Page 16 of Full Mountie

On the other hand, she’s gone out of her way to underline that she’s a grown up. We’re all grown ups. Hell, I’ve seen an NHL player play with her on the St. Andrew’s Cross in Max’s basement.

It’s not the same thing and you know it.

No. It’s not. But tomorrow I’ll tell her everything and we’ll see where the chips fall.

I should make him leave, I really should…but I’m tired of fighting against the decade-old unfinished business between us, so I open the door wider and gesture for him to enter.

“Have a seat and I’ll go grab us a couple of beers.”

I’m feeling way too vulnerable in front of him topless, so I detour to my bedroom to grab a t-shirt.

When I return to the living room, Hugh’s jacket and tie are lying across the back of the sofa where he’s reclining—his shirt half undone and his bare feet propped up on the ottoman.

Fuck.

“Feel free to make yourself at home.” I let the sarcasm drip from my lips as I place a bottle of beer on the coffee table in front of him.

He slides a slow appraising look over me. “You needn’t have bothered with a shirt on my account.”

Ignoring his jab, I grab a slice of pizza and the remote before dropping into the armchair—because the sofa isn’t big enough for both of us.

I turn the television on and flip to TSN before chucking the remote back on the table. Sports recaps are just the thing to help me ignore the big, sexy suit-wearing elephant in the room.

After a minute, Hugh leans forward, and instead of grabbing another slice of pizza or his beer, he snags the remote and hits the power button.

I don’t react on the outside.

On the inside, I’m sliding back ten years. To bossy commands that would yank me out of a pissed-off, post-work funk and get me hard as a rock.

“Beth came to a holiday play party organized by a friend of mine,” I finally say. I stare straight ahead at the dark television.

“Do you want to talk about Beth tonight?”

That gets my attention. I turn and give him a hard look. “Always.”

Something moves in his eyes. Regret, maybe. Understanding, definitely. “She’s gorgeous. And smart. And funny.”

“Yes.”

“And lonely.”

Fuck me. “Yeah.”

“You need to treat her better.”

“I know.”

He gets up and crosses to stand in front of me. “What are you going to do about that?”

“That’s what I was thinking about when you interrupted me.” Fucking hell. I don’t want to think about this right now. I don’t want to think about how I’ve let her down, or how I can’t handle Hugh properly, or—

“Maybe you need to stop thinking, and start doing.” From anyone else, it would sound like a line.

From Hugh, it is a line, but it works.

I roll my head back and look at him through heavy, hooded eyes as he unbuttons his shirt the rest of the way and peels it off, baring his torso.

In theory, this would be a chest I could have seen a dozen times already this year.

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