Page 67 of Head Over Skates

An awkward silence descends. My chest tightens. I never imagined Owen had a childhood like that.

"I'm sorry," I say softly. "That must have been really hard on you and your mom."

Owen shrugs. "I was lucky to have hockey. It gave me something to focus on. But Cyrus… he doesn’t even remember our dad."

I have an almost irresistible urge to wrap my arms around those broad shoulders of his. Instead, I reach over and put my hand on top of his, stilling his restless fingers.

"I try to give him some semblance of a normal life. But Shannon works all the time and I'm on the road so much..." Owen trails off, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I feel like I’m just one more adult in his life failing him.”

“You’re not failing him. He's a great kid.”

His eyes light up. “He is, isn’t he? It’s all Shannon. She's had it rough, raising him on her own. I try to help out financially, but Shannon is too proud. She thinks it ties her to my father. I think she has trouble trusting people, especially men.”

“You’re a good brother, Owen. Even if you don’t get as much time with Cyrus as you’d like.”

Owen turns his palm over and laces his fingers through mine. The warmth of his hand sends a shiver up my spine as his thumb absently strokes over my knuckles.

“And what about your mom?”

“I think she was relieved to get rid of my dad, actually. She lives in Vancouver now.”

I meet his gaze, my stomach doing a little flip at the tenderness in his eyes.

It’s such a sweet moment until…

“So,” he says, wagging his brows. “About our friends with benefits deal. When exactly can I cash in on that?”

I throw him a hard stare. “You’re not sleeping in my bed tonight.”

“It was worth a shot.”

It’s getting late, and I know I should get up to grab Owen a blanket and that toothbrush. But staring into his handsome face has become my new favorite activity.

His expression grows soft, but I steel my resolve.

No pucks, no sticks…

“Emily…” His voice is deep and liquid. “I want you to know?—”

Three hard, consecutive knocks rattle the front door.

Owen checks his watch. “It’s two in the morning.”

“Emily, are you in there?” The voice is muffled on the other side of the door. “I thought I heard voices.”

“That would be Cody,” I say.

Owen springs up from the couch. “It’s show time.”

“It’s better if we just ignore him. He’ll go away.”

“Not before he wakes your neighbors. And then what? He’ll come back again tomorrow. And the next day. Guys like that don’t know how to take a hint.”

“What are you going to do?”

Owen’s already unbuttoning his jacket. He tosses it on the floor, then reaches over his shoulder to grab the back of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head one-handed. He tosses that on another spot on the floor. His whole glorious chest is out in the open right here for my eyes to feast on. He’s a mountain in my tiny living room. The defined muscles of his arms and shoulders, the gentle slope of his pecks tapering down to the thousand ridges of his abdomen. The dark trail of… oh lawdy. He’s unbuttoning his jeans and opening his fly just enough to spark the imagination. Ladies and gentlemen, Owen is a boxers guy.

My whole face is hot. I need to open a window.

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