“No, you’re an asshole, remember?”
“You’re the one who said I can be more than one thing, Hunter. I’m multitalented.”
It surprises me when he grins again because I don’t feel like he’s done that much over the last few years. But hell, maybe that’s wishful thinking, telling myself I’m the one making him smile more.
We eat and talk, avoiding the subjects of Ellis and football, though I really want to know where his head is at about the latter. These first two games of the season were the worst start in his career, something all the sports shows and podcasts are talking about—and I’m embarrassed I’ve paid attention to all that.
When we’re done, we go inside and put our dishes in the sink. “I’ll rinse these,” Hunter says.
I place my hand on his, a pulse of energy shooting from my fingertips up my arm. “Be a rebel…leave them.”
He rolls his eyes, so evidently, he didn’t feel the electricity the way I did, and why would he? It’s all in my head.
“I can leave dishes in the sink. I actually prefer to leave dishes in the sink. I’m not that bad.”
I mock-gasp. “I’m shocked. Don’t you know it’s the end of the world not to immediately do your dishes?”
“It wasn’t like that in my house growing up. Just yours.”
When I realize my hand is still on his, I pull it away and lean against the counter. “Sounds nice.”
He chuckles. “My mom is great. She never cared about stuff like that. Not that I grew up in a messy house, but she was all about using the little time we had together, laughing and talking and simplybeinginstead of worrying about how clean the house was or what people would think.”
“I wish I had grown up in your house.”
“It was great, but so was yours, just in different ways.” He stands beside me, nudging me with his arm in this playful way before crossing his arms, the heat of his body infiltrating mine.
Hunter smells like woodsmoke mixed with vanilla, and as wrong as it is, I wonder what his skin tastes like. What flavor would I get if I lapped along his neck?
“I miss her,” he says, pulling me out of my pervy thoughts. “I don’t miss home, but I miss her.”
“Does she come and see you often?”
“She does. She still works, though she doesn’t have to anymore. She ended up opening a low-income daycare to help families who struggle the way we did, so she’s busy with that.”
“Wow. That’s really fucking cool.” And how come I didn’t know that about him? “Your mom is helping people take care of their children, and I’m sure you helped her do it.”
“It’s wild what our lives have become. I really shouldn’t be where I am, and hell, maybe I won’t be for much longer.”
There it is, the football opening, with the two of us standing in my kitchen, arms touching. “You’re good, Hunt. You know that. You’re fucking incredible.”
“I’m not playing like it. I haven’t been for a while.”
“Is it still fun?” My question causes him to pull away, and I immediately miss the contact.
He paces the kitchen before heading to the counter across from me, so we’re facing each other. “Football was always fun to me.”
“Was or is?”
“I still love it. I’ll always love it.”
“That’s great if you do and okay if you don’t, but you’re not answering my question. Is it still fun?”
“It’s my job.”
When I cock a brow, he groans, dropping his head back and showing off the corded muscles in his throat, making my mouth water. God, I’m such a piece of shit for wanting him the way I do.
“No. It’s not fun anymore.”
