Page 21 of Playing the Pucking Game

I want to share his hope, I really do. But let’s be honest, it’s not going to be my reality. It’s just too good to be true.

“Go get your cell. Let’s get some answers before you start freaking out.”

6

PARKER

“Have you got a charger?” I ask, returning to the kitchen only minutes after leaving with my dead cell in my hand.

“Of course,” Linc says before stalking across the room.

His athletic shorts sit low on his hips, so low that I can’t help but wonder if he’s wearing anything beneath.

As he turns away from me, I find my eyes running down his back. His skin is tanned despite the fact that we’re in the middle of winter, and his muscles ripple and pull in the most delicious way.

Man, I’d love to dig my fingers into those and see how much he can take.

My fists curl as I think about how much pain I’d like to deliver to his well-worked muscles for all the torment I’ve suffered from him over the years.

He bends over, showing off that firm, round ass, and I almost swallow my tongue.

Being here is a bad idea.

I need to get my shit together and get the hell out as fast as I can.

The second he stands with the charger in his hand, I look away. The last thing his ego needs is to catch me checking him out.

“Here,” he says, handing it over.

“Thanks,” I mutter as his fingers brush mine.

“Plug it in there,” he says, pointing toward a socket in the kitchen. “Go and shower and freshen up. I’ll make more coffee. Then, we’ll tackle it.”

“Why are you being so helpful?” I accuse.

“Uh…because I’m not an asshole. Would you rather I kick you out like a hookup I don’t give a shit about?”

I know it sounds stupid, but if he did that, at least I’d know where I stood. This right now? It’s throwing me for a loop.

I think about it for a moment, knowing that he’s right but desperately wanting to fight it.

“I don’t have any clothes,” I mutter quietly. It’s bad enough that I’m standing here wearing a pair of his boxers with the waistband rolled over more times than I can count, and a T-shirt with his name and number on it.

“I’ll lay something out on your bed.”

“I need to go shopping. I need?—”

“We’ll figure it all out,” he assures me before I descend into a full-blown panic attack.

My life has gone to hell in a handbasket, and I’m starting a new, demanding job in two days. How the hell am I supposed to focus on that when I’m homeless and don’t have so much as a pair of panties to my name?

Placing my cell on the charging pad, I immediately take a step back.

I have no idea what is going to be waiting for me on it, and I’m not sure I’m ready to find out.

When I booked my Uber last night, I had a million notifications, but I naively assumed they were all Happy New Year messages.

If I’d just looked, maybe I’d have discovered what was going on before we drove headfirst into it. Not that it would have made it any less devastating.