Finleylivesin the room next to mine, and I’ll be staying here while I recover. If I think about our hookup, she’ll know. I can’t keep anything off my face. Last night’s tease about her not liking being on the ground made her uncomfortable, and I don’t want that for her in her own home.
I don’t have a great filter, and when confronted with Finley Harris, it fails 100 percent of the time.
Gemma places a hand on my forearm. “Take it easy. Follow the doctor’s orders, and you’ll be back on the ice in no time.”
The doctor ordered no hockey, no screens, no anything that could hurt my brain. The season just started, and I’m stuck on the sidelines after working my ass off all summer. In a couple of seconds, my opportunity to prove to the team I deserve a deal and last season was a blip vanished. I try not to think about it, because when I do, bitterness consumes me, and I have no outlet for it.
I drop my head to the counter. “I hate this. What the hell am I supposed to do all day?”
Other than dwell on my injury. I’m supposed to begin light activity today, but I can’t think of anything more depressing than taking a walk alone without music.
Gemma drops ingredients into a bowl and blends them with a mixer. Her arm sweeps out toward the room next to the kitchen, and she winks. “We have plenty of books.”
No one sees me as the kind of guy who’d pick up a book, and they aren’t wrong. Reading isn’t easy for a person with dyslexia. Gemma wouldn’t joke if she knew.
I learned coping strategies when I was younger, but I always find reading to be a challenge. Doing it with a concussion would strain my brain in a way I’m not willing to risk.
The sound of footsteps saves me from having to respond. My gaze bolts to the staircase, and there’s Finley striding down to the first floor, her long blond hair swaying in a ponytail. She’s wearing baggy forest green sweatpants with “Wolves” written on her right thigh. Her gray sweatshirt sports the same word.
I wish she were wearing my number and last name.
Stop it. If I didn’t have a concussion, I would hit myself across the face.
“Good morning, Fi.” Gemma’s cheerful voice echoes. “Take a seat. Breakfast is almost ready.”
Finley’s eyes meet mine, and her footsteps pause. She recovers quickly, continuing toward where I sit on a counter stool, but I read every hint of hesitation. She deposits her bag on the floor before taking the chair beside mine.
I’ve replayed our hookup in my mind hundreds of times, and I still don’t know what I did to drive her away that night. I don’t even know what I did to attract her attention to begin with. It makes no sense for someone like her to be interested in someone like me, especially if my hockey career works against me. It’s my strongest point; if it doesn’t sell her, nothing about me will.
Not that I should care about her opinion of me. She’sMatt’ssister.
That fact does nothing to dull my attraction to her, to stop my eyes from snapping to her when she walks into a room, like a damn motion sensor.
“It’s good to see you upright this morning.” She leans into my space and pitches her voice low so Gemma can’t hear.
Andof courseshe smells deliciously sweet, like fucking fruity coconut. Because that’s how the universe works, dangling what you want but can’t have right in front of you.
“It’s good to see you,” I say.
Her cheeks flush as she pulls back from me, the guy who can’t take a damn hint. “So what’s for breakfast?” she asks.
Gemma turns away from the stovetop and deposits a plate of waffles in front of us. “I didn’t know what you’d want, so I made chocolate chip waffles. Usually a crowd-pleaser.” Her eyebrow quirks. “Right?”
My stomach rumbles. After collapsing on the floor last night, I didn’t eat anything.
Finley glances sideways at me, a small smile on her face after hearing what sounded like a monstrous beast in my gut. “It’s perfect. Thanks, Gemma.”
“You sleep well?” Gemma asks Finley. There’s a crease between her eyes as she watches Finley take a swig of water.
“Yeah… I mean, who wouldn’t? Everything here is nicer than any place I’ve ever stayed.”
The crease vanishes, and Gemma beams. She designed this entire house, and when she gives a tour, she tells everyone where she found every single item. Finley must know this. Is her answer sleight of hand meant to keep Gemma from looking at something Finley doesn’t want her to find?
I remember her words from the night we met.If you want safe, you should stay away from me.
Finley spears a stack of waffles and plops them on her plate. I watch her carve a bite and bring it to her lips. She raises an eyebrow when she catches me staring.
“What’s the verdict?” I ask to deflect from the actual reason I’m watching her. She takes my entire attention any time we’re in the same room.
