Page 171 of Branded
Sigh.
“Christ,” I muttered, moving to grab a towel, and tossing it at him.
Smitty caught it…and wiped his face, leaving ass and junk on full display.
I reached for my shirt, tugging it up and over my head. “Christ.”
“You said that already.” Beard and hair toweled off, Smitty tossed the towel in the rolling cart before moving over to his station.
Yeah, I had.
And I’d probably say it a million more times when dealing with Smitty over the years.
Knowing there wasn’t anything else to be done about it, I just shook my head and hit the showers himself.
But when I came out, I did it with a towel around my waist.
Unfortunately, when I came out, it wasn’t to an empty room.
Nope.
Smitty was sitting right next to my cubby.
Barely holding back a groan but knowing there was nothing to be done about it, I hit the bench and started getting dressed. Underwear, socks, pants, shirt. I’d come in a suit, but I couldn’t stand collared shirts post game. The pants were fine because they were tailored to me. The shirt was, too, but hell, I fucking hated how tight they always felt around my neck.
So, I waited until last to button that up.
And then I skipped my fair share of buttons so I could fucking breathe.
Smitty, meanwhile, was in sweats and a tee, his ugly ass suit on a hanger and ready to be carried home. The pattern hurt my eyes, but Smitty never seemed to run out of even uglier and more plaidy suits.
“Beth,” Smitty said.
Right.
My teammate was a dog with a bone, and I knew I had two choices—lie about my interest, or just admit to it, take the interference, and then mobilize the full force of the Breakers and all their nosy meddling.
The lie was on the tip of my tongue.
What came out instead was, “Yeah.”
And then instead of Smitty grinning and slapping me on the back, congratulations booming through the room, as I had expected, my friend and teammate’s face went serious and he said, “Fuck, man, are you sure?”
Sixteen
Beth
I was on the couch, even though I hadn’t had any more episodes of dizziness, when I heard the bolt scrape in the lock.
It wasn’t fear that slid through me at that sound.
It was…anticipation.
I’d known he was going to come, had seen it in his eyes, knew it in my gut.
Just like I knew I was going to take care of him, to try my best to keep him outside the castle gates. And worst case, to get him sorted, I would consider letting him into the first floor. Of course, I’d make doubly sure that the basement was extra, super-duper barricaded, just in case.
Because I didn’t like to think about what was down there.
