orbit. Maybe that was the story of these last six weeks. Him, slowly pulling me closer because he was a star too big and bright and beautiful to look away from.

“The magic hands.” He smirked, drawing my gaze like metal to a magnet. “And feet. And stick.”

“You want to know about my magic stick?” Who was I? I’d, clearly, been spending too much time with Archie Bowman. The worst part was that I didn’t even mind.

“I’m rubbing off on you.” He shot me one of those signature filthy smirks, and I was lost. Gone. Irretrievable.

“Do not make that into a dick joke.” I bit down on the smile because it was tough to sound grumpy and serious when you were grinning like a high school kid and staring at someone’s very beautiful mouth.

“You were the one making dick jokes. And listening to me wank in a bath—”

I closed the distance between my mouth and his in a short swoop.

One moment, separate. The next, my lips pressed against his. My hands curved around his cheeks to tilt his head up, better fit his mouth to mine. A tiny groan escaped his throat as he melted into me. His body softened like butter.

The rest of the world washed away.

His fingers dug into my hips, pulling me in so all I felt and sensed was him: his lips soft against mine; the pepperminty scent of his shampoo mingling with traces of cologne and hockey gloves. My knee pressed into his thigh, pinning him against the side of the truck, so we stood chest to chest, leg to leg, mouth to mouth. My fingers traced the cut of his jaw, the curve of his cheek, danced with stray strands of golden hair.

Me and him.

Us.

A moment frozen in time that might have lasted an eternity.

Except I pulled back. Just an inch. Just enough to keep the kiss from turning into anything other than what it was supposed to be: spontaneous and sweet and tender and perfect. Soft. Beautiful. Us.

I didn’t step away. Couldn’t leave the heat and hardness of his body, never wanted to extract my hand from his cheek, to pry his fingers off my hips. Never wanted to stop touching him.

I tipped my forehead down against his. “Thanks for today.”

Another moment, frozen in perfection, like a photograph of feelings I’d hold onto forever: damp strands of his hair against my forehead, cool evening air on my cheeks, his breath on my lips and his scent in my nostrils.

I opened my eyes to study the freckles on his nose, fluttering down to mingle with the forest of dark lashes splayed over his cheeks.

Bowie’s green eyes blinked open. His breath still whispered against my mouth. “Can you thank me again? Harder?”

I laughed. Pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose. “You’ve ruined it.”

“Kiss me again, Kitty,” he whined, fingers tugging at my hip. His lips parted, chin angling up to chase my lips.

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