Page 60 of Holding Penalty

Nash stands up, his broad frame towering over me. Electricity prickles over my skin as he steps forward, flooding my senses.

I expect him to dismiss my last comment, to tell me that I don’t have to do anything for him.

Instead, a hint of boyish mischief glimmers in his eye. “Hm, what can my wife do for me to pay me back? I’ll have to think about it.”

There’s an unfamiliar smolder in his whiskey-hued eyes, and the suggestive rumble of his voice goes right to my core.

“Where’s the other bookshelf?” I ask, changing the subject to something that feels less explosive.

“It’s outside. I brought it out to paint. It’s drying now.”

Nash follows me as I walk back to take a look. The finished bookshelf is sitting on a tarp. It looks beautiful, painted a rich shade of brown.

“You actually built that yourself?” I marvel.

Nash makes an affirmative hum. “I’ve been meaning to get more experience working with my hands.”

I wouldn’t mind being the subject matter for some new hands-on experiences.

I chase the stray thought out of my head.

“Are you painting the other one the same color?” I ask.

Nash makes a contemplative sound in his throat. “I was planning to. Unless you like a different color?”

I look inside the house, pondering. “I think the brown definitely looks good on that side of the room,” I point. “But if we put the other bookshelf on that side, near the table … I think a warm, creamy tone would look good.”

Nash nods his head, humming. “My wife has good taste.” I look at him and see a playful spark in his eyes. “In husbands, and in bookshelf colors.”

He’s hot. He’s thoughtful and selfless. He builds me bookshelves. He’s funny …

I know this thing with Nash will never be anything but fake. But I can’t help thinking that if I could build a real husband from the ground up … he might look a lot like the grumpy hockey player I spent two years in college despising.

28

PIPER

When I come back home from a long day of work at the bakery, something pulls at my heart when I look at the two bookshelves in the living room, now filled with my books.

Nash will be gone until the day after tomorrow, traveling for a preseason away game. A strange feeling of disappointment hits me from how empty the house feels without him here.

Do I miss my husband?

Nah. That’s ridiculous. I’m just not used to being alone.

I lived with Crew for years, then I stayed with Hallie, and then Nash has been here every night since I moved in. This is my first time spending a night alone in …

Wow, in a long time.

I decide to take advantage of it, appreciate it. Everyone needs some alone time to decompress and just be in their own company.

I take a long, hot shower, text with my sister, check in on some old college friends on Instagram, and then go on a little nostalgia kick and binge-watch some episodes of Criminal Minds. I find a Mexican restaurant that delivers on the tiny main street stretch about ten minutes away from the ranch and order a giant quesadilla with chips and guac for dinner.

When it starts to get dark, I grab a book from the bookshelf that’s been on my TBR for a while and lie in bed. It’s a romance about a personal chef who works for a grumpy, closed-off baseball player.

It hooks me from the very beginning, and the chapters fly by. The first spicy scene comes early, after the FMC spills sauce on her shirt. She takes it off, thinking the MMC is out of the house—but then they walk smack into each other in the hallway, when he’s shirtless and she’s wearing nothing but her bra.

I haven’t chanced to see Nash without his shirt on while living here yet.