Page 85 of Rookie Recovery

But Dr James Sullivan, PT, DPT, was smiling.

Chapter 11

Jamie

“Why are there recliners in your grocery store?” Bowie’s British accent drifted up to me from several aisles behind. I couldn’t tell if the high note in his voice was amusement or panic.

“Are you lost?” I called back without slowing my pace. I’d breezed down the wide main aisle, alongside rows of furniture, bathroom essentials, and cleaning supplies, noticing nothing but the light change in scent—acridic to faux leather—and now sped past the last home goods row towards the grocery section at the rear. I was a bachelor, not a chef, which made me a master of the one-stop-shop.

“Where are you?” His voice was getting farther. Jesus, I was going to be one of those Walmartians who had to page their family over the intercom when he got lost. “Why are there so many aisles of unrelated shit?”

“I’m not waiting!” I increased my pace into the automotive section—scents of oil and plastic—because I was curious whether Bowman’s greatness with directions could get him through a super-Walmart. He was rather amazing at a lot of things, I’d learned, but even he might be overwhelmed by the vastness of American convenience.

“You can’t buy groceries without me!” The high note was definitely panic now. His feet pattered against the tile behind me. Oh, my God. He was running. “Here, Kitty-Kitty!”

Jesus H, he was fucking adorable. And I wanted nothing more than to sweep him up into a big, comforting hug, tell him the scary Walmart wouldn’t get him and everything would be okay. I’d found myself wanting to do that a lot lately: hug him and kiss him. Touch him, even if it was just a brush of fingers on his elbow or wrist.

Instead, I ducked out of sight down an aisle lined in bicycles and plastic helmets. Not that I was hiding exactly, but I wasn’t calling attention to myself, either.

And I made no effort to stop him as he zoomed past.

But I would not laugh. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction—I snorted, clapped my hand over my mouth, and bit my tongue hard enough to hurt. He zoomed past again, wind whipping his hair. “Kitty!”

I backed slowly down the aisle.

“Jamie!” Definite panic in his voice as he flounced past one more time. “James Sul—You ass!”

He’d spotted me! Shit! A lithe, hockey-honed body hurtled towards me, blond locks tousled from all the lead changes.

I turned. And ran. My sneakers skidded as I whirled too fast around the end of the aisle, then raced down the back wall between headlights and mousetraps. Fuck he was fast! Why was he this fast off skates? I had mile-long legs and that little shit was gaining on me.

“Kitty!” he roared, and then a hard body hip-checked me into a shelf filled with bolts of fabric.

Or, well, he attempted to. Wasn’t effective, given that I was taller and heavier and had, in fact, had a rather successful career as a professional defenseman known for board-rattling checks.

Instead, I wrapped an arm around him and dragged him against my side. “You were right! You are great with directions.”

“You’re a bad Kitty.” He jabbed me in the ribs. “You would’ve let me die in whatever this hell place is. Just like at the Trolley Museum. And in the woods.”

God, the woods. I needed to not remember the woods, not here.

“You would have been all right.” I loosened my grip a bit—

Wrong move, Sullivan.

All of a sudden, he stood in front of me. His lean, athletic body pressed against mine, and his beautiful face tilted up towards me, close enough to count the stars in the constellation of freckles over his nose. That dirty grin cocked and aimed to hit in all the places it did the most damage.

Goddamn.

All of a fucking sudden, I was remembering the woods again.

Hell, the last four days, I hadn’t stopped thinking about it. Not in the gym, putting him through every stretch and exercise I knew. Not in my office, fingers digging into hard muscle as he lay face-down on my table. Not alone in my bed at night, because I hadn’t yet had the balls to cross that final bridge with him.

I couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d folded onto his knees before me. Couldn’t stop feeling his lips trail down the line of my stomach as his fingers dragged at the waistband of my pants, couldn’t stop seeing the way he’d looked up at me as his mouth—

His grin widened, like he knew exactly where my mind had gone.

“You want to play dirty, Kitty?” he murmured, and his words brushed my ear and my cock at the same time. Fuck, now I was remembering what his mouth felt like. How good he’d looked on his knees. Just like I’d never forget the image of his hand wrapped around his own cock while he sucked mine—

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