Liam emerged in a cloud of steam, hair damp, wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, completely absorbed in the tablet he was holding.
Libby froze, her brain short-circuiting at the sight.
Water droplets clung to his shoulders—his suits had definitely not been exaggerating—before trailing down the defined muscles of his chest. She watched, hypnotized, as a particularly determined drop navigated the ridges of his abs before disappearing into the towel that hung dangerously, precariously low on his hips. The sharp cut of muscle there, the V that disappeared beneath terrycloth, the way his thumb absently swiped across the tablet screen while his other hand?—
He looked up. Saw her. Froze.
They stared at each other, him nearly naked and her suddenly very aware that she'd been cataloging every inch of exposed skin like she was writing a very unprofessional scouting report.
"I forgot my bag—" she started.
"I wasn't expecting—" he said simultaneously.
They both stopped. The tablet in his hand chimed with some notification, but neither of them moved.
"I like your socks," he said finally, glancing down at her feet.
Libby looked down to see her favorite mismatched pair—penguins on the left foot, tacos on the right—winking up at her. Of course she was wearing these.
"I like your..." she started, then gestured helplessly at his general state of undress. "...towel?"
His mouth twitched. "Thank you. It's Egyptian cotton."
"Very absorbent, I'm sure."
They stared at each other, the air between them charged with something that had nothing to do with professional arrangements and everything to do with the fact that Liam D'Arcy looked like he'd been carved by someone with a very generous imagination and exceptional attention to detail. And he was looking at her like she was the one who was underdressed.
"I should get dressed," he said finally.
"That would be..." Libby swallowed, "...probably wise."
They stood there for another moment, him nearly naked and her trying very hard not to notice that fact, before Libby's phone chimed with a text from Jane asking where she was.
"The meeting," she said desperately. "We should?—"
"Get dressed," Liam agreed. "Both of us. Fully dressed. Professional attire."
"So professional," Libby agreed, backing toward her luggage and promptly tripping over his dress shoes.
Liam caught her arm before she could fall, which meant he was suddenly very close and still very underdressed and smelled like expensive soap and clean male skin.
"Careful," he murmured, his hand warm on her arm.
"Always," she breathed, though careful was the last thing she was feeling.
He released her slowly, stepped back, and disappeared into the bedroom area. Libby grabbed her clothes and escaped to the bathroom, closing the door and leaning against it.
This was fine. Everything was fine. She'd just seen Liam D'Arcy nearly naked, had basically admitted she found him attractive, and now they had to spend an entire day pretendingto be a couple while she tried not to think about what he looked like under his suit.
Totally, completely fine.
Libby closed her eyes and accepted the truth: she was in so much trouble.
That evening, after the Steel's dominant 4-1 victory, she was back in the suite typing up her game report. Liam had suggested she use the quiet space while he handled post-game captain's duties—team-only debrief, checking on injured teammates in the medical room, signing pucks for fans who'd waited outside. With the team flying back to Boston at 6 a.m., she needed to file her story before they left.
A knock interrupted her typing. "Come in," she called, expecting Liam.
Instead, the door opened to reveal an apologetic bellhop holding it for Kate Davenport, who swept past him without acknowledgment.
