Page 38 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"Let me try," he says, reaching for my fork.

I pull the salad away, playfully keeping it out of his reach. "Get your own."

"But yours looks better." He lunges for it, and I dance backward, laughing despite myself.

Somehow, we're moving around the table, me protecting my salad, him pursuing relentlessly. When he finally catches me, wrapping his arms around me from behind to steal a bite, I feel the solid warmth of his chest against my back and momentarily forget why I was running.

"You're way too touchy," I say, trying to regain my composure. "Has no one ever taught you about personal space?"

"Blame hockey," he says, still holding me. "Spend enough time checking guys into the boards, you forget how to keep your hands to yourself."

"I blame your hormones," I counter, wriggling free.

"You don't like being touched," he says, reaching for me again, more gently this time. "Is that what it is?"

I step back instinctively. "I don't know."

"You flinch."

"I do," I admit, surprised by his observation.

"Did something happen?" His voice is unexpectedly soft, and the depth of his question makes me think.

I shrug, uncomfortable with how quickly he's zeroed in on something I didn't even realize about myself until he pointed it out. "What are you, a shrink?"

"Observant." He offers a flirty smile. God damn, Sanderson––he is nothing like his brother.

"An observant puck boy, huh?" I raise an eyebrow.

He laughs, flattered. "Guess that's me." The moment quiets, settles into something more serious. "Is that why you didn't sleep with my brother?" he asks.

Heat rushes to my face. "You heard that part?"

"Hard to miss when I was hiding in the closet."

I cover my face, mortified. "God."

"Was I your first?" His question is direct but not mocking.

"You wish." I push his shoulder, and he laughs. "No, you weren't my first."

The admission hangs between us, complex and weighted. I study his face in the dim light, trying to read what he's thinking. This strange, intense man who's somehow worked his way under my skin in the span of a week. This man who is nothing like what I expected and everything I shouldn't want.

And yet here I am, standing in a dark hockey rink, sharing a salad and secrets with him, feeling more alive than I have in months.

I watch him, wondering if he actually thinks he was my first. That's a funny thing, isn't it? First times? I don't know what I would do if I lost my virginity that way. Honestly, just bury me six feet under.

But it was my first with him, my first time doing something inappropriate while not knowing the person. My first hook up. The guilt gnaws at me, disgusted and disappointed that I did what I did. It's unbelievable, really. I'm much more responsible than that. I'm the girl who color-codes her planner, who never misses a deadline, who makes pro-con lists for which laundry detergent to buy. Yet here I am, sharing a salad with my ex's brother in a dark hockey rink after letting him touch me in ways that still make my skin burn with the memory.

"You're overthinking again," he says, slurping his drink.

"Hell," I mutter. "Am I that easy to read?"

"A little." His lips quirk into that infuriating smirk that somehow makes my stomach flutter.

"You just have me all figured out, don't you?" I push my salad around with my fork, suddenly not hungry.

He shrugs, taking a longer sip.

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