Page 23 of Hot for the Hockey Player (The Single Moms of San Camanez: The Vino Vixens #2)
This man was driving me bonkers. His presence, his smell—some irresistible cologne that made me want to roll around on him like a dog on freshly mowed grass—and even though I was overheating, I would gladly catch fire just to feel more of his heat against my skin.
I finished dicing the scallions, grateful I didn’t chop off a finger, and went to take the bowl over to the table just as he made his way back into the kitchen.
Of course, we bumped chests and I not only dropped the bowl of scallions, but it broke and little green onion rounds went flying everywhere.
Laurel’s bedroom door opened abruptly. “Everything okay?” She took in the scene of me on my knees picking up shards of pottery, and Maverick right beside me, picking up pieces of green onion. “Did Mav drop the bowl?”
“No,” I sighed, “I did.”
“ You did?” she asked, in total shock.
I glanced at her and narrowed my gaze into a glare.
Her eyes widened in surprise from my reaction, and she frowned before murmuring, “Sorry.”
“I’m sorry, Gabrielle,” Maverick said. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going. Crashed right into you.”
“It was an accident,” I murmured, getting down and pressing my cheek to the floor to see if any pottery shards sailed under the oven.
I could see one and reached with my left hand, only to gasp when that sharp little fucker cut my finger.
I pulled it back to see blood welling up on my left index finger.
“Oh shit,” Maverick said. “Above your head. Put pressure on it.”
I knew first aid. I stayed up-to-date on my first aid religiously, and could probably teach it at this point. I stood up, grabbed the tea towel off the oven handle, and headed to the sink to run it under cold water.
“Got it,” Maverick said, pulling out the piece that tried to bloodlet me, eighteenth century-style. He met me at the sink and without asking, grabbed my hand, holding it in his to survey the damage. “Doesn’t look too deep.”
I yanked my hand away from him and shoved it back under the running water. “I know that. I will live. Thank you.”
Once again, he looked hurt, and I felt like shit.
Fuck. He cast his eyes down to the floor and took a step back, frowning.
“Right. Uh … sorry.” I focused on the running water, but hedged a glance into the window above the sink to see his disappointment reflected back at me.
“Have I … have I upset you somehow? Did Damon force you to invite me for dinner? Because the last thing I want is to be an imposition. I only come by to see you guys, not make your lives more problematic.”
“Not problematic,” I said. “It’s fine. Happy to have you.
” My tone was anything but convincing. I shut off the water, wrapped my finger in a piece of paper towel and went to the bathroom to go find a proper bandage.
Thankfully, it was my left hand, and I’m right handed, so I wasn’t rendered completely useless.
I definitely wasn’t expecting him to accompany me to the bathroom though.
His big, broad frame swamped the small space, sucking all the fresh oxygen from the room and replacing it with that scent of his that made my entire body tingle.
“I’m sure you’re practically a surgeon, but let me take a look, please.
” He stepped forward enough that my ass hit the counter.
I had nowhere else to go now and focused on the center of his chest. That seemed to be the safest place to look.
Any higher and I’d be staring at his lips.
Those full, beautiful lips. Or his eyes, and those would undoubtedly see right through me.
And of course, I couldn’t look lower. Oh no, that was the absolute danger zone with red tape, skull and crossbones, and a big flammable sign.
He pulled the paper towel away and dabbed at the cut. “I think you’re right.”
“Hmm?” Stupidly, I lifted my gaze to his.
Big mistake. I nearly got sucked right into the depths of those blue babies and rendered a puddle right there in my own bathroom.
“That you’ll live.” He smiled. “Where are your Band-Aids?”
I swallowed, pressed the paper towel back to my finger, and turned around, which just put my ass against his pelvis as I opened up the big, mirrored medicine cabinet to pull down the box of carefully organized and labeled bandages.
Everything was sorted by size. I opened it up and spun back around, holding the Band-Aid I figured would fit.
He took it from me, and I licked my lips as I watched his strong, nimble fingers open up the paper. Why did that turn me on?
This had to be something more. Only idiots got turned on by someone opening up a Band-Aid package. Menopause? Brain tumor?
“Finger,” he ordered, his voice extra gritty.
I removed the paper towel. He blew on the cut, and that cool air sent a shiver straight between my legs. Then he carefully applied the bandage.
Then, that jackass kissed the Band-Aid.
My eyes flew open wide, and I tried to step back, but I couldn’t. “Uh …”
He must have realized he did something weird because he took a step back.
“Shit. Sorry. I, uh … I have two nieces. That’s what I do when they get hurt.
” His face went bright red. “Not that you’re …
not that I see you as a child. You’re not a child.
You’re a girl. A woman! A grown woman. A capable, beautiful, strong, grown woman.
” Shoving his fingers into his hair, he averted his gaze and stepped back again. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
“We will live,” I said, the words hoarse in my throat. “We should go have dinner.”
He blocked the door, so I had to wait for him to collect his wits before he acknowledged that he needed to leave first. It didn’t take him more than a couple of heartbeats.
We rejoined my kids. Laurel had kindly sliced more green onion, while Damon turned off the stove and had transferred the kung pao from the wok to a big bowl.
“Thank you, guys,” I said with exasperation as I took a seat at the table.
“You okay?” Laurel asked, scooping rice into her bowl.
I met Maverick’s gaze across the table. “We will live.”