Page 35 of The Overtime Kiss

Maybe she does too because she says, a little breathless, “You did, Tyler.”

She doesn’t say,What ashame, but I hear it anyway, humming in the air between us. It drives me a little wild. Maybe the wall she built after her wedding wasn’t about me or attraction, but about her. About timing. Because right now? The sparks from that night are back, crackling through my body. And they’re not one-sided—I canfeelthat.

It’s heady, this awareness. Knowing she wasn’t just throwing herself at me because she’d had too much to drink. Every unspoken word, every jolt of electricity between us, is tempting enough to make me want to close the distance, pull her into my arms, and ask for a do-over. Asoberdo-over.

But what’s the point? These sparks can’t start a fire. They need to be doused.

We can’t give in to whatever this is. Not when she’s working for me. Not when she’s taking care of my kids.

I shove the thoughts aside and return to the conversation. “You’re right though. I was never a Boy Scout.”

“Too busy with hockey?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

“The ice called to you,” she says.

“And you,” I add. Then, before I get lost in talking about all the things we have in common—we’re both athletes and we’re also the same type of athlete—I try to recenter myself to the moment.

To my job.

As her boss.

As her landlord.

And really, to my biggest job—being the father to the two best kids in the world. And that means no flirting with their new nanny. I clear my throat. “I’m glad you’re not in that micro-studio place anymore, and I’m glad this job worked out.” For the first time, I’m really starting to mean it. “Let me show you your bedroom.”

“Can’t wait,” she says. “It’s definitely going to be better than the futon on the floor.”

“It is,” I say, pleased I can provide her with a place to call home for a while.

I guide her to the bedroom, showing her the queen-size bed with a homemade quilt my mom bought at a fundraiser for the local dog rescue. The quilt is covered in dogs and cats.

“There are fresh sheets on the bed,” I begin.

“I brought some, but wow. Thank you. It’s always good to have extra and I’m sure yours are fabulous,” she says, sounding genuinely touched, and her appreciation just makes me want to do more for her, make sure she has everything.

“You’re welcome.”

“And there has never been a more perfect quilt," Sabrina says, running her hands over it, sighing happily, and sitting down on the bed.

And then she flops onto her back, and I fucking die.

That’s it. I just…die at the sight of this beauty on my bed. At the way her tank top rides up a little bit more, exposing more of her belly—a strip of soft, pale flesh.

It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. This woman, so strong and so fucking vulnerable, stretched out on this bed in my house. I fight like hell not to think about the fact that while I’ll be two floors up in my room later tonight, she’ll be down here in this bed after dark. Does she wear sleep shorts? A T-shirt and nothing else? A tank top and white lace panties? Fuck my brain for wandering in those directions.

But if it keeps going, that bet the guys made will be over before it started.

“So, that’s the bedroom,” I say gruffly, walking away because I can’t linger on her in there. The more I see her on the bed, the more I want to peel off those leggings and show her what the opposite of a St. Bernard is.

I scrub a hand down my face as I stalk back to the living room, trying to erase the filthy images, stat. I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking of cold water. Freezing cold water. Bone-chilling showers.

Perfect.

She joins me seconds later, and I move right back into landlord mode, looking around the mostly empty living room.

“Will this place work?” I ask. That’s businesslike, right?

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