Page 1 of Sticking Around

1

Brady

“Who the fuck is making all that noise?”

I mute the TV, but don’t wait for a response to that question. That would be a little ludicrous, even for a jokester like me, considering I’m all alone inside this luxurious suite my buddy Noah offered up to me last month. Yeah, I couldn’t spend one more night in the same house as Theo Wagner. Sure, Theo is great on the ice, but a total asshole in real life and I’m pretty sure—unlike him—I’ve outgrown the bunnies and the parties. Not that I’d let anyone know that. Being the loudest and most outgoing is what’s expected of me, but dammit, I’m so fucking tired of it.

The noise sounds again. Are drawers slamming? I push off the sofa and walk to the window. It’s late, and Noah, his wife Brighton and their daughter Camryn are at their summer house just outside the city of Boston. No way would they be coming home this late at night. Besides, their car isn’t in the driveway. The only vehicle out there is mine, which means it’s conceivable that someone is breaking into their wing of the house, which is just across the hall from me.

I walk to my door and pull it open. Light seeps out from the door across the hall and I listen for sounds. I take a few steps and look over the handcrafted guardrail that showcases a grand entranceway downstairs. The house is old and huge, located in Sparrow Springs, and nestled in behind White Beach Resort. Creaking sounds aren’t uncommon, but this was more of a bang. The downstairs door is shut tight, and as far as I know, outside of Noah and his family, I’m the only one with a key.

I walk to the other door, put my hand on the doorknob and listen for a moment. This time, my ears are met with silence and I consider going back to my place to rewatch last season’s final game, and possibly beat myself up a little more for not stopping Pittsburgh’s winning goal. A thrilling Saturday night, I know.

I’m about to turn, but think better of it. I should probably check to make sure no one is stealing from my buddy. He didn’t hesitate to offer up the empty wing inside his house, and keeping the place protected is the least I can do in exchange for his kindness. It’s not like I can’t afford my own house. I just don’t want the commitment.

I turn the knob and push the door open, glancing around the empty living room. A lamp on the side table glows yellow. Did Noah leave that on when he left yesterday? Maybe, and maybe I didn’t notice the glow.

“Hello,” I call out, and go still. This time, I do wait for an answer. When none comes, I carefully walk farther into the room. I stop to check the den, guest bathroom, kitchen, and the latch on the door leading out to the wide wrap-around patio. Locked. A good sign. After finding half the place untouched, I relax my shoulders and shake out my fists. I head back to the living room and that’s when I notice light coming from one of the rooms down the long hall.

Shit.

I glance around and the first thing I see is a fireplace poker. I snatch it up and slowly make my way down the hall. A bang reverberates off the walls in one of the rooms. I don’t know which one. I’ve been in Noah’s place numerous times. I’ve just never ventured into their sleeping space.

Walking quietly, until I come to the lit room, I hold the poker out, ready to call out to the burglar invading my buddy’s place. But the door swings open and I come face to face—or rather, face to naked body—with none other than Melanie Clark, the bartender at the White Beach resort. She hates me.

“What the…”

She gasps, covers her body with her hands—not that she’s doing a great job of hiding all her sweet curves—and jumps back when her gaze lands on the poker.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly and hold my hand up palm out. “I thought someone was breaking in.” I shake my head. “I nearly hit you with the poker.”

Her gaze drops. “You were going to poke me with that thing?”

I shift my stance, her nakedness doing the craziest things to me. Wait, is she referring to the steel rod in my hand…or in my pants? Shit. “Sorry…there was a bang, and a poke. I mean, there wasn’t a poke. I grabbed a poker.” I run agitated hands through my hair. “Dammit, I could have poked you.”

Jesus, dude, stop saying bang and poke.

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

Yeah, okay, I get it. She hates me and I’m sure there is underlying meaning to her words.

“Do you always walk around naked?” I ask.

She backs up some more, and when she does, I spot a big fluffy towel on the hook. I jerk my hand out and she jumps back. “What are you doing?”

I tug the towel from the hook and avert my gaze as I hold it out to her. “Getting you a towel. What did you think I was doing?”

“I…” She takes the towel from me.

Saving her the trouble of explaining, I say, “I wasn’t going to touch you.”

From her reaction, clearly that would have been awful for her. But I don’t touch women who don’t want to be touched—or any woman who despises me.

A rustling sound fills the silence of the room as she covers her body. “I’m decent.”

I turn back to her and try not to let my gaze drop to the knot on the towel, or admire the way it squeezes her breasts together.

“To answer your question, no, I don’t always walk around naked. I forgot my pajamas in the bedroom, and it’s hot in here. I thought I was alone, so I was just going to cross the hall and get them.”

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