Page 104 of Over the Line

No. In fact, I have not.

My fingers start moving on the keyboard.

“You’re looking them up right now, aren’t you?” she asks, chortling.

“Damn right, I am.” I click and the picture pops up and—

I shiver.

Because I’ve seen that broody look directed my way. I’ve seen those six-pack abs and those strong thighs up close and personal.

But I haven’t seen them all oiled up, glistening, and—

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.

“I hope you’ve licked every inch of him,” Ella says dreamily.

I haven’t yet. But I’mgoingto, just as homage to this photograph.

And maybe I was going to two-day ship in some body oil, just for good measure.

“I’ll definitely stick around long enough to do at least that,” I say, so focused on the pictures that it takes me a moment to realize Ella isn’t snarking back. “What?” I ask.

“You’re leaving again?”

Her question is taut, unhappy.

“Ells,” I begin. “I don’t have a job. I’m single because my boyfriend—who, yes, I’ve come to realize is a major asshole—cheated on me with my sister. I’m not talking to either of them. My parents are…wherever. My grandmother is dead.” I lean back against the headboard and sigh. “So, really, what’s holding me here?”

“Me,” she snaps. “You’re my best friend. I should actually be able to see you.”

“Honey, I always visit, you know that. But this is a good thing. Steve and I can go explore, and—”

“Hide because you don’t want to actually live your life.”

I still, but her words keep coming.

“Be too proud to actually accept some help from a person who’s willing to freely give it,” she all but yells. “That person is me, by the way. Or Knox. Or, I think, given what you’ve told me, Lake.”

That’s so close to what he said before he left for the rink this morning that I freeze, fingers clenching into fists. “Ells,” I warn.

“And I’mhere. I want to see you and talk to you regularly. When you disappear for months at a time, that doesn’t happen.”

Guilt curls through me. “Ella—”

“And you said Lake told you that you can stay as long as you want.”

I shake my head. “That’s just him being nice.”

“The grumpy hockey player being nice,” she says dryly.

I hate that she makes a point, hate the way that sends the butterflies in my belly soaring.

“Honey,” I say gently. “Please don’t be mad.”

Silence that’s so tense, I hold my breath.

But then she blows out a breath, and I do too. “I’ll always be here for you, you know that right?”

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