The lights are dimmed. That’s a mistake. I’m in the near dark alone with a man so sexual he could make a straight guy curious and I turned down the lights, turned up the music, and tempted fate. I’m playing with fire and it’s everywhere. Next to me, in front of me, behind me. I can’t get away from him and I can’t stop gravitating toward him. My palms are flat on his back as I scoot behind him. My hand is on his arm when I dart around him. His eyes are on my body wherever I go, and he’s hungry all right, but it’s not for donuts.
And if I stop moving long enough to ask myself, I’ll find that I’m starving. Ravenous.
“The Panthers,” Colt says briskly, answering a question I barely remember asking. “And we’re gonna murder ‘em.”
He’s leaning on his arms on the surface of the stainless steel island, his eyes watching me intently as I move around the kitchen. He’s caught a second wind from somewhere. He’s more alert than anyone has a right to be going on this little sleep at this time in the morning. Personally, I’m ready to curl up next to the oven and sleep the day away like a cat on Ambien.
“Are you going to them or are they coming here?” I ask.
“They’re coming here.”
“Well, good luck. Or, oh crap,” I stutter, pulling a long tray of donuts from the proofing drawer. “Is that not something you say to athletes? Are you superstitious?”
He grins, shaking his head. “You can say it. We’re superstitious but not that kind.”
“What kind then?”
“Do you want me to get that for you?”
I glare at him as I heave the heavy tray onto the gleaming surface in front of him. “You’re not the only one with muscles.”
“I can see that.” He reaches out to touch my bicep. My puny muscles all but disappear in his grasp. “It’s sexy.”
I swallow hard, blinking to stay focused. Every brush of his body against mine has turned into an electrical shock to my tired brain. “You didn’t answer me.”
“Superstitions, right.” He releases me, standing up straight. “Some guys have the same ritual every game day. They get up at the same time, eat the same thing. They wear the exact game gear, including the same pair of socks or jockstrap they had on for the last win.”
I pause, scrunching up my nose. “They don’t wash them, do they?”
“Of course not.”
“Gross!”
“You’ll wash the luck out!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Time out,” I demand, forming a stern T with my hands. “Do you do that?”
“The socks or the jock?”
“Oh my God,” I moan mournfully.
“The socks or the jock?!”
“It doesn’t matter! It’s disgusting either way!”
He steps back from the island, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “It’s not that disgusting.”
“How long are you in that gear? How many hours?”
“Not that many.”
“How many?”
“Five.”
I collapse onto the island in despair. “Five fucking hours?!”
“I’m not sweating the whole time,” he laughs.
“Get out of my kitchen,” I demand, pointing to the exit. “Get the hell out of my kitchen, you dirty bastard.”
“You don’t wanna know dirty. I have stories that will make you sick.”
“Please keep them to yourself.”
“Can’t handle ‘em?”
“Not at four in the morning. I can’t handle much of anything at four in the morning.”
Colt’s eyes bounce around the room. “What can I do to help?”
“You can help me flip donuts,” I reply, shoving myself off the island with a groan. “You’ll even get your very own flipping stick to—“
I stop as the music changes, my ears catching the first few bars of the next song. That’s all I need for my blood to run cold before boiling like fire. I grab the slim, black remote off the shelf by the door, reaching through to point it at the stereo behind the counter in the next room. The music abruptly falls silent.
I can feel Colt watching me and I know I should have been more subtle about it. I should have groaned and bitched that I hated that song, changed it to something else. Or I could have endured it. I could have pretended that I don’t mind it. But I’ve spent months avoiding that same damn song like it’s herpes and I can’t stop now. Killing it is a reflexive.
“Not a Cassie Carlyle fan, huh?” he asks, his voice deep and penetrating.
I sigh, dropping the remote back down on the shelf. “Her real name’s not Cassie Carlyle. It’s Cassie Mentz. And no, I’m not a fan.”
“Of her or her music?”
“All of the above,” I grumble, checking the temperature on the fryer.
“What’s your beef with her?”
“You don’t want to hear it. Trust me.”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”