Page 78 of Beautiful Thing

I glance up at the sky box and see Nicky sagging in relief, too, when she sees that her fiancé is okay. But her face is pure white. I can’t imagine how stressful it must be dating a hockey player. Meanwhile Darius is speaking frantically on his phone as he pushes his way through the crowd toward the exit of the executive box.

I have no idea who that injured player is, but all the Brighton brothers are talking in rushed words.

“That’s Raines,” I hear Nolan say above the noise. “Easton Raines.”

I look on in horror, watching the injured player quickly being wheeled out on a gurney. I feel awful for the guy, but I’m still so relieved it’s not Archer’s brother laying there.

Gosh, it looks so bad. I lean over to distract Sky, so he won’t watch the emergency medical crew doing their thing or the god-awful replays on the big screens.

Archer’s palm strokes comfortingly up and down my spine, and I realize thatmaybehe doesn’t absolutely hate me.

“Shit,” he grumbles. “Seems like the poor guy’s season might just be over.”

32

LAYLA

Archer said nothing to me on the way home. He spent the 45-minute drive gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckle force and glaring at the slushy mountain road.

When we finally got to the house, he dutifully carried my sleeping baby to his crib. Then he wordlessly left me to get Sky all tucked in for the night.

Now I’m here, in bed. Tossing and turning with the sheets tangling like cobwebs around my legs. With my thoughts tangling like cobwebs around my brain.

The memory of that kiss has got me in a chokehold.

I know I shouldn’t romanticize the fact that he and I kissed. We both know we weren’t supposed to. Archer insisted on it. Then he broke his own rule to save me from public embarrassment.

We can’t just sweep the situation under the rug.

As far as he’s concerned, a kiss signifies commitment. But commitment is something I can’t offer him at this point. So where does that leave things between us?

We’re coworkers. We’ll be together at the hardware store all day tomorrow. If we don’t address this tonight, we won’t surviveour next shift. The awkward energy between us will make things weird for everyone around us at work.

We urgently need to lay the ground rules for our fake relationship. Or,re-lay the ground rules.

That’s the reason why I swing my legs out of bed and quietly pad down the hallway to Archer’s library. As always, warm light bleeds out from under the door. But when I knock, there’s no answer.

I wait a few moments, then I knock again. I hear the faint sound of water running and I realize that Archer is in the library’s bathroom. I debate over what to do. Should I just let it go? Or should I wait until he’s done showering so we can discuss this tonight?

I decide that he has to get out of the bathroom eventually and this conversation can’t wait. That’s why I let myself into the library, grab a book off the shelf and try to make myself comfortable on the couch.

I’m blankly flipping through a Philip K. Dick book, my conflicting thoughts louder than the words on the page, when the bathroom door creaks open a sliver.

I put down the novel and hop to my feet, prepared to tackle this urgent conversation. But Archer doesn’t emerge from the bathroom. In fact, the shower is still running.

When I steal a glimpse through the crack in the door, I catch sight of peak male perfection. Archer is naked. Standing beneath the shower with rivulets of water streaming down his long, muscular, tanned limbs.

The man is gorgeous. Even with his back to me, he’s a work of art. With his tattooed back and his corded shoulders and a tight ass I want to get my hands on. My temperature spikes just watching him.

How-fucking-ever, me standing here, invading this private moment is wrong.

My first instinct is to close the door, run back to my room and give the man his privacy. But as I grip the doorknob, Archer drops his forehead against the tile and reaches for the thick shaft of lumber dangling between his strong thighs. He roughly strokes himself, making the sexiest, most guttural sounds.

Oh, what a time to be alive.

My pussy waters and my mouth goes dry. But then my whole world stops when his next pained groan rumbles through the room. “Layla. Fuck.”

My eyes pop out of their sockets as my sharp gasp sucks all the oxygen from the room. I slap a hand over my mouth to muffle the sound, but it’s too late.

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