He readied himself for bed while I was dealing with Brenna. His track pants now dangle from the bottom corner bedpost, his body is covered to his waist by a sheet.
And he’s sound asleep.
So I simply sit on the edge of his bed and admire his peaceful, beautiful face for a long moment.
And think again how close he was to dying that night.
How close I was to never getting the chance to know him, to feel this.
Whatever this is, that’s growing between us. It’s intense and fast--moving, that much I know. And I expected no less, no in between with him, no casualness, not after what we’ve been through together.
It does feel magical. It does feel like a fairy tale. That a man like Brett—so charming, so talented, so breathtakingly handsome, so seemingly perfect in every way—would become infatuated with an ordinary woman like me.
No wonder people want the happily ever after between us.
I want the happily ever after.
Even if I’m having a hard time allowing myself to believe it can exist.
I resist the urge to rest my palm on his chest—not wanting to wake him now that he’s managed to drift off—and I shut off the lamp.
And decide, right then and there, that I’m going to take full advantage of every second with him, for as long as this crazy spell fate has cast over us lasts.
Chapter 24
It takes me three seconds to remember that I’m in Brett’s bed.
And another two to realize Brenna’s not beside me.
It’s seven A.M. She likes watching cartoons as soon as she gets up. At home, she can turn on the TV by herself, but Brett’s setup is more complicated than ours. She’ll try, of course, because she’s stubborn. She’ll start pushing buttons until something works or the screen is full of noisy static and she wakes up both Brett and Richard and—
I throw the sheet off my body and head downstairs to retrieve her before my imagination becomes reality.
I hear nothing at first, which makes me more than a little nervous. She’s usually pretty good about not getting into things, but she is still only five. From the bottom of the steps, I see Brett’s bedroom door open a crack.
“. . . but all he does is change his clothes and put on glasses. How come people can’t recognize him?”
I give the door a push and it creaks open.
Brenna’s sitting cross-legged at the foot of Brett’s bed, watching a Superman cartoon on the flat-screen affixed to the wall. Meanwhile, Brett is lying in bed, his casted leg free of sheets and propped up on a pillow, his muscular thigh on display.
“Hey,” he says in a soft, throaty voice.
“Morning.” I do my best not to ogle his bare chest.
But fail miserably.
I’m not the only one staring, though. Brett’s eyes dart to my bare legs before meeting my face. “She asks a lot of questions first thing in the morning, doesn’t she?” He says it with a smile, but I can’t help but feel bad.
“Brenna, please tell me you didn’t wake up Brett.”
“I was already awake,” he assures me.
“Then why were your eyes closed?” Brenna’s attention is still glued to the TV.
“I’m trying to help you out here, kid. Work with me.” He chuckles. “She came in about fifteen minutes ago to ask me how to use the TV in the living room. It’s too complicated to explain, so I told her she could watch in here until my painkillers kick in and I can attempt to get up.”
A quick glance at his nightstand and I see the small bottle of pills.
He pats the spot next to him in bed. “We’re watching Superman.”
After a moment of hesitation, I settle down next to him, smoothing out the hem of his shirt. “How did you sleep?”
“Well. And not well.” His lips, looking as red and chapped as mine feel, curl with a smile.
“I know what you mean.” I lay in bed for another hour last night, staring at the ceiling.
He steals a glance Brenna’s way to make sure she’s zoned out on the TV in front of her, and then he nods, and mouths, “Come here.” With my own glance at Brenna, I finally lean in to give him a somewhat chaste but still decidedly intimate good morning kiss.
He grins. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing.” This still doesn’t feel real.
I’m still waiting to wake up.
Or for Brett to wake up.
Brenna starts laughing and I automatically pull back. But she’s not watching us; her eyes are glued to the cartoon.
Still . . . we can’t do this right now. I distract myself by scanning Brett’s room, hoping to notice what I was too preoccupied to notice last night, to learn something about him that hasn’t already been covered by the news. “You like to read?”
He follows my gaze to the paperback sitting on the nightstand. “I go through phases, but yeah.”
“What is that . . .” I frown as I take in the cover. “A dragon?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?” I can’t keep the incredulity out of my voice.
He chuckles. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“No, I just can’t picture you into those kinds of books.” I’ve never actually read one, but I remember the socially awkward guys from high school sitting around a lunch table, planning out their weekend of Dungeons and Dragons role playing. That was more than enough for me to cast judgment at the time.
He drops his voice to a whisper, though I can guarantee Brenna isn’t listening. “If it makes you feel more at ease, I have a few Sports Illustrateds and Playboys in the nightstand.”
“For the articles, right?”
A wry smirk twists his lips. “Not even a little bit.”
“You’re supposed to lie about that.”
He reaches up to push the few wayward strands of hair off my forehead, a somber expression replacing his amusement. “I’m not going to lie to you.”
“Not even about looking at pictures of half-naked women?” Any of whom he could probably have in real life, given who he is.
“About anything.” He locks eyes with me, not wavering for a moment. I’ve never met a guy so determined to maintain honesty. It’s almost unnerving.
I’m the first to break away from that steady gaze. “So, what else do you do when you’re not on the ice or reading about dragons?”
A little frown curves his brow as he thinks about that question for a bit. “Well, I golf in the summers. Hang out with my friends, mostly, drinking beer and trying to beat each other at one video game or another. Fly down to see my family whenever I can, help teach kids how to skate. But hockey has pretty much been my life for . . . my life. I’d roll out of bed and throw on my skates before the sun was even up and be out on the rink in the backyard with my friends before school. After school, my dad would sit in the net for hours, letting me shoot pucks on him. We had this big asphalt pad—like a tennis court except specifically for me—so I could play ball hockey when it was too warm for ice. I’ve wanted to play professionally for as long as I can remember. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”