Page 85 of That's Too Pucking Bad

“You okay?” she asks, her voice soft.

I press a kiss to her palm, nodding. “Yeah. Just... have a little insomnia. I’m fine.”

She nods, her eyes already drifting shut. “Just sleep,” I tell her, but she’s out before I even finish the sentence.

I stay like that for a while, holding her, listening to the sound of her breathing. My mind’s racing, though, all over the place.

Hockey.

Cars.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about cars, but I am. Engines, tools, the smell of oil and rubber.

An auto shop.

I’ve never let myself dream about shit like that. Hockey’s always been my life—it’s what I’m supposed to do, what my dad expects me to do.

I glance down at Remy, her body curled against mine, her breath warm against my skin.

For the first time in a long time, I let myself imagine it. A garage full of tools, the sound of engines roaring to life, my name on the sign out front.

It’s stupid. But lying here with her, it doesn’t feel so far away.

I wake up to her pressed against me, her hair tickling my face. It smells like vanilla and that shampoo she uses that always drives me insane. The sun’s creeping through the blinds, lighting up her skin. She’s warm, soft, perfect.

“Good morning, baby,” I murmur, brushing my lips over her shoulder.

She stirs, her body arching a little before she rolls over to face me, her eyes still heavy with sleep. “Morning,” she whispers, her voice low and rough.

I kiss her. I can’t help it. She’s too fucking tempting, lying here like this, looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world she wants.

It doesn’t take long before we’re tangled up, her legs around my waist, her nails scraping down my back. Her soft gasps turn into moans, and I swear I could lose my mind just listening to her.

After, she’s lying on her stomach again, her face buried in the pillow, trying to catch her breath.

“We should get up,” I say, my voice still rough.

She groans. “Do we have to?”

“Yes. I’m starving, and you’re not gonna like what I have in the fridge.”

That gets her to move. She sits up, dragging the sheet with her, her hair a mess. “Let me guess,” she says, smirking. “A bottle of ketchup and a six-pack of beer?”

I laugh, sitting up too. “Hey, I’ve got eggs. And maybe some bread.”

“Wow. A feast.”

“I’ll do the cooking,” I warn her, getting up and pulling on a pair of sweats. “You’ll end up judging me for everything in my kitchen.”

She follows me to the kitchen, wearing my hoodie, which is way too big on her. It makes her look small, which does something to me.

When she opens the fridge, she freezes. “Oh my god, Zane.”

“What?”

“This is tragic.”

“It’s not that bad,” I argue, pulling out the eggs.

---