Page 45 of Stick Work

“Something like that. But to be honest, lumberjacks have nothing on hockey players.”

I resist the urge to ask if she means all hockey players or one in particular, but I bite it back and instead ask, “What are you wearing?”

A soft chuckle that really holds no humor rumbles through the phone but when she says, “And there it is…”

There what is? What the hell is she talking about?

13

Taylor

“Taylor?” he asks.

“Well…” I glance down at myself. I’m in yoga pants and a sweater, nothing remotely sexy, but he can’t see that as long as I keep the phone on my face. “Well I’m in a sexy, lace bra and matching panties.”

His brow furrows, and for a second I’m not sure what’s going on…but then he speaks. “Why are you dressed like that when there’s a storm outside and you said you couldn’t get warm? Grab a pair of my sweats and a hoodie before you freeze to death.”

My heart stutters, and I can’t stop the lump rising in my throat. Is he serious? His first thought isn’t about the sexting. It’s about me being warm and comfortable.

“Oh, I was just kidding,” I blurt out, feeling both foolish and... something I can’t quite identify. Cherished, maybe? Treasured? I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s pulling at every soft part of me. “I’m actually in yoga pants and a thin sweater. But maybe your clothes would be warmer.”

“Definitely. Go to my dresser. Top drawer for sweats. Second for a hoodie.”

His tone leaves no room for argument, and I can’t help the tiny smile tugging at my lips as I head to his dresser. I pull out a pair of drawstring sweats and an oversized hoodie, holding them up to the camera.

“How about these?”

“Perfect. Put them on. Now,” he commands.

Wait, I get what this is. He wants to watch me strip. “I’m on it.”

“Good, put the phone down and get changed,” he orders, softer this time.

“Yes, boss,” I tease, secretly loving the way he takes charge. Although I’m not so sure it’s a secret at all. I set the phone down and quickly slip into his clothes. They smell like him, warm and familiar.

When I pick the phone back up, he’s still scowling. “Show me.” I laugh and hold the phone out. “Good. Now get in my bed and pull the blankets up to your neck.”

The lump in my throat is back, but this time it’s pure emotion. My heart squeezes tight, and for a moment, I can’t speak. Who does this? Who worries about someone like this? It’s so sweet, so simple, yet it means…so much to me.

I slide under the covers, his cozy blankets settling around me. I glance at the other side and an emptiness fills me. “Done,” I whisper, my heart swelling at the little ways this man takes care of me.

He sinks down into his pillow, putting one arm over his head, and as the phone shifts I get a glimpse of his shirtless body. “Did you eat?” His voice is laced with concern. “I know the kitchen isn’t exactly well-stocked yet.”

I reach over and grab his credit card from the nightstand, holding it up with a mischievous smile. “See this magical plastic thing? Turns out if you give the number to a restaurant, food miraculously shows up at your door. Isn’t that wild?”

The corners of his mouth twitch upward. “Always the comedian.”

“For the record, yes, I ate. Thanks for asking, Grandpa.” I might be teasing, but my belly warms with his concern. “Did you eat?”

“Yeah, grabbed a steak with the guys.” A comfortable moment of silence together and then, “Tell me about your day.” His voice is low, maybe even a bit sleepy, and it brings on my yawn.

“Well, I went to classes, and then I met up with Sahara for lunch, and we walked by…ah, we walked down Boylston Street.”

“You walked by what?” he asks, ever the astute man that he is.

“Oh.” I laugh it off, even though there’s a tightness inside me. “It’s nothing.”

“T, come on,” he murmurs, his voice so warm and coaxing it tugs at the honesty in me, and I can’t help but give in. While I’m not going to tell him my impractical dream, I can give him something.

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