"Hey."
I am instantly reminded of the feel of his erection against my ass and of my plan to cash in on his offered favor.
My stomach growls. Loudly.
I glare toward the kitchen, mentally cataloging the contents of the fridge and calculating what punishment my brother would cook up if I curbed my hunger with his stash of special food.
My brother's caveman diet is sacred territory, and I'd sooner poke a bear than touch his elk cubes or whatever artisanal protein he's hoarding this week.
"There's meatballs in the fridge," Bernard says, reading my dilemma. "I brought back extra from Gianna’s. Help yourself."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah, of course. They're mine, not his. Top shelf, red container."
I find the container and dump a generous portion into a bowl. I’m too tired and hungry to care how it might look for a plump girl like me to be wolfing down a giant bowl of meatballs.
Bernard has already felt what I’ve got going on here. But I do plan to ask him to undress me and plunder my lady-cave…
The microwave hums while I grab a fork and glance back toward the living room, where Bernard is trying to adjust his ice pack without moving too much.
"Hang on," I tell him.
I go to the freezer and pull out a fresh one. At least these guys seem to stock the good ice packs.
“Yours looks done." I swap the melted pack for the fresh one, positioning it properly against his hip flexor without thinking. "Did you stretch after your skate?"
He blinks up at me. "No?"
"Stretch after your skate, Bernard."
"Yes, ma'am."
The microwave beeps. I retrieve my meatballs, which smell obscene—garlic and basil —slow-cooked beef in a tomato sauce that makes me want to weep. I settle into the armchair across from him, and eat three meatballs in rapid succession before I'm capable of human speech.
"These are incredible."
"Gianna's the best. That's our spot—me and the guys. She takes care of us." He shifts on the couch, winces, then repositions the ice pack. "How was work?"
"Good. Hard. I helped with a trauma case."
"Yeah?" He's watching me with an expression I can't quite read. Like he's not sure where the conversational landmines are. "Was it intense?"
"A kid got hit by a car, ruptured an organ. We got blood into him fast enough for surgery."
I say it plainly, and Bernard stares at me. "Jesus, Ella."
"It's the job."
"That's a hell of a job."
I eat another meatball. He watches the TV. The silence between us is different than before. It’s warmer somehow, less loaded. Or maybe more loaded, but in a different direction. I'm aware of his body on the couch, the bare feet pointed toward me, the way the television light catches the curve of his bicep. I'm aware that twelve hours ago, that arm was wrapped around my chest.
“How was it with Grentley and Tucker last night?” I keep thinking about how awkward that must feel for the team dynamics. But I have no idea what led to the first guy’s divorce.
Bernard grunts. “Tuck’s babies were there. I think the actual babies make it all less …” He drifts off without naming the team mood.
“Twins are brutal. I’m sure everyone sees that.”
