“Morning.”
He’s looking fine. He smiles at me, and my gaze travels down his face and keeps going. And…
Sweet Lord.
My toes curl.
Hunter is shirtless, his t-shirt sitting uselessly on the sink counter behind him. His worn jeans ride low on his hips. All those muscles he uses to play professional ice hockey are on full display.
I don’t even try to hide my staring.
His abs are literally an eight-pack, and his chest is defined and lightly dusted with dark hair. No fat anywhere I can see.
I haven’t seen Hunter without a shirt on since high school. He was always built, but he was a teenager then. Now, he’s all man, and I actually feel my stomach clench with need.
Forcing myself to look away, I point at the sink. “How did you get roped into helping with this?”
“Your mama asked. Like she always does. You know.”
Right. My mother doesn’t ask at all. She just demands.
“I’m sorry about that,” I say. “But what were you doing here in the first place?”
“I wanted to help you move. I’ve got a truck. Figured we could put your things in the back.”
“That’s so thoughtful, Hunt.” I smile at him. “My mama’s lending me her spare car to use while I’m living here, so I can follow you back.”
“Sounds good. I’ve got an extra parking space in the driveway. Let me just finish up here first.”
He squats down and slides underneath the sink. I glance over toward the window.
Shit. My bra is still hanging on the rack. I walk over and grab it, shoving it behind the stacked towel set that’s sitting behind the toilet.
“Can you hand me a wrench?” he asks.
I find it in his toolbox and hand it to him. And, even though I should probably leave and let him work, I don’t want to. So I take a seat on the edge of the tub and admire his flexing abs as he fiddles with the plumbing.
“Where did you come from just now?” he asks me. “Your mama and I walked right through your room, and no one was in there.”
“I was dressing in the closet,” I say.
Hunter accepts my explanation, and we lapse into silence for the next ten minutes.
“All set.” He slides out from underneath the sink and stands up.
His arm muscles flex as he pulls on a blue t-shirt, his same favorite color he’s had since high school.
I stand, too, and his eyes catch mine. I fidget under the heat of his stare.
He looks down at my sweatshirt and then back up to my face.
“What the hell are you wearing?”
“What’s it look like? Cut-offs, a hot pink bikini top, which I’m sure you noticed…”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Your sweatshirt is see-through.”
“It’s not see-through. It’s a pale gray, so the pink shines through the…oh, never mind. It’s just some guy’s sweatshirt.” I shrug. “My clothes got packed in a hurry, and I don’t have my shit organized yet.”
