Page 45 of Overtime
He lets go of me and takes a step back, as if I’m the one burning. His breathing grows harsh in the span of a few seconds, and he sucks air deep into his lungs to slow it down. Now that he’s not looking at me, he finds my bag on the ground and picks it up before turning away.
“C’mon, you’re going to my place.”
As I brush away gross slush from my coat, I ask, “Why?”
“Because I’m going to make sure you don’t fall asleep tonight.”
His response is so shocking that I stumble. With a yelp, I land against his back.
I feel him shift slightly, and his voice comes over his shoulder. “My, my. The little Strawberry has a dirty mind on her.”
“Ugh.” I push him away, glad he can’t see how my face is probably turning scarlet. “You’re the one who said it all weird. And I’m fine. You don’t need to bother.”
“Yes, I do. No one’s getting hurt on my watch.” He grunts at me or at his keys. Or at both.
Aran opens the building entrance and holds the door open for me. The automatic lights fire up and cast deep shadows on his face. He’s still concerned. It’s kind of cute to find out he’s capable of that feeling.
At the stairs, the tiniest moan escapes me. Climbing up four floors isn’t my idea of passing the time while on my period. But then I sense a massive wall of heat beside me. Aran waits to see if I need help. Something deep inside in my chest squeezes.
I focus on the steps one at a time. The slow, silent trek to our floor helps me clear my head. One of my many problems with guys is that the moment they’re kind to me, I develop an instant crush. It’s taken forever to understand that just because a guy is decent once, that doesn’t meanhehas feelings for me. And even though I’m still mechanically climbing stairs, I recognize this moment as the crossroad it is.
On one side, I could fall so fast for Aran that I break myself in the process. That’s my usual pattern. On the other side—the harder, seemingly less interesting one—I could recognize that this is just him being a good Samaritan. As a hockey guy, he’s probably seen terrible injuries, and if he witnessed anyone else slip and fall, he would no doubt react with the same concern.
So what if he looks like a spicy fantasy come to life? With his broad shoulders and his chiseled everything. With a face that deserves whole photoshoots. With a mouth that begs for sonnets whispered right against it. With hands that could do who knows what.
So what if he’s actuallynice? With an odd sense of humor, a die-hard loyalty to his friends, and a steadiness that gets him called ‘the Iceberg.’
Aran doesn’t have any interest in me, other than to make sure I don’t die in my sleep tonight. He’s just a good guy. The only reason he’s giving me his attention is because I keep making a mess out of everything around me.
By the time we make it to his door, I’m so winded I wish I could run away and hide. But first, I know he won’t let me. And second, I need to prove to myself that I can be around a decent guy—particularly this one—without nosediving straight into a crush. I take a bracing breath and follow him into his apartment.
“Why are you walking funny?”
I startle at his question. “Uh, I’d rather not say.”
He stops in the middle of removing his coat, and his eyebrows rise all the way.
“Oh, my gosh. It’s not like that, you perv!” I hide my face behind my hands.
“Why am I the perv? I didn’t say anything.”
“Your eyebrows implied it!”
His snort comes from behind me. I try to turn, but he steadies me by the shoulders. “Stop squirming. I want to inspect your head.”
Even though his touch is as delicate as a beefy guy can handle, it still makes me wince. He shifts my hair around and digs his fingers softly into my scalp.
“Well, you’re not bleeding.”
The murmur would make me shiver if I were a weaker woman. But I tighten every muscle in my body and hold still. “I told you it wasn’t that bad,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Lucky you.”
His heat moves away, and I can breathe again.
Tentatively, I glance over my shoulder in time to catch him unzipping his hoodie. He flings it across the living room, and it lands neatly on the enormous blue couch that swallows up most of the space. Underneath, he’s wearing only a black long-sleeved T-shirt, which is now too little in the way of clothing, in my opinion.
“Sit.” Aran motions to a barstool. “I’m going to cook and you’re going to keep your eyes peeled open the whole time.”
