Page 62 of Caught from Behind

A blip of guilt blooms in my belly.

Because I know that I would be upset if the roles were reversed—I’d be pumping my best friend for information, not offering advice and a gentle reminder that friends share the important shit that goes on in their lives.

Girls’ night at my place tomorrow. You bring the stuff for mules and I’ll cook you my world-famous lasagna.

World famous because it comes from the freezer section and can be shoved straight into the oven, thus leaving plenty of time for us to gossip?

The guilt settles.

She’s not mad, not my sweet friend who spent a lifetime holding things close to her chest.

Damn right.

We exchange goodbyes, and I send her a plethora of bright red hearts because she’s my bestie and I love her, and I have been keeping things too close to my chest. But if Riggs can be as strong as he is and share what he had…

I think I can share some of me too.

My phone buzzes again, and I expect it to be a series of increasingly more ridiculous emojis from Nova, but instead, my heart starts galloping in my chest.

Because the message is from Riggs.

I’m fine, chérie.

I frown.

Just…I’m fine?

I wait for the “…” to appear, for him to elaborate on the fact that he was bleeding and motionless on the ice for far too fucking long before being escorted to the locker room by a trainer pressing a towel to his face, and all I get is he’s fine?

Bullshit.

I jab at my phone screen, skipping straight over a phone call and diving right into FaceTime.

We haven’t done this before.

But I know that I’m not going to rest easy, not until I see his face.

It rings that distinctive ring.

Once. Twice. And I half expect for him to let it go unanswered.

But just as I’m plotting my next move on how to ensure that the man is truly fine (even if it requires calling in my big brother), Riggs picks up.

“Oh, my glorious penis,” I murmur.

“I was about to take a shower, chérie,” he murmurs.

“This I know,” I say. “Or see.” My eyes slowly take in every inch—and there are a lot of them—that I can see of this man. I start with the hair that’s fallen over his forehead, calling for my fingertips even through the screen. Then I’m moving my gaze over his sharp cheekbones, his proud nose. There’s a cut beneath his right eye that has a butterfly bandage over it, presumably keeping it closed, that sends my pulse skittering. I don’t like seeing him hurt. But I force myself to move past it, drifting my focus to the thick beard I want to run my fingers through, his lush mouth that brings so few words but so much pleasure.

The cords in his neck stand out sharply in relief, but he stays still as I study him through my phone screen.

Broad shoulders, cut arms, big hands. Pecs that are squeezable, abs that are flat and defined and totally lickable. Thighs?—

God, his thighs.

They’re powerful.

Like him. Like the draw he has over me.

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