Page 12 of Sleepless Nights and Hockey Fights

“Oh.” I pause. It was probably a faux pas to bring up his age, but it’s too late now. “Um, twenty-five?” I guess. “And a backsplash is the tile behind the kitchen sink.”

“Noted.” He shoots me a glare, but it’s playful. “And I’ll have you know I’m twenty-eight, almost twenty-nine,” he boasts in a manner that reminds me of every young kid I know who can’t wait to get another year older. I don’t point that out. Bobby may be a little older than I thought, but he’s still way too young for me to consider developing a silly crush on. After all, I’m forty, the age where a lot of people start counting backward instead of being eager to jump ahead like a kid.

Still, I can’t keep myself from commenting, “Practically ancient,” in a light tone.

We drive the rest of the short journey to the Mediterranean-style home in Hyde Park. It sits in a trendy neighborhood with newer construction and tight lots. When Bobby filled out a questionnaire the day after I became his agent, it was clear he didn’t know enough about home styles to narrow in on what hewanted. So, we’re checking out a variety of neighborhoods and architecture styles to see what feels right.

“This one has three bedrooms, three and a half baths, and an impressive outdoor entertainment space,” I remind him as we mount the front steps and I punch the code into the key box to retrieve the key.

He watches, not commenting until I’ve turned the key in the lock and opened the door. “Clever. I was wondering how we were going to get in if nobody was home.” This boy is easily impressed.

Our footsteps on the tile floor echo off the walls in the entry as we begin our tour. Bobby looks to me for permission before opening the coat closet to investigate. “Feel free to open any doors or cabinets you like,” I tell him. “Storage is important.”

He shrugs and shuts the door again. “I don’t really have all that much stuff, to be honest.”

“You’d be surprised how quickly you start accumulating things when you own a home,” I warn. He told me he’s been renting in a high-rise right near the hockey facility. “Pretty soon you’ll have a lawnmower, three ladders, and a carpet cleaner with twelve attachments. And if you’re planning on starting a family anytime soon, you’ll need room for a whole lot more. Babies have more accessories and belongings than supermodels.”

He chuckles and raises his palms in defense. “Slow down, Molly. My brain is still stuck on backsplashes. I don’t have the capacity to consider marriage and tiny humans too.”

“Noted,” I repeat his earlier response and grin back at him before gesturing for him to precede me to the kitchen. But he stops abruptly, causing me to crash into his back. I throw my hands out to steady myself, encountering hard muscle hiding behind his crazy shirt. Hard and incredibly warm. He turns, grabbing my elbow to help keep me standing while hismovement causes my outstretched hands to glide from his muscled back to his tight abs. My eyes widen and I quickly step back on a heel to create some distance.

Heat crawls up my neck as Bobby drops my elbow and his eyes drop to my chest where I can feel my nipples have hardened into tight peaks under my blouse. Great! Nothing says professional like pit stainsandblinking headlights.

He quickly averts his gaze, aiming it at the phone he’s pulled from his pocket. “Sorry. I just...that talk of babies made me think of my teammate, Benny, and his girlfriend. They just had a cute little rugrat.” He extends the phone, the screen pointed my way showing the most precious newborn baby with a tiny Florida Storm Chasers jersey draped over its chest. “The jersey was from me. Figured the kid better start representing as soon as possible.” Bobby turns the screen to look down at it again, and I glance up to see his enamored expression. My gasping ovaries high five each other.Not now, bitches!

“Adorable,” I murmur, not sure if I’m talking about the baby or the hunky hockey player. Then, I sidestep Bobby as I will away my blush, determined to press on with the tour. Yes, he’s handsome. And kind of sweet. And charming, of course, with those ridiculous dimples. And he’salmostthirty, right? I consult the printed listing once again and firm my spine. “The kitchen features a Wolf induction stovetop and a—” but I’m cut off by Bobby’s sharp gasp behind me.

I spin on my heel to see his attention is no longer on the phone or on the kitchen ahead but has instead wandered to a room off the entry. “Sick!” he exclaims before bounding out of sight. “An air hockey tableanda pinball machine!” His head appears once more around the corner, his entire expression infused with youthful delight. “You think they come with the house?!”

My ovaries slowly lower their hands back to their sides in defeat.

Chapter Seven

Bobby

Who knew shopping for a house could be so much fun? It helps that I have the hottest realtor in all of Tampa and following her around house after house is no hardship. When I drop Molly off at the realtor’s office and she safely goes inside, I do start to wonder if a pencil skirt fetish is a thing. Like, is there a support group? Or maybe just a Reddit thread where we can discuss why a simple business skirt can lead a man to lose his goddamn mind? Kaitlyn’s voice floats through my brain, reprimanding me for being an asshole for having dirty thoughts about my realtor.

“I could really use a beer right now,” I say out loud as I zoom down the road toward my high-rise. My truck responds in a custom aftermarket Aussie accent, asking if I need directions. Wolverine really is the greatest vehicle ever made. I’ll fight you if you disagree.

“Fuck.” Now it’s Coach’s voice in my brain, the tone sarcastic and lacking even a hint of respect as he tells me to clean up my act. “No thanks, Wolverine.”

I look out the passenger window as I pass The Irish Rogue, the bar Richie works at, and make longing, kissy faces at it. My hands grip the wheel, wanting to turn in and have a quick beer before I head home, but my gaze snags on something on the floor. The light turns red and I stop, reaching down to grab a small glass bottle. I hold it up to see what it is, but the scent of berries, jasmine, and what can only be sandalwood hits my nose. Fuck. This is Molly’s perfume. Even if she hadn’t been sitting in my car earlier, I would have known this was hers from the scent alone.

When the light turns green, I cross a few lanes when it’s safe and flip a U-turn, heading back to the realtor’s office. I could wait and hand it back to her next time I see her, but why can’t the next time be right fucking now? Seeing Molly is pretty much the only thing better than stopping for a beer and since I can’t do that, Molly it is.

The realtor’s office is dark now, which I should have anticipated. I blow out a disappointed breath and start to turn the wheel in yet another U-turn, thinking Molly has already left for home. But then I see her standing next to the most hideous car ever made, a yellow Kia Soul. The hood is up, and Molly has her hands on her hips like the power of her frown alone will fix all the many things wrong with that car. I pull into the parking lot and slide out before I have a plan in mind.

“Everything okay?” I ask stupidly.

Molly’s head whips up and her ponytail goes flying. One hand grabs her chest, and I hold my hands up in peace. Her hand leaves her chest to rub her forehead when she sees it’s me. I walk over to her side to assess the engine that looks almost as bad as the outside of this thing.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Molly answers, voice sounding stressed. “It won’t turn over, and the normal trick isn’t working. I was about to call my neighbor for a jump.”

I puff out my chest. I grew up with four brothers and a dad who tackled any and all problems, even if we should have called a professional. I feel compelled to fix this if for no other reason than male pride. “I have jumper cables in the truck. Let’s see if we can get you on your way.”

Molly looks over at me with so much relief and hope in those gorgeous hazel eyes, I feel a little like Superman when he arrives on the scene in his superhero outfit. Except without the chafing. Those skintight briefs always looked a little uncomfortable. I much prefer my hundred percent organic bamboo funderpants. I give Molly a confident smile and turn for my truck. It takes a bit of maneuvering, but I find the portable jump starter the dealership gave me when I bought the truck. I wrap the cables around my fist and look for a power button on the main unit.

“So, I haven’t actually used this thing before,” I admit as I turn the damn thing around for a third time and still don’t see a power button.

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