Page 45 of Home Ice

Brant's words may be the only thing that could have gotten Silver to break his staring match with the sandwich. He springs up as soon as he hears them, and now his tail is beating wildly against the side of Brant's elegant and almost unusable coffee table. "Doesn't that hurt?" I ask him. He looks at me for a second. Then at the sandwich. Then back to Brant. And his tail goes even faster. Guess not.

Brant gives one last look at my ankle as he stands. "You sure you'll be okay?"

"You're going to be fifty feet away and gone for two minutes. I think I can handle that."

"So I shouldn't ask if you need anything?"

I glare at him.

"Right. But I will when I get back, so prepare yourself for the trauma of having someone take care of you." He winks and then turns to Silver. "Who wants to go out? Hmm? Who wants to go out and pee pee and poopie poo and maybe even chase that squirrel we saw earlier if we're really lucky? Is that you? Are you the one who wants to do that?"

Silver is whimpering now. His body trembles with excitement while Brant fastens the leash to his collar. And I'm trying everything to stifle my laughter at this huge hockey player using the words pee pee and poopie poo. Just as he's at the door, and I think it's safe to maybe let my smile show, Brant turns back to me, asking silently if I'm still fine. I roll my eyes.

I watch as he takes Silver out into the yard. There's no fence, so Brant keeps him on the leash. But he has plenty of room to explore before he gets to the end of it. So he does. His nose is to the ground, and he's wondering all over. And if it's good enough for him… I mean, I wouldn't mind another cookie, and I did see where Brant keeps them.

It's strange standing up on only one leg. I have to force myself to hold my right foot several inches off the ground so I'm not tempted to use it. Once I'm up, I peek outside to make sure Brant isn't heading back in. It makes me feel like I'm a little girl sneaking into the kitchen for a cookie—okay, so I guess I am sneaking into the kitchen for a cookie while he's distracted, but damn it, I can taste the browned butter in these and it is phenomenal.

Brant's still watching Silver, so I lower my right foot to the floor, stopping just as my toes touch. I take a deep breath and go a little more. So far so good. Maybe it's already healed, and I can take off this wrap and go home. I shift even more weight to it, and "yee-oww!" I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming. So much for being magically healed. But I am still making it to the kitchen.

I hop from one end of the sofa to the other. Then to the bar stools at the kitchen island. Then to the other side of the island, where I curse myself for not insisting Brant let me keep my crutches beside the couch. Finally, I turn toward the kitchen and the thing I want most in the world right now. It's in the second cabinet to the right of the refrigerator. My eyes lock onto the target, and I'm off like a race car with four flat tires. My eyes light up as I make the final hop and open the door.

But when a "what the hell do you think you're doing?" booms from behind me, both my hand and my heart freeze. Maybe I should have been a little less excited and a little more attentive to the sound of the door opening.

When I turn around, Brant is right there. So very right there. "Asserting my independence?"

"Disobeying doctor's orders." He steps closer, and he doesn't look pleased.

I hop back to the counter and squeeze myself tight against it, and now I'm having flashbacks. But I could stand on both feet that night. Able to get away if I needed to. "You disobeyed them too. She told you to make sure I stayed off this ankle, so this is mostly your fault."

He shakes his head and moves even closer. "My fault?"

"And you shouldn't have given me cookies that taste like making out with the Greek god of baked goods. They were too tempting. Is that salted caramel swirled into them?"

"Have you made out with a lot of gods?" I know he's teasing me because he moves so close that we touch. So close that my throat suddenly stops working. So close that I can feel—oh. So close his dick presses against me. His very hard, very erect dick. Still teasing. That's all this is.

I try to hop back further, but there's nowhere to go. I can't even slip to the side because his hands are on the counter, pinning me in place with those forearms that are a threat to women everywhere and really should be banned by the Utah state legislature. "Brant, you don't want to do this."

"Don't I?"

"I should probably sit down. I'm supposed to stay off my ankle, remember?"

His arms tense for an instant. Then he drops them to his side, and I exhale. He's finally realized that he's sending the wrong signals. Luckily, I know better or I could have thought that he really meant?—

"Brant! What are you doing?"

Before I get a chance to hobble away, both of us laughing about how funny this all was, he slips his hands behind my thighs and lifts me onto the counter. "There. Now you're sitting." He presses into me, and my brain is so scrambled I think I can smell the heat he's putting off. If he doesn't stop this, I'll be tasting colors soon, and that's a slippery slope neither of us wants.

"What are you doing?"

"Just following doctor's orders." He dips his head, and even though I know better, I think he's going to kiss me. But he doesn't. He stays motionless for a moment. Then I feel his breath against the side of my neck, just below my ear. It's warm, but it sends shivers through me. When he moves again, his breath traces across my cheek until his mouth is just an inch away from my cheekbone. He pauses long enough for me to think I'm imagining all this. I have to be. But then he starts moving again. Lower. "Do you know what hell the last few weeks have been? Seeing you, but knowing I couldn't touch? Knowing you didn't want me to do this?" He spreads my legs and moves between them, and I'm fairly sure I could be legally declared dead because nothing inside me is working. "Then sitting so close to you on my sofa?"

"It's surprisingly comfortable." My words are barely a breath. "I always thought rich people's furniture was just for show, but that's actually very cozy." Why the hell am I talking about furniture right now? "The back cushions are very, uh, cushiony." Girl, shut up!

"So close, and all I wanted to do was this." We both look down as he traces a finger above my inner thigh. Like his lips, it's not touching me, but I still feel it. "And this." He tilts his head like he's going to kiss me, but he doesn't move any closer. "But you don't want any of it, and I respect that. I really do. I'll continue to respect it. But Lily, it has been fucking torture for me."

He's wanted this? Him? Brant Just Friends Morrison? And with me? I'm sure I'm mishearing him. Imagining it. What exactly is in store-brand ibuprofen? I need more information. I need to find out what he means. But instead of making words, my mouth decides to kiss him. Full open mouth kissing.

I ask him if he's sure about this, but it just comes out as a muffled moan because forming words is really hard when your tongue is in someone else's mouth. When he answers with his own groan, though, I know he understands exactly what I'm asking, and I let my body lean against his. He slips his hand under my hair tie and grips the back of my head, holding me in place. Like I would go anywhere other than here.

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