Same Time Next Year

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

There’s no way she can’t hear the rapid slamming of my heart, so I don’t bother trying to pull back or hide it. I can’t hide from her, period.

Something about her nearness and warmth, her belief in me, brings a confession pouring out of me without warning. “Britta, I should have gone pro when she was still around to see it. That was my goal, but the damn injuries kept setting me back. Now . . . I’m worried my parents are never going to see it either. All of the time they spent in the stands will be for nothing.”

She winds her arms around my waist, and it takes every hint of willpower in my body not to smother her. To let the moment happen without ruining it or doing too much. “You will go pro, Sum. But for what it’s worth, I’m sure . . . no, I know they’re already proud. And so was your grandmother. Not only because you’re talented, but because you’re a good person.” She looks up at me, eyes twinkling. “This is going to be hard for you to hear, but not everything is about hockey.”

“That’s blasphemy, Britta.”

“Uh-oh.” She chews her bottom lip. “Am I in trouble with the hockey gods?”

I know I shouldn’t—and I blame three days without beating off for muddling my brain—but I let my hands settle on her hips. I rub them in my palms and grip them hard, ready to get my hands on her ass if she gives me the slightest encouragement. Come on. Let me slide my hands into those panties and play with something tight. “Do you want to be in trouble with the hockey gods?” I press my mouth against her ear. “You’ve got one right here, sweetheart.”

“Sumner.” It’s a playful admonishment that turns serious when she pushes away from me, working to catch her breath. “Sum.”

The fact that she’s scolding me while her face is flushed makes me even hotter.

My hands curl into fists at my sides. I should go home. This girl wrecks me. I don’t know how to act right around her, because it feels like she should be in my arms. But she’s not—and she doesn’t want to be.

“Are you attracted to me?” I ask her point-blank. Knowing could kill me but not knowing is already causing a slow, painful death, so what is the difference?

Briefly, she closes her eyes and opens them, answering, “Yes, I’m attracted to you.” When I lunge for her, she holds up a hand. “W-wait. Just wait.” I’m almost shaking, it’s so hard to keep my distance, but I stand stationary, vibrations racing up and down my spine. “Can you . . . can we . . . ?”

“Keep going.”

“Can we sleep together without you wanting more?” she blurts, taking her time looking at me, as if she’s afraid of the answer. “Be honest with me.”

A churn starts in the pit of my stomach. I could say yes and have her.

Maybe even tonight. She’d lead me into her bedroom, and I’d finally get my taste of her pussy. She would work up a sweat riding my cock all night.

I’d stuff her so full and so hard, she’d have to scream into a pillow. But I vowed never to lie to Britta again—and I don’t break vows. Especially not to this girl. She’s my wife. “No. I’ll want more.”

I’ll want everything.

And that’s the hundred percent truth.

It’s more than a little absurd that having feelings for my wife is a negative thing, but here we are. Her lips press into a flat line in the wake of my confession, and she nods. “Thank you for telling me the truth. You could have lied.” She covers her face with her hands and laughs a little hysterically. “The fact that you didn’t only makes me like you more.”

My chest is in shreds.

“Are we still able to go to the concert as friends?” she asks, beautiful eyes hopeful.

“If that’s our only option, then yeah,” I say hoarsely. “Because there’s no way I’m letting you go alone. And I . . . want to go. I want to watch you enjoy yourself.”

“As a friend.”

“As . . . a friend.”

We stare at each other for several seconds. “I’ll just get my purse, and we can go.”

While waiting for her, I sort through my mail. Since most of it is junk, I tear it in half and cross the kitchen to throw the torn envelopes and advertisements into the trash can.

Sitting right there, on the top of the garbage, is the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.

It’s got my address on it.

Did she throw it away?

She must have. Britta threw out my swimsuit edition. And listen, it’s not like I wait by the mailbox for the damn thing to arrive once a year. I actually do subscribe for the stories. The special edition comes as part of the package. But Britta didn’t want me looking at it.

Interesting.

If she were merely attracted to me, she wouldn’t go to these lengths to keep me from looking at other women, even if they’re just photographs.

Right?

Maybe there’s more. Maybe she has feelings for me, and she’s just not ready to admit them yet. Fortunately, we’re married for three more months . . . which gives her plenty of time to figure those emotions out, work through them, while I wait patiently.

The longer I stare down into the garbage can, the wider my smile grows.

And it has nothing to do with bikinis.





Chapter Six

BRITTA

Iprobably shouldn’t drink tonight.

That’s what I’m thinking as my temporary husband escorts me through the lobby of the venue with his huge hand on the small of my back, his heat making me feel protected. Or maybe it’s the fact that his upper lip curls when someone gets too close to me. The way he guards me like the crown jewels shouldn’t be such a turn-on, but Lord, it is.

Everything about him is a turn-on, frankly, from his fall breeze scent to his complete honesty earlier.

No. I’ll want more.

My dumb heart ticks fast at the memory of him rasping those words.

If I drink alcohol tonight, mistakes will be made. That truth might as well be written on a stone tablet and brought forth by Moses from the mountaintop. I will not get through the night without begging for a horizontal workout from this thunder god of hockey who loves his grandma. And then I will hurt his feelings afterward when I tell him I’m still not interested in anything resembling a relationship.

Although, if I’m being completely honest with myself . . . that resolve is beginning to wane.

Just the tiniest pinch.

When we reach our seats and he rests his arm along the back of mine, I don’t feel alone. And that’s not merely because I’m with another person.

I’ve felt extremely lonely while on dates in the past. Sometimes I even feel lonely in the packed bar where I’m conversing with several people at once.

It’s a very singular, unfamiliar thing to sit beside another person and know they’ve got my back. I’ll never again underestimate what it’s like to be understood by someone. That’s what it’s like in the nook of Sumner’s arm.

Warm understanding.