Page 46 of Her Football Star Ex

I shook my head.

Why was I even thinking about this? Thinking about how hot he is was not something I needed to do right before I was going to sleep in his bed.

Yes, he was still the most attractive man I’d ever laid eyes on. But it didn’t mean I needed to remind myself of all the reasons why.

Especially if I was going to keep my hands to myself when we were sleeping just a foot or two apart.

And I would keep my hands to myself.

Because even if it had been a year since I’d kissed or been held by a man, I was an evolved being. I was an independent who didn’t need a man to fill any carnal needs.

I wasn’t an animal.

Plus, kissing and cuddling were totally overrated anyway. The only person I needed hugs from these days was my adorable sweet four-year-old.

Yep.

I was practically invincible to temptation.

But when I allowed myself one more look at the man who had always been my Achilles’ heel, I had a feeling I’d need a little more than pure self-restraint to keep me from accidentally bumping up against him in the night.

I might just need a mountain of pillows.

Hopefully he had more pillows in his apartment than he had blankets.

“So this is my room,” Vincent said, breaking me from my nonsensical thoughts when we made it to the first door at the end of the hall. He switched the light on and gestured for me to step inside.

I furrowed my brow as I took in the room. It was practically empty.

“You only have a bed and a nightstand in here?” I turned to look up at him. “Where is the rest of your stuff?”

There were no pictures on the wall. No football gear stashed in the corner. There wasn’t even a TV or a dresser in here.

What happened to all the stuff I’d had the movers pack up for him when he was at an away-game one weekend?

He shrugged his broad shoulders, the fabric on his black T-shirt stretching tight against his muscular chest. “I keep everything else in my closet.”

Well, his closet must be jam-packed then, because now that I thought about it, the rest of his apartment was pretty bare as well. The kitchen counters were always clear. His living room only had that dumpy couch, a small chair, and a TV that hung on the wall.

And aside from a photo of him and Jaxon that I’d seen on his fridge, there were no other decorations anywhere.

“If the rest of your house is this empty, I think I need to see this closet of yours.” It had to be stacked with boxes.

He gave me an amused look but didn’t say anything. Instead, he led me into his master bathroom that was similarly tidy and mostly empty and opened a door across from the sink. He turned on the light to his small walk-in closet and my eyebrows squished even closer together when I saw it also had barely anything in it, too.

Had his truckload of things gotten lost in transit?

Because in front of me there were about five suits hanging on the rod, two tuxedos, a few dress shirts and slacks, and the dresser that was the twin to the one in my bedroom which I guessed held his T-shirts, jeans, and workout clothes.

I turned to him with a confused expression. “Are you, like, a minimalist now?”

He shrugged and leaned against the doorframe, his towering height making me feel small and petite. “I guess. At least that’s what I’m working toward.”

Which would explain why he only had one extra blanket and hardly anything else in the whole house.

“How long have you been one?” I asked, my interest piqued. Because even though he’d always been tidy and very conscious of his spending when we were married, he had definitely had more things than this.

“Not too long.” He rubbed the back of his tanned neck, drawing my eyes to his big, rugged hands that had expertly thrown a football earlier today. “I, uh, read a few books on minimalism last summer during training camp after my therapist got me hooked on personal development books.”

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