Page 210 of Puck Me Back to Life

“You were watching hockey.”

“I can do both.”

His jaw tightens. “Kai.”

I shrug. “What?”

He sets his own empty glass on the coffee table with exaggerated care and stands slowly. His temper making his jaw tight.

My heartbeat picks up.

Good.

Finally.

He walks toward me with deliberate, measured steps. I stay exactly where I am, looking up at him from his seat.

When he reaches me, he doesn't say anything. He simply places one hand on the back of the couch beside my shoulder. The other lands on the armrest.

I'm boxed in before I realize what's happening.

He isn't touching me.

Not yet.

He's just there.

Close enough that I can smell cedar and laundry detergent.

His expression is equal parts frustrated and confused.

“What,” he asks quietly, “is with you today?”

I blink. “What do you mean?”

“Don't.”

“What?”

“I've known you long enough to know when you're doing something.”

“I'm doing lots of things.”

“You left your hockey bag by the door.”

“I was tired.”

“You stole my seat.”

“It was comfortable.”

“You finished my wine.”

“You seemed done with it.”

His eyes narrow. I should probably stop.

Instead, I notice how good he looks when he's annoyed. His hair is slightly messy from sleeping on the couch. His jaw is tight. His hazel eyes haven't left mine.