Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
“I don’t know.” Sig shrugged. “Weird.”
Four Months Later
Chloe sat in the stands of Boston Garden listening to the sounds of the Bearcats wrapping up practice. She’d become a regular at games, but not so much training. Today was a special occasion because Sig was going to give her a driving lesson afterward. She wasn’t the only person spectating practice—several reporters were there, as well as a group of people taking a tour of the arena. Dozens of team administrators and coaches stood in groups on the outskirts of the ice, gesturing to the players, conferring.
She’d brought a book to read, but it sat in her lap unopened, her hands cemented around the spine, squeezing. Her heart knocked in her rib cage. Sig was so incredible out there, she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes off him long enough to find her page. His behavior during practice differed from games. For instance, he was smiling a lot more today. Talking shit, as he called it, to his teammates. And yet he still stopped on a dime, spraying ice in a chilly plume. Still moved like a magician. Just switching back and forth from amused and jocular to devilishly fast and capable within seconds.
Flashbacks from the last four months came to her in snippets. Sig sitting in the front row of her performance holding roses. Sig passed out on her coach, exhausted after a game, covered by a fleece Barbie blanket. Sig showing up at a nightclub and dragging her out onto the sidewalk, claiming he wanted to see her home safely, when they both knew he didn’t want her talking to other men. And so it went, this man being a massive fixture in her life.
Daily joy and daily . . . discomfort.
Like right now, she was so slick between her thighs, her vagina could pass for a miniature waterslide. There’d been a near incident yesterday when she’d overslept and woken up to Sig standing above her bed, looking worried, holding paper cups of coffee.
Assuming she’d been dreaming—because, honestly, she couldn’t remember a night where Sig didn’t star in her dreams, anymore—she’d arched her back and purred for him to get into bed and wake her up properly.
He’d almost complied.
Almost.
His muscles had stiffened, his pupils expanding, and he’d set her coffee down. She’d watched him thicken in the front of his jeans and reached for the growing ridge, but he’d strode out of the room before her fingertips could make contact. The slam of the front door alerted her to the fact that she was, indeed, very much awake. Not dreaming.
She already knew they were going to pretend it never happened.
And she hated that.
They talked about everything, but they avoided the topic of their attraction to each other like the plague.
A loud slam shot Chloe’s heart up into her mouth.
Sig was vying for the puck with one of his teammates—Corrigan, she saw.
A whistle blew somewhere, ending the play, and both men looked up at Chloe. Corrigan grinned around his mouthpiece, using the end of his stick to salute Chloe, while Sig glared at him from two feet away. She saluted back, regardless.
Then Corrigan rapped his glove against the glass. “Let me get your number, though.”
Sig took out his legs with a hard sweep of his stick, leaving Corrigan flat on his back. She couldn’t make out the words her future stepbrother said while bending forward over his prone teammate, but a lot of them seemed to begin with “F.” None of this surprised her, and it probably should.
No, it definitely should.
The coach brought the Bearcats together at the bench for some feedback from several members of the staff, after which they exited the ice through the tunnel.
“Ms. Clifford, you can follow me,” said a security guard in a blue windbreaker to her left, smiling at her from the concrete steps. “You can wait for Mr. Gauthier by the team exit.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Ten minutes later, Chloe stood at the end of a long, brightly lit tunnel by a set of double doors, not far from the locker room. She could hear metal doors slamming, yelling, laughter, running showers—and just as she finally opened her book to read a few pages, Sig emerged from the chaos, hair wet, still in the process of pulling on his T-shirt. As in, no shirt yet.
Nothing to cover his smooth slabs of muscle. Or the tattoos she’d never seen.
Or that black trail of hair under his navel.
One of the shirtsleeves got caught and he cursed, twisting the fabric to correct the angle, and everything flexed at once, including his eight-pack . . . and she dropped her book. Probably went through puberty a second time, too. Adult puberty. Oh no. No. This accidental flashing was taking place way too soon following the wake-me-up-properly incident. Her hormones were multiplying like rabbits. How was she supposed to learn how to operate a motor vehicle in this state? How was she supposed to breathe?