On my way to her room, I try very hard not to look into what’s probably Tate’s room, from the big king-sized bed I can see out of the corner of my eye. Returning down the hall with Bea’s duvet, I’m weak. I’m thinking about him on his date and my dumb little crush, so I pause in the doorway and look my fill.
It’s a nice bedroom. Tidy. Masculine, with a big bed where he sleeps at night, maybe naked. Those must be the windows he pointed at weeks ago that overlook my guesthouse.
I step forward. I shouldn’t be in here, but there’s a dangerous little thrill running through me at being somewhere so personal to him. His closet is neatly organized, a dozen suits hanging andtwo dozen jerseys of various colors across from them. I frown at them.
Right. Sometimes I forget Tate was a hockey player. Still is, from the way he demonstrates plays and maneuvers during practice with ease, strength, and skill.
I should leave. I shouldn’t be in here.
I’m halfway through the door when something hanging out of his bedside table drawer yanks on my attention.
Something pink and lacy.
My panties.My pulse skips and restarts. I slide the drawer open, and I don’t know what’s consuming my thoughts more, that my underwear is in Tate’s bedside table or that there’s a bottle of lotion beside them.
Lotion that he probably jerks off with.
Did he jerk off while touching my underwear?
Did he think about me?
Was he going to keep these?
The sound of an approaching car comes from outside, and I fly down the stairs, depositing the duvet on Bea and flopping down onto the other couch, heart racing.
CHAPTER 41
JORDAN
The front dooropens and he steps inside, alone.
“You’re home,” I say stupidly, sitting up.
He sees Bea asleep on the couch and a wistful expression comes over his face.
“Yeah. I’m home.”
“Did you have fun?”
“Uh.” He tilts his head like it’s a strange question. “Sort of.”
I don’t know why I’m pressing on this bruise. Of course he dates. Look at him. Fuckinglookat him.
We work together and live on the same property. I’m going to learn things about his personal life. Get used to it, I tell myself, and don’t make it a big deal.
His gaze returns to Bea and his eyes soften. “Tonight went well, I see.”
“Sorry she’s not in bed. She was fighting me on it.” I have no idea how to babysit a kid. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“You did great. I’ll bring her up to her bed in a second.” He opens the fridge. “I’m going to steal a piece of your pizza, though,” he says over his shoulder. “I’m starving.”
“It’s your pizza.” I shrug. “You paid for it.”
He leans against the counter and takes a big bite. “Fuck, that’s good,” he mutters, and a shiver runs down my back.
Why is that so hot, watching him eat pizza, leaning against thecounter in his own kitchen? It’s the most ordinary thing and yet I can’t look away. Maybe it’s the low tone of his voice, the appreciation, the way he’s enjoying it. The way his eyes close.
Or maybe it’s the quiet familiarity I’m witnessing, him totally at ease. Who gets to see Tate Ward like this, eating pizza in his kitchen at ten at night? Almost no one, I bet. My heart does a weird twist.
