Page 73 of Hard to Handle

Refusing to give him the satisfaction of staring at him or acknowledging that he’s half-naked, I focus on undoing the buttons of my jacket. “Crap,” I mutter, my fingers so numb I keep fumbling with them as my teeth chatter and my body begs for some hot water to sink into.

“Let me.”

“I’ve got it.” I slap at his hands when he reaches out to push mine out of the way and help me, but it does nothing to deter him. Within seconds, he has the front of my coat opened and is yanking it off my shoulders and then fighting to get my hands out of the bunched ends of the sleeves as if I’m a little kid.

“There,” he says as it drops to the floor before enveloping me in his arms. I accept the warmth—even though his body is as cold as mine—and accept the rare moment of magnanimity from him after the night we’ve had. It feels like an apology without words, and I didn’t realize how much I needed this from him until now.

I close my eyes momentarily and absorb the feel of it.

This is a bad decision all around. Me. Here in his room. Our past. Our future.

Christ.

It’s a double-edged sword that reminds me just how good the good is when it’s with Hunter and how there’s no way I can let myself fall back into this trap when I have to try and win him over as a client.

“I can’t. Hunter, I can’t,” I say as I push against his chest and step back even when he tries to keep me close.

“You’d rather freeze?”

I eye him. “Last time—we weren’t—”

“Shh,” he says and holds his very cold finger to my lips. “Don’t ruin the moment. More civility is afoot.”

A sigh falls from my lips that matches the shake of my head. I stare at him. At the breadth of his shoulders and the wave to his hair. At the blue of his eyes and the lopsided smile. At our past, and what I’m trying to make our future. I take in the whole and let his words from earlier hit my ears again. Is this all there is?

“This is too complicated,” I say when I finally find the words.

“What is? You standing here in my hotel room? It’s only complicated if you make it,” he says, batting around words with double meanings that I try to ignore. “Besides, you’re the one to blame here.”

“Me?” I laugh the word out. “How am I to blame?”

“You’re the one following us from city to city on this road stretch.”

“Okay.” I draw the word out and toe my shoes off one by one, trying to buy time to figure out where he’s going with this. Is this his way of realizing what he said to me in the park and being uncomfortable that he had a moment of vulnerability?

“You’re the one who hit me with a snowball.”

That’s definitely what this is.

“I’d do it again.” I laugh and play along. “And your point is what?”

“Why exactly do you know my stats?”

“What?”

“My stats. In the park you recited them off the top of your head like you’d been studying them, so I wanted to know . . . why do you know my stats?”

Here’s my chance. To finally be honest . . . professionally. But because he just opened up to me, was real, I loathe to ruin it. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want him to share more. He’s standing there shirtless. We just shared a kiss that’s still very fresh in my mind and on my lips.

Shit.

How did we just go from a fight in a jazz club, to a snowball fight full of laughter, to a kiss loaded with things I don’t want to acknowledge . . . to this? I answer with caution. “I know your stats because it’s my job to. I told you that the other day when you asked me the exact same question.”

“But I’m not your client.”

“I know a lot of athlete’s stats who aren’t my clients.”

He takes a step closer to me. “Why?”