Page 82 of Holding Penalty

“There’s an easy solution to this problem, too,” she continues.

I’m trying to think of what to say to make sure she doesn’t move out without giving away how desperate I am, but she quickly makes that unnecessary by saying the last thing I expected.

“We should just sleep together.”

I feel like I would’ve been more prepared to take a cannonball to the chest than to hear what Piper just said to me.

All I’d have to do right now is nod my head yes, tug that towel off Piper’s body, carry her to my bed, and I’d finally be able to do what I’ve wanted to do more than anything else in the world for the last two fucking months.

But if Piper and I get physical, and for the next couple months we’re not only living together, but sleeping together …

I feel like if I get used to that, and then she leaves after we hit the six-month deadline, I might be crushed. Destroyed.

In the middle of the season. I’d be another one of those sad examples of players who get divorced and let it tank their season, like the guys were talking about.

A broken heart and ruining a season that should be a golden path right to the Stanley Cup. I’m not signing myself up for that, even if every single cell in my body is screaming at me to say yes. To finally take Piper the way I’ve wanted to for so damn long.

“No,” is all I say.

Hurt flashes in Piper’s eyes, the sting of rejection. I feel like a bigger piece of shit than I ever have in my life, which frankly covers too much ground.

But the look washes away quickly, replaced by a more searching expression. It’s like she’s taking the measure of me, recalling the way I’ve been looking at her lately, including gawking at her perky tits for an obscene amount of time just minutes ago.

“Why not?” she answers, a challenge in her question.

“It’s …” I gulp. “It’s not a good idea.”

“I think us fucking right now would be a great idea, actually.”

I shut my eyes and tilt my head upward, like I’m searching for supernatural aid to keep the white-hot desire winding through me in check.

“Piper …” I don’t know what else to say.

“Come on, what’s the worst that could happen? We’re both going crazy with frustration, we can’t escape each other in a small place like this, and we have months more of it to live through. We might as well add some benefits to this fake marriage.”

The worst that could happen is I get way, way too attached and my heart shatters into a million pieces when she leaves.

The most dangerous thing I could possibly do is fall in love with my wife. If we were sleeping together, falling asleep in the same bed, and waking up with our limbs tangled together every morning, I have a bad feeling that that’s exactly what would happen.

“Tell me right now you don’t feel the chemistry between us,” she says. The demand is a challenge, like we’re playing chess and she just moved a piece that all but guarantees her victory.

“I don’t.” The words are a lie. Such a brazen lie that if I’d had more than a split-second to think about them, I wouldn’t have dared utter them.

She narrows her eyes distrustfully. “You don’t? That’s why you just ogled my tits for about five minutes straight?”

“I … was surprised. Caught off guard. That’s all.”

She takes two steps toward me, the air between us practically sizzling with unstable electricity. An errant spark could engulf this room in flames.

“So, the way you’ve been looking at me lately is all in my head?” Her tone is borderline cocky. Like she knows I’m full of shit, and all it’ll take is a couple extra prods for me to let the façade crumble.

But she doesn’t know that if I let this façade crumble, if I give in, I’m signing up for heartbreak and misery like I’ve never felt before. Far worse than what I experienced when my engagement with Bridgett blew up.

“I guess it must be,” I lie again.

A displeased and disbelieving expression curls on her face. She sizes me up for a long stretch of time … but then she just shrugs.

“My mistake then,” she says, but every syllable drips with offended disbelief.