Page 34 of Power Play Pursuit

Her eyes widen in horror. “What? No. I barely even slept. I came to check on you every two hours. I—you’re messing with me!” she says, giving me a pointed look. “You’re unbelievable.” She playfully pushes me, and I laugh, catching her hand. It’s soft, and it feels so right to have it back in mine. We held hands a few times yesterday, the memory still vivid, but somehow, it still feels like the first time.

“Seriously, though. Thanks for checking on me.”

She swallows hard, glancing at our joined hands. “Of course. That’s what I’m here for.”

She doesn’t know it, but no one has ever really taken care of me other than my grandma, and having Elizabeth here means the world to me.

Beth Bowen

Okay, the eight pack is totally real. How is that even possible? I avert my gaze, not wanting to stare, but I suddenly wish he played field hockey or any other field sport so I could watch his firm chest and rock-hard abs for extended periods. I knew hockey players werefit—I’ve lived with one, after all—but James’ body is a work of art. Every muscle is sculpted to perfection.

“Are you all right?” he asks, and I shake myself back into focus.

“Absolutely. What do you want for breakfast?”

“Um. I don’t know, but I’m starving. I don’t suppose you can whip us up some of your to-die-for muffins right now?” he asks, shooting me a goofy smile.

I chuckle. “Depending on what ingredients you have, I could make something, but it’s going to take a while.”

“I’ve got all day. Actually, I have several of them.” A shadow falls over his face before he smiles back at me.

“I’m sorry you can’t play,” I say, opening the fridge.

“It’s all right.” He adjusts his glasses on his nose as best as he can over the bandage. “With a nurse like you, I’ll be back on my feet in no time.”

I turn around, shaking my head. “Where do you keep your dry ingredients? Flour, sugar, et cetera. Do you have a pantry?”

He gestures behind me with his chin. “The door right there.”

I open it, and holy moly, this thing is huge. The room probably runs the entire length of the kitchen, lined with fully-stocked floor-to-ceiling shelves.

“By the way,” he calls out from the kitchen, “I was thinking maybe you could stay for a while.”

I drop the pack of flour I was holding, and the powder goes flying everywhere, blinding me. I cough, trying to wet my dusted throat.

“What’s going on?” he asks, sounding closer. I spin around to see him standing in the doorway.

“It just fell out of my hands. But I’ll clean it up. Do you have a Handvac?”

“Don’t move. I’ll go get it.”

Thank goodness for the flour whitening my whole face, because I’m probably as red as a red velvet cupcake.

He comes back with the handheld vacuum and kneels down, but I hold my hand up.

“No way. It’s my mess. I’ll clean it up.”

He cocks his head to the side. His mouth opens to protest, but I grab the Handvac.

I raise my eyebrows. “You’re a wounded man, remember?”

Chuckling, he stands up and leans against the shelf while I vacuum the floor.

“So, I don’t know if you heard what I said before you floured my pantry,” he begins when I turn off the vacuum. And even through the flour dust lingering in the air, his piercing blue eyes still have the same effect on me.

“Um, no?” I peep out, regretting it instantly.

He grins, seeing right through my lie.

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