Page 52 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
“Thanks,” she murmurs. “But why’d you smile like that?”
Stubborn thing.
“It’s just that I know what’s like to be obsessive about work.”
Her head tilts to the side, one half of her mouth curving. “Yeah, making it into the NHL, you’d have to be.”
And maybe also…I know what it’s like to be obsessive about a woman.
Though, I don’t think I’ve ever met one like Faye.
Shy and steel; thoughtful, albeit with a brick wall surrounding her heart; fragile but only because she’s been shattered and glued back together too many times to count.
And beneath all of that is…fire.
Passion. Smarts. Strength. A dash of temper.
We finish our food in easy silence and I bring the dishes to the sink, refusing her offer of help. Instead, I lift her off the counter, grab some of the bags—the ones I know contain clothes and toiletries—then hitch my head down the hall. “Let me show you your digs.”
She doesn’t protest as she trails me, and I know it’s because her energy is waning, the fatigue catching up with her.
Lucky, my guest room isn’t far.
When we get there, I peek through the bags, snag one with toiletries, another with pajamas—I skip a bra, telling myself it’s because they’re uncomfortable to sleep in, but really, it’s mostly because I like the idea of Faye without a bra—and pass them to her.
“Shower,” I command, nudging her toward the attached bathroom.
“Orders,” she says with a scowl, but she doesn’t argue, just slips into the other room, closing the door behind her. A moment later, I hear the water turn on.
Faye naked in the shower.
Christ, what I wouldn’t give to see that.
Not the time.
Shoving the image of her naked and wet from my brain, I make short work of unpacking and putting away the items everyone brought. Tees and sweats that are velvet soft, bras and underwear and socks, a couple of hoodies. And a few nicer items too—several pairs of jeans, some blouses, a few dresses and sweaters. Shoes too—everything from flip-flops to sneakers to a couple pairs of heels.
Altogether, it barely fills a quarter of the closet, one drawer in the dresser.
“This is too much,” I hear and I turn, see her in pajamas that should be cute and cozy, but instead are all sorts of tempting, her hair bundled on top of her head, her skin pink and damp and tempting.
It’s not too much.
It’s barely enough to get her started.
But I know what she means.
My teammates and their women—my family—really thought of everything.
There’s even a swimsuit.
And I hope to God I’ll get to see Faye in it, laying out by my pool, her curves gilded from the sunshine or with slick, glistening skin after taking a dip in my hot tub.
She shifts beside me and I focus.
“This is what we do,” I murmur, proud that despite the shitshow that’s been my personal life over the last couple seasons, I’ve still managed to keep the locker room healthy. Hell, half the time, it’s been the guys keeping me sane as I weathered Storm Courtney.
Something that stings my pride, I can’t lie.
