With Hank settled in the spare bedroom, Holly starts stuffing treats into our hands the second we make our way into the kitchen.
“I’ve already started my Christmas baking.” She shoves a bag filled with some sort of chocolate peanut butter ball-shaped version of heaven back into the freezer. “It’s only November, so that’s an issue.” She plants a kiss on our cheeks before heading down the hall. “This mama needs to head to bed before she wakes up and realizes this was all a dream, that I didn’t manage to marry off my son to a wonderful woman who’s willing to tolerate him for the rest of his life.”
Adam nudges my shoulder and grabs a fistful of his junk. “Gotta take a quick leak.” He halts, gaze sliding to Jennie. Clearing his throat, he slowly releases himself, cheeks pink. “I mean, uh…I gotta use the…the bathroom.” With a look that feels suspiciously like a warning, he leaves me and Jennie in the kitchen.
The woman promptly ignores me, turning her back on me and pouring herself a glass of water.
“Uh…” I scratch my head, searching for a way to ease this awkward tension. “So, the weather is…nice?”
She snorts into her water, pulls another glass from the cupboard, fills it, spins, and shoves it into my surprised hands.
I blink down at her. “Thanks?”
“Mhmm,” she murmurs, and I watch the way her ass swings back and forth as she starts down the hallway, one arm reaching back, trying to snag that zipper that starts just above the swell of that banging peach.
Trying, and failing.
With a heavy sigh, she pauses, head down, fingers tapping on the door frame. Turning, she finds me exactly where I shouldn’t be: standing there gawking at her.
“Can you please help me with my zipper? It’s stuck.” She twirls, giving me her backside, and I’m frozen in place.
“Uh, yeah. Totally. I’m good at zippering.” I’m good at zippering? Holy fuck, you dipshit. Shut up.
“Might have to put your water down.”
“What?” I look down at the glass I’m gripping and chuckle. Why does it sound so hoarse? How old am I? Twenty-six, or twelve? “Oh. Yeah.” I drain the glass quickly, set it down, and drag my sweaty palms down my legs.
Christ, this dress. This back. This fucking ass. It should be illegal. It’s definitely illegal for me to have my hands this close to it, I’ll tell you that much. If Carter could see me right now, I’d never play hockey again. I’d be missing at least one necessary limb.
I don’t know how to approach this. The zipper’s right there, at the top of that curve, and…should I just…go in? Yeah, I’ll just go in. I reach for the zipper, then hesitate. “Um, I’ll just…” Cocking my head to the side, I examine that dainty golden tab. “I’ll, uh—”
“For fuck’s sake, Garrett, it’s not that big a deal. I must have snagged it earlier. Just give it a good tug.”
“Right. Okay. Yeah. A good…tug.”
Taking the teensy zipper head between fingers that are way too big for this, I grip her hip in my other hand, thumb pressing into her warm skin. Her back arches slightly and my breath gets lost somewhere in my chest at the way she clears her throat, the low, raspy sound making my third leg twitch, and even more so when she steps back into me, closer, like she wants her ass to get well acquainted with my junk.
Oh God, what is she doing? No. No, no, no. She’s gonna wake him up.
Jennie gathers her hair in her fist, sweeping it in slow motion over her slender shoulder. Dusty blue eyes peer at me from beneath thick, dark lashes, and my gaze tracks her tongue as it glides over her lower lip.
Oh fuck. Yup. He’s awake.
Not now, Lieutenant Johnson. Stand down, soldier!
“Garrett.”
My head snaps, gaze locking with Adam’s piercing one. I look back at Jennie’s ass—zipper—and give it a swift tug, freeing the material, then hightail it the fuck out of the house, slamming the door behind me, body sagging with a heavy sigh as I keel over, gripping my knees.
Whew. That was a close one.
Adam shakes his head, his demand low. “Find someone else. Literally anybody else.”
Right. Yes. That’s absolutely what I need to do. Jennie’s off-limits. Plus, I barely know her. I don’t need to fuck up any friendships or my hockey season—or any precious limbs—to get laid. I’ve got plenty of options.
That’s what I’m still telling myself a half hour later when I’m waiting in the lobby of my condo, sighing as I repeatedly hammer the call button for the elevator.
“Mr. Andersen,” a sultry voice whispers from behind me. Emily, one of my neighbors, sidles up next to me. She tosses her dirty blonde hair over her shoulder, highlighting the slight shimmer that decorates her cheekbones as she smirks at me with those cherry red lips I’ve devoured here and there. “Don’t you look handsome tonight.”
The elevator opens and I sweep her inside, noting her glittery dress, mile-long legs, and black heels.
“Best friend’s wedding,” I explain. “And what about you? You’re looking fantastic tonight.”
“I always look this good and you know it.” She leans against the railing, crossing one ankle over the other, eyes coasting the length of me as I press for her floor, then my own. “Bachelorette party.”
“Everyone’s getting married, huh?”
She snorts. “Not me.”
Chuckling, I drag a hand through my hair. “Me neither.”
The elevator dings as it stops, and Emily saunters into the hallway. One hand keeps the doors from closing as she peeks over her shoulder. “Wanna come?”
I don’t miss that she leaves out the in, letting the innuendo hang heavy in the air.
Gripping the railing, I watch my shoe tap on the marbled floor. My gaze rises to the lump between my legs that’s still kinda straining against my zipper from the ass I had my hands on less than an hour ago, and I remind myself for the hundredth time that that ass is off-limits.
Emily smiles as I straighten off the wall. Fuck it.
“Yup, I wanna come.”
CHAPTER 2
BIRTHDAY TACOS & FUCKBOYS
JENNIE
You know that icky feeling when you pull on a pair of underwear fresh out of the dryer only to find they’re still damp? Or when you’ve got no time to heat up your leftover mac and cheese, so you have to shovel it back while it’s cold and hard? Both fucking gross, exactly like the feeling I get when my dance partner watches me the way he is right now, like he can’t wait to make me his next meal.
Poor guy hasn’t figured out yet that I’m caviar; he can’t afford me no matter how hard he tries.
Simon leans against the bench press, dropping his elbow to the bar, and flicks his head up. His brows waggle. “Like what you see?”
“Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.” I brush by him, heading to the change room. He follows, because he’s a persistent little shit.
Don’t get me wrong: I like Simon well enough. We’ve been dancing together for four years now. But in addition to his persistence, he’s cocky as fuck and seems to be under the misguided impression I’m simply making him work really hard for it.
It’s not that difficult a concept to grasp. I have absolutely zero plans of letting him inside my Disneyland. The sooner he accepts this, the better.
“This is the women’s change room, Simon. You can’t come in here, no matter how far back you tuck that thing.”
Grinning, he slaps a hand over his crotch. “I couldn’t tuck this thing back if I tried.” His breath smells remarkably like beef jerky when it brushes the shell of my ear. “Can’t hide a package this size.”
I shove him backward, shooing him away and stepping inside the change room. “Knock that ego down, like, a hundred pegs, fuckboy.”
Simon chuckles. “I’ll grab a shower and meet you out front.”
One of my character flaws is agreeing to plans in advance. By the time they come, I’d much rather take my bra off and not have to put it back on.
I swipe at a line of sweat making its way into my sports bra. “I’ve got plans tonight, and I’m pretty tired, so—”
“But it’s your birthday.”