Page 29 of With A Little Luck
The same pang hits my heart that happens every time I think of him. I can’t even fathom how angry he would be with me if we ran into each other five or ten years down the line.
“Here.” Hart holds out a hand, nodding for me to get into my car. “Let me help so you don’t slip.”
Shaking my head, I get myself together and slide past him. When I don’t take his hand, he links his arm through mine and helps support my weight as I get into the driver’s seat.
“Thank you,” I whisper, dropping my purse onto the passenger seat. Turning back to the front, I shove the key in the ignition but jolt.
Hartley leans across me, buckling my seat belt. “We can’t forget that. Got to keep you and the nugget safe.”
“Thanks,” I say, sounding like a broken record. Apparently the only words I know at the moment are words of gratitude. If I start talking about anything else, I might ask him what is happening.
Hart teases his hand over my stomach. Not only am I in my uniform top, but I’ve also got my huge wool coat on over it, and I still swear I can feel the warmth of his skin. It’s probably all inmy head, but seeing him squat next to my car door while running a hand over my stomach is a lot.
It’s freezing in Vermont in January, and while he put on his coat, he didn’t bother with a scarf or gloves.
He’s got to be cold.
I never thought I could tough out a winter here, but I’ve managed okay. Luckily they salt the roads regularly, and my grandmother’s house has a solid furnace.
“You should go back in,” I finally force myself to say. “You’ve got to be freezing.”
“Well, I’m not warm.” Hart laughs. “If you don’t have plans tonight, I was thinking I might stop by. Normally I wouldn’t be off for a few hours, but with Harrison back in the office, I doubt he needs me.” He shrugs, gives my stomach a final pat, and stands. “I can run by the grocery store and grab food. I know you’ve been craving marinara sauce, and I think I can tackle spaghetti…” His lips tip up, and the faintest tease of dimples pop in his cheeks under his beard. “If you’re up for it? I promise to do the dishes so you’re not stuck with them.”
My heart thumps erratically as he rocks on his heels, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.
Maybe he’s just really lonely.
Except he grew up around here.
I’ve seen multiple people stop in who must have known him in high school or when he was even younger. Now that I think about it, I’m sure a former pro-football player is not hard up for company—or female attention.
“Come on, don’t leave me hanging.” He chuckles. “I swear I can cook spaghetti and make it edible. Also, I’m freezing my balls off, so if you’re going to let me down, just do it gently?—”
“Okay,” I say, smiling. “I’d love to have dinner with you.”
The smile that takes over Hartley’s face takes my damn breath away. Before I know what’s happening, he leans into the car and kisses my temple.
“Perfect,” he purrs close to my ear. “Get home safely.”
My life is weird lately.
Dinner is surprisingly comfortable. For being famous on some level, Hartley is great company, but I’ve always known that. He also knows how to cook a mean spaghetti with two types of sauce, which I think might be the sweetest thing a man has ever done for me. He makes one marinara and another meat sauce.
Both are delicious.
Although I kinda regret stuffing myself full of garlic bread when my stomach starts hurting. Not to mention, the risk of having horrendous breath.
I excuse myself to the bathroom, making sure to gargle with mouthwash since my toothbrush isn’t down here. I’m not sure it helps, but heading upstairs to brush my teeth seems weird.
Making it back into the kitchen, I stop dead in my tracks.
Hartley is shirtless at the sink, doing the dishes.
Holy back muscles covered in tattoos…
And those sexy little indents just above his ass. Those only show because his jeans rest so low on his slender hips.
Hartley is built a little like an upside-down triangle—all strong, broad shoulders and a slim waist. His dark jeans cling to his ass in a way that makes my knees weak.
