Page 43 of Hockey Wife

She shrugged. “Cheddar looks after me.”

“The badass that ran to the kitchen when I dropped him?”

“You dropped him?”

Because I saw your ass cheek playing peek-a-boo and it was more than my insured-for-millions hands could handle.

“He’s fine. Not the most reliable security, though.” He took a seat at the end of the sofa beside a pile of white index cards. The top one was titled “Hockey Rules” beneath which was written in a flowery script: No kicking the puck into the goal, followed by: stupid.

He rubbed his mouth to hide his smile. It was kind of stupid. “How were the last few days here?”

“Quiet. I cooked a little. Nothing major, just eggs and salads.” Her blush was lovely yet mystifying. Was she embarrassed about her cooking skills? “And I explored the house.”

“Took a while, I’d wager.”

She laughed. “Yep. A few days but Cheddar made a great walking companion. You have a lot of suits.”

She’d been in his room. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that; he certainly didn’t need cat hair all over his bed linen. “Worried I’m cutting into your closet space needs?”

“Just surprised you’re such a fashionista.”

The cat had returned and decided to now crawl over his lap. He kind of liked how warm it felt, like it was an extension of Georgia.

Her warm little pussy. Georgia straddling him with her soft, damp heat …

Less than thirty seconds in, and he was turning hard while a creature he was allergic to dug its claws into his thigh.

Distraction needed. He nodded at the laptop. “Is that your sister?”

“Yeah, our 21st birthday party. Just reminiscing.” She closed the laptop and smiled at him. Kind of fake, though.

“How about some breakfast?” he asked.

“Don’t you want to go to bed?”

“Bed?”

She covered her mouth. “Not with me! I’m guessing you must be tired after your trip.”

“I can stay up for a bit to eat.”

“Sounds good.” Another smile, less forced this time. “Could you grab those PJs?”

He passed over a pair of sleep shorts and headed into the kitchen to give her privacy. He was absolutely wrecked, his shoulder was killing him, and he had definitely bruised a couple of ribs in the LA game, but something about seeing Georgia crashed out on the sofa, falling asleep to memories of her dead sister, gave him pause.

He couldn’t imagine losing one of his siblings. It was bad enough losing his dad in Iraq when he was sixteen. But a twin, someone with whom you’d shared space in your mother’s womb? That had to have crushed her. No wonder she went a bit wild.

Maybe this marriage was a symptom of her grief. If that was the case, he wasn’t sure he was the right person to heal her. That kind of trauma didn’t get fixed overnight.

She came into the kitchen, the flannel pulled across her chest so he couldn’t see those pretty little nipples poking through.

He grabbed a couple of pods and mugs. “I probably should learn how you take your coffee.”

“Half a Splenda, splash of skim. You?”

“Black.”

“Of course.”

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