Page 3 of Stick Break (Boston Bucks #8)

I pull out a pair of yoga pants and a snug spandex top from the bag, changing quickly as music starts to drift through the cottage. Not just playing— thumping . Bassline heavy, upbeat, with a little groove.

I crack the bedroom door open quietly… and bite down on my lip to keep from laughing out loud when I spot Rip at the stove, spatula in hand, hips swaying slightly to the beat.

He’s not full-out dancing, but there’s movement.

A shoulder roll here, a head nod there. For a big guy, he’s surprisingly…

rhythmic. The man’s got secrets, but he’s also got some well-hidden kitchen swagger.

And God help me, I’m sort of looking forward to a week here.

“Rip’s got moves,”I tease.

Okay, so maybe they’re a little stiff, but they’re moves nonetheless. Like a grumpy bear trying to groove.

He shoots a look over his shoulder, deadpan. “Be nice or no carbs for you.”

“I’m always nice.”

“I’m not,” he mutters, slipping back into his signature grump-mode, but something tells me he’s bluffing. “I’m only moving because someone found my bed just right and now my shoulders are kinked.”

Kinked.

Well, great. Why did that word light up every inappropriate corner of my brain?

“Won’t happen again. And hey, look at that, we now know something about each other now,” I say, trying to steer us away from dangerous territory. There’s an unspoken agreement between us. Boundaries. Breathing room. No peeking past the surface.

I step closer, trying to sneak a look at whatever he’s cooking. Since I can’t quite see over his hulking shoulder, I lean around him—one hand brushing his back, the other resting lightly on his arm.

His whole body goes rigid, like I’ve triggered some kind of fight-or-flight response, and I instantly retreat a step. “Sorry,” I blurt. “Didn’t mean to, uh, touch you like that. Just wondering what smells so good.”

“Pancakes,” he says, voice a little lower than before. “Whipped cream and fruit are in the fridge. Can you grab those?”

“On it.” I spin around, grateful for the mission. I pull out blueberries, strawberries, and a can of whipped cream, placing them on the table with a little more enthusiasm than necessary.

I already know where the dishes are, so I grab two plates, two glasses, and start setting the table. Music still hums through the cottage, and it helps settle the flutter in my chest. Somehow, we’re finding a rhythm—not just in the space, but with each other.

“Do you do yoga every day?” he asks suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.

As he flips a pancake, one slides off the spatula like it’s trying to escape. I grin. “Yeah, I do. I used to teach classes, too.”

He nods, thoughtful, and hands me a fluffy, golden pancake. Then he pours more batter into the pan, quiet again, like he’s mulling something over.

I pile my plate with fruit and whipped cream, fill our glasses with juice, and slide into one of the chairs. Rip stays at the stove, and I let him be, devouring carbs like it’s my full-time job.

God, I’ve missed carbs. When I was on the show, I had a strict diet—protein shakes, steamed vegetables, no sugar. No soul.

The cameras add ten pounds, Charly.

Yes, Mom. I know.

She didn’t want me in the music world, but if I was going to be in in, I guess I had to at least look good in her eyes. I mean, I am a reflection of my family, after all.

But this week? This strange, unexpected week by the beach? I’m doing whatever I want. Eating pancakes. Breathing. Healing.

Well, within reason, of course.

No sleepovers.

He finishes cooking his pancake, piles it with fruit and cream, then drops down beside me with a sigh. He takes a slow sip of juice, a deep crease cutting across his forehead like he’s trying to solve world hunger—or maybe just how we both ended up here.

“Gentle stretching’s good for strains, right?” he asks.

I nod. “Should help your shoulders.” But there’s more in that question, something about the stiff way he’s moving that he doesn’t want me to know. “We can do some gentle stretching today.”

He gives me a soft smile. “Thank you.”

“Hey, I owe you.”

“That’s true.”

I laugh, feeling the tension slip from my shoulders. “There’s nothing like the beach to cure what ails you, huh?” He takes a big bite, cream smudging his nose and scruff. “Maybe they should call you Santa.” I bet this man can deliver all kinds of goodness.

“Santa?” He grins. “Because you deliver all kinds of goodness.”

I tap my chin and hand him a paper towel.

“Ha. Ha.” He snatches it from me, and wipes his face as I bite back a grin. God, could he be any more adorable.

I stab a chunk of pancake, and hold it up. “For the record, this is just right.”

He grumbles, chewing, then drops a curveball: “We should probably talk rules.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Rules? There’s more?”

“There’s always more,” he grouches.

“I never pegged you as a rule follower.”

His fork freezes mid-air, eyes narrowing with a flicker of caution. “That’s because you don’t know me.”

I catch that like a test. He’s nervous I might see through him. “That’s true,” I say, biting into my pancake. “Okay, hit me with the rules. Wait, I don’t have to be in bed by eight or anything, right? I only crashed early last night because of the long travel. I’m a night owl.”

He looks down. “I’m not.”

I glance at the counter. Even after cooking everything is in order. I’d have batter on the ceiling if I were in charge, and probably more whipped cream on his face than he’d like. What am I even saying.

“I’m not a neat freak either.”

“I am.”

Never would have guessed.

“I like late-night TV. Especially B rated scary movies.”

His lips twist. “I read.”

Okay, that response was unexpected and that’s on me. Just because he’s a jock, doesn’t mean he’s not well read or educated. If I remember correctly, he went to college upstate New York.

“I like to sunbathe,” I add, riding the momentum.

“I don’t.”

Ripley Stripley—clothes-hater extraordinaire—doesn’t like to sunbathe.

But that thought brings on another. “In the nude,” I blurt before thinking better of it.

Jesus. Why did I say that?

Oh, maybe because I want more than a grunt and two words out of him.

If he really did know me… well, just saying he recognized me fromThe Spotlightand was on the fence about whether the tabloids sex scandal was true it would no doubt have him leaning toward the ‘yes.’

His head lifts, and his eyes lock on mine. Being his entire focus steals the air right out of my lungs. He stares, long and steady, and I can almost hear his mind racing.

“This isn’t Vegas,” he finally says, “But what happens at the beach stays at the beach.”

Okay… what exactly does he mean by that?