Page 17 of Same Time Next Year

I’m excited to see him, period.

I run to the kitchen barefoot and shove a pile of dishes under the sink, swiping crumbs into my hand and dusting them off into the trash can. A firm knock on the door shoots my heart rate to the moon, but I order myself not to fuss with my hair on the way to let in Sumner.

But I find myself wishing I had taken a few minutes with my hairbrush when I open the door, because yeah ... there’s no pretending he doesn’t look really,reallygood, despite the black wrist brace on his right hand. The injury might even enhance his ruggedness quite nicely?

For all the sense that makes.

His black hair is still wet from a shower, messy, his plain white T-shirt clinging to all sorts of thick muscles. He’s got that pale hockey player complexion that makes his dark eyes look wildly intense, the veins in his biceps starting a flutter beneath my belly button. The jeans he’s wearing are ancient. Worn. Tucked into untied boots.

Extremely large boots.

Don’t think too hard about that.

I have to remind myself to not think about Sumner’s, ahem, attributesa lot. But my resolve is pretty weak thanks to the memory of itsgenerositybetween my thighs in the parking lot over two months ago. Yeah, that recollection has remained firm. Just like Sumner.

“Hey—oh. Shit,” he rumbles now, bracing his forearm on the doorframe and sweeping me head to toe with a thirsty look. “Britta, you look ...” His swallow is audible. “Jesus.”

A pleasureful blush sweeps into my cheeks before I can play it cool. Which is not like meat all. Men in the bar compliment me regularly, and I feel exactly zilch. Maybe I’m just relieved to see him after two long, confusing months. He’s my friend, after all! “Thanks.”

When his eyes find mine again, they’re darker than before. He’s visibly drinking me in, ounce by ounce, and he’s doing a very poor job of hiding it. “You’re not going out on a ... date. In that little purple dress. Are you, Britta?”

“No.”

His hand is still wrapped around the doorjamb like he’s contemplating ripping it off. “Good.”

“We agreed not to,” I remind him, flashing my wedding band.

He does the same. “Oh, don’t worry, I remember.”

“Has it been ... hard for you?” Why am I not breathing? “Not to date?”

A muscle dives sideways in his cheek. “Not remotely. You?”

“No,” I admit.

“Good.” Before I can respond to the ragged relief in his voice, he’s taking a step forward, a lump traveling up and down in his throat. “Now, need to know where you’re going in that dress, please.”

“A concert. Wesley Stapleton? He’s playing at the Amphitheater tonight.” I don’t know why I put on such an excited smile. Maybe I’m trying to convince myself it’ll be fun going alone. “My friends were going to come with me, but their broods came down with the plague.”

I expect him to forbid me to go alone (or try), so I’m surprised when a groove forms between his brows, eyes softening. “You’re going to a concert by yourself?”

That heinous pressure is back behind my lids. “Yeah!” I laugh. “It’s fine.”

“Can I come with you?”

The tightness in my chest ebbs, and suddenly, I’m able to blink back the moisture threatening to spill out. “Really?”

He looks a little incredulous that I had to ask. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll drive.”

“Okay.” I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, gratitude making me feel almost light headed. “Um ... well. We don’t have to leave for a while. Come in and get your mail.”

“Right.”

I watch Sumner duck beneath the door on my way to the kitchen area where I left his mail sitting on the counter. Swimsuit issue sitting on top. After a quick peek over my shoulder to make sure he isn’t looking, I do something wrong. Something bad. Not only do I commit what I’m pretty sure is a federal offense called mail tampering, but when I use my elbow to knock the magazine into my trash can, I give myself definitive proof that I have a giant case of the warm fuzzies for Sumner.

Great. A crush on my husband is the absolutelastthing I need.

“How did you hurt your wrist?” I ask, sounding hoarse.

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