Page 35 of A Quarterback for Christmas

“Bella?” he asks quietly. I don’t respond. I just cower under the covers, praying to all things holy that he doesn’t come over here.

There’s a few steps, but then he stops, and finally, they start to retreat down the hallway.

My body sags in relief when I know he’s gone. For now, that is. I know he’ll be back, and somehow, I’ll have to explain why I acted like such a goon while I stared at him, but there’s a small part of me that hopes he’ll completely ignore the whole situation. You know, like he did after he saw every single part of my cooch a few days ago. The minute he walked through the door from that near impending snowy death, there was no more mention of it. It was like it never happened. Yeah, that was how we could deal with it. Bynotdealing with it.

That’s how we seem to deal with a lot of things these days, and it works for us.

Sitting up, I gulp down the air I’d been depriving myself, worried that he might know I’m awake because of it. Then I blow out a long, drawn out breath, trying to center myself.

I jolt when the gym door opens again and Drew saunters into the hall with no shirt on. I should have known he wouldn’t leave it. Why, oh, why did I have to disturb him while he was working out? Now I have to look at that! His shorts ride dangerously low on his hips at that point where those thick veins reside. Somehow, he still looks like a Greek god after his workout. Meanwhile, I still look as deranged as I did when I waltzed into his gym session like a homeless man searching for a drink, and the only water I could find was dripping off Drew’s chest.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

“You okay, Bella?” he asks again; only this time, it’s much gentler because he probably realizes that treating me with kid gloves is the only way I’ll talk.

My face is heating, and I squirm in my seat because I feel like he’s about to interrogate me, and I’m somehow going to have to explain why I was ogling him.

My eyes dart from one side of the room to the other like a drug addict looking for their next fix because I can’t look at him. If I lock eyes with him, his brown eyes will melt me into submission, and I can’t have that.

This is Drew I’m talking about.

The same Drew that has driven me crazy all through high school, and now, all of a sudden, I can’t look at him without wanting to lick every well-earned ridge on his stomach. I bet the skin there is just as smooth and delicious as the skin on his chest.

Do I want Drew?

It sounds incredulous. However, the idea has been floating around my head for the past few days – okay, years - but before this little cabin fever, I’d been able to push those thoughts away. Ignore the gooey feelings that festered in my stomach and concentrate on the hate.

“Yeah. Sorry,” I wisp out as I run a hand through my hair. Big mistake. My hand is stuck in the knots, and I know I’ll look less than graceful if I try to pull it out, so I rest my elbow against the armrest, leaving my hand caught. My head follows the movement, but I keep my grin fixed as I take my time to subtly finagle my fingers out of the nest.

“Did you want breakfast?” I ask, my voice so high that I don’t recognize it.

“Breakfast?”

“Mhmm,” I pop out. “Just wanted to know if you wanted breakfast before I started fooling around in the kitchen.” What was I thinking? I wasn’t, but it’s the only excuse I can think of that sounds remotely plausible for taking my time to walk down that hall.

“I thought you hated cooking?”

He’s right about that. I can’t cook worth a damn. “I don’t. Since it’s Christmas, I thought I’d make this and dinner yourgift.” The words are coming out, but I don’t seem to have any control over them.

Drew smiles goofily, and it makes my stomach flip. “Really? You’re going to make me dinner, too?”

Why did I open my mouth? Things just keep pouring out. Things that are going to go completely against me by the end of the day.

“Yeah,” I squeak out, already wondering what the hell I’m going to do for dinner now. Macaroni and cheese? I bet they don’t have the boxed stuff, so that’s out of the question.

Slapping his chest, Drew runs his hands down his pecs, and I watch the movement with interest. So hot. Drew is so, so hot.

“I’d love breakfast, but is it okay if I take a shower first? I’m a little too sweaty to be comfortable around you.”

“He, he, he,” I heckle. It’s awkward and embarrassing but no worse than me having to cook for him in a minute. “No problem.”

With that, he stands, going down that stupid hallway like I’ve watched him do so many times. Only this time, I can see the muscles in his back contort, and I want to feel them under my hand. Oh, do I want to do things to him that I know damn well I shouldn’t?

When he’s out of sight, I throw my head back on the pillow and stare at the ceiling. Great. Now I’m going to have to cook something for a guy that I’d like to mount like a stallion, knowing that will never happen.

Chapter 10

Drew

---