Curiosity gets the better of me, and I waddle across to the bag, pushing the tissue paper to one side. A jar of salts, fluffy pink socks, and yep … a bottle of expensive-looking Pinot Grigio all sit inside.
I startle when I look up to see Emmett standing in the doorway, one hand braced on the doorjamb above his head. His fitted black T-shirt rides up to reveal a sliver of toned skin, and I fight to keep my eyes on his face.
Pack it in, Billie.
He’s staring straight at me, but not in a heated way. More with a fascination that flushes warmth to my cheeks. Especially when he breaks into a smile, which crinkles around his eyes.
Releasing the doorjamb, he pushes a hand through his light-brown hair and shoots me a serious look. “Happy birthday, Bill. I’ll share a glass with you when, you know … it’s appropriate.”
CHAPTER SIX
EMMETT
When I pull into my private parking lot set beneath my apartment building, I angle the rearview mirror and examine the roof of my mouth.
I have never scarfed down chowder so damn fast in my life. Sure, I was hungry, having neglected lunch, but it wasn’t the hunger pains that drove me to eat way faster than the food was cooling.
Have I stepped into a parallel fucking universe?
Because Billie Freya Quinn went and got hot over the last three years, and regardless of the pregnancy, she turned all fucking woman.
It’s not that I’ve never seen or appreciated a stunning woman before. Of course I have. It’s just that I’ve never been attracted to someone who is wildly off-limits, her taunting beauty daring me to steal another glance as we ate in my best friend’s kitchen.
Mercifully, Billie didn’t stay downstairs for long, choosing a nap over torturing me for an extended period. Not that she needed to be sitting opposite me for my brain to meander toplaces it should never venture. Like conjuring up an image of her flushed cheeks when she first saw me or the perfect curve of her full lips when they tipped into a sweet smile.
“You shouldn’t have bought her the wine or checked out her ass when she bent down to look inside the gift bag,” I quietly berate myself, dropping my head to the steering wheel on my Jaguar.
“You used to play in water fights and blow up her inflatables for the pool,” I hiss to myself, hoping to embed the message deep inside my subconscious.
“This single life is driving you fucking crazy.” I keep going.
Things were way simpler when it was just fights with Maria and I spent countless nights sleeping in the spare bed, stroking my dick to thoughts of when we were happily married.
“Are you all right?”
Sawyer’s wide grin stares back at me when I startle and glance to the left, certain that I’m now hearing things to go with my sordid fantasies.
With the engine still running, I lower the driver’s window.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, voice flat, my head still resting against the steering wheel.
When Sawyer doesn’t immediately answer, my treacherous mind takes advantage of the pause, wandering back to Billie, deep red hair framing a perfect heart-shaped face.
I throw the driver’s door open, and Sawyer jumps out of the way.
“Whoa,” he gasps at my sudden movements. “It’s Valentine’s Day, and I came to check that you’re doing okay.” He pauses, looking concerned. “Jesus, buddy. What’s going on?”
I don’t answer, slamming the door and hitting Lock on my key fob. The engine powers down, and my window automatically closes as I stride toward the private elevator that leads directly to my penthouse.
Sawyer follows behind, and we both ride in silence. Thankfully, I don’t have to put up a front in my former teammate’s presence; he’s the kind of guy who would never repeat what he witnesses. He’s a vault, and I miss playing with him on the defensive line after he retired last season from the Blades. We’d played together for nearly a decade, and he’s, without a doubt, one of the best defensemen the NHL has ever seen.
“Your place is looking better,” Sawyer voices as we both step into my apartment, and I instantly head for the kitchen, tossing my keys onto the white marble counter.
“Better how?” My reply is a touch irritable, but I’m confident that he won’t take my mood personally.
He knows I’m a miserable fucker at the best of times, especially after Maria.
His eyes rove the open-plan living space, landing on a single rubber plant, set in the corner of a stark white room. I moved in over six months ago and haven’t hung a single thing on the walls other than an eighty-inch flat screen above the fireplace.
