Page 60 of Three Pucking Words
Bodhi was going to kiss me.
He was going to do a lot more.
And I wasnotgoing to stop him.
It takes me a few seconds to brush off the fiery feeling in my veins and walk into the living room. Nothing has changed since last time, not that I’m surprised. It’s as spotless now as it was then, like a child doesn’t live here. Like a bachelor doesn’t. His space is homey—warm colors, pictures on walls, little decorations scattered amongst the room. It’s warm. Soft. Lived in and welcoming.
His house is ahome.
The first thing I ask when he walks into the room with two glasses of water is, “Do you hire a housekeeper or do it yourself?”
Bodhi’s eyes still seem glazed, but not with exhaustion. I don’t let myself stare for too long as he sets one of the glasses down by the chair he occupied last time, then passes me the other.
“Both. Someone comes to clean once a week, but I try keeping up with it unless the team is traveling for out-of-state games. Sometimes I bribe Gemma to help me.”
He cleans himself.
He buys his own groceries.
Hecooks.
I don’t realize my lips have curled downward until Bodhi asks, “Why are you frowning?”
Shit. My fingers tighten around the glass in my hand, and yet another unfiltered thought passes through my lips. “Because you’re sonormal.”
He blinks at the outburst. “I’m…sorry?” It sounds more like a question than anything.
I sigh. “I…” I cringe. “I was thinking about how it’s amazing to me that you clean, buy your own food, and cook. You made me banana bread that made me actuallylikebanana bread, and you’re so down to earth for someone whose net worth has seven figures in it.”
His lips curl into a soft, amused smirk that makes his lust-filled expression seem a little less overwhelming. “Is that such a bad thing?”
Hopefully he doesn’t think it’s strange that I know his net worth. It isn’t something I think about often. Or at all, really. His money situation is none of my business. But most people with money show it off. They actlike they have it. Bodhi doesn’t. He doesn’t have a Rolex, at least not one he wears, and the suits he wears for interviews and conferences are hardly Gucci. The truck he drives is at least five years old, and I’m fairly certain hisonlyvehicle.
I’ve heard the guys brag about their cars, homes, and lavish vacations enough to understand that Bodhi is very different than most of his teammates.
“No,” I admit, looking away from him. “It just makes it really hard not to like you.”
When I gather the courage to look back at him, there’s a twinkle in his eye that I can’t quite figure out. It fills my stomach with a warm and fuzzy feeling.
His voice is smooth when he asks, “Do youwantto dislike me, Honor?”
My throat bobs with a thick swallow. “It would certainly make things easier,” I tell him in bold honesty. “Liking people means they can disappoint you. And I’ve had enough disappointment for one lifetime.”
That twinkle goes away, and his face morphs into one of sympathy. I regret saying that, because I hate it when people pityme. I don’t need nor do I want it. “The last thing I want to do is disappoint you, honey.”
The genuine tone in his voice is frustrating.
Can’t he have some part of him that is a turnoff? It’s bad enough the man barely has any body fat and not an acne scar in sight, but he’s kind, funny, and considerate too?
“You were written by a woman, weren’t you?” I mutter, not meaning to voice it aloud.
He chuckles. “I don’t know what that means, but I’ll take it as a compliment.”
My sigh is long and forlorn. “You should, because it is.”
“We can be friends, you know,” he tells me, regaining my attention. “Friends are less likely to disappoint each other. There’s less pressure in expectations.”
There is less pressure, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be any disappointment. As long as my brain and heart are at war with each other over what they want, something tells me I’ll always be on guard around him.
