Thatcher cuts me off, which is good because I wasn’t sure where I was going with that. “There was no divorce; we weren’t married. Jamie’s always been with me, and she comes in and out of his life when she decides that’s what she wants— with the most minimal negative impacts I can manage.”
We’re entering the townhouse community, and I direct him to mine.
“That seems like a lot,” I tell him as he parks. “Managing all of that.” And doing it alone. I may only have been in his house for a moment, but I peeked into his bedroom when I went to wash my hands for dinner. It’s clear it’s just him and Jamie. I wonder why, and how, a guy like Thatcher is alone.
His hand rests on his thigh, and I wet my lips without thinking. Jamie’s dad is damned attractive. His thigh is lean but muscled, and even from my side of the truck and in the low light I can tell that, but his hands are something else—able to hold a child, make lasagna, to build things. Capable fucking hands that I wouldn’t mind having on me.
The tension that always seems to exist between us is still here in the cab of his truck, and my dick takes notice that this time it’s different. Thicker. Closer to snapping in a way. I wouldn’t hate a rough makeout session, or more, if he needed to blow off some steam.
Thatcher’s eyes meet mine and the air in his vehicle has changed. Did he see me checking him out? Was it that obvious? Something has the truck cabin charged enough that I wonder what it would be like to lean across the console and brush my lips across his.
The idea has my dick hardening in the confines of my jeans, wanting to remind me how long it’s been since I’ve had sex. Not only that, but Gabe Thatcher’s brand of sandy, almost-blond, scruffy sex appeal is only enhanced in this light, and the enclosed space has my mind going places it shouldn’t.
“I’ll just grab my things from the back,” I quickly say, reaching to release my seat belt, and then I’m out the door faster than is warranted.
My fantasies want to play out at a million miles a minute, just like they have since the local gossip made sure I knew thatThatch dated both men and women. That doesn’t mean he’s interested in me, though, and given his story about his dad and my own past. Well, I can see why he didn’t want me around Jamie.
Making a move would be pressing my luck for sure.
Before I can reach into the back of the truck and grab the bag I left with him when I took off after Jamie, Thatcher is there, his strong body next to mine, moving to drop the tailgate, but still so close my blood heats.
The smell in the truck is him, and I can smell it now, clean wood that’s just been cut and vanilla. I almost groan out loud at the thought of that intoxicating smell on Thatcher’s golden skin. I want to run my nose along his neck, pull him and that smell close to me, feel his lean body against mine. I want his solidness, his warmth. His attention.
His eyes are dark, searching, when he silently hands me my bag. Time seems to stop for a moment as my heart races and breathing seems difficult.
Right at the moment I’m about to say fuck it and go in for the kiss I want, his sexy bedroom eyes stop shining, stop searching mine, and confusion washes over his face from eyes to mouth. Just like at the hockey game, there isn’t an easier book to read than Thatcher’s face.
And that look says Thatcher is confused as hell.
I step back with a sigh before he’s the one to break the moment. He turns to put the tailgate back up and I head for the sidewalk.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say over my shoulder. “And for dinner.”
He stands beside his truck door, watching me as I move toward my townhouse.
“Thank you, Monroe.”
There it is. No more “Roe.” I’m back to Monroe now. It’s an obvious distance he wants to place between us, and I just nod back to him.
Still, when I get to my apartment, I can’t help but look back. Thatcher’s just sitting in his truck, and I swear he is watching me.
***
I think more about Thatcher than I should for days after that ride in his truck. There’s just something endearing about a guy who has the capacity that Thatcher has. Maybe I have a competency kink.
Not just that, but I’ve been in the man’s home. It’s clearly a sanctuary where he focuses on the work of raising his son. But who focuses on him? Does Thatcher have anyone? The more I think about it, the more I think he’s not just a loner, but maybe a bit lonely too.
I also think about the beautiful wood cabinet that sits to the side of their foyer. Thatcher made it. Somehow I know he did without being told. I think about what it must be like to have that kind of talent, to make things with your own two hands.
Two strong hands, with almost artistic fingers. Skilled.
I’m practically obsessed with what they might feel like on me.
“Monroe!”
Coach is looking at me, red in the face as though he’s been yelling, and the Iceguard’s locker room is too quiet, making me think the yelling had been going on longer than I realized. Montrose is laughing his ass off, and Benji won’t meet my eye. Diggs mumbles something I can’t hear.
“Coach?” I ask, turning my attention to him.
