“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?”
“Because what you’re paid is commensurate with your stats and status and draw to a crowd, and that affects all my clients. If you’re the benchmark, we know where to go from there.”
He cocks his head to the side and stares at me as he says, “Hmm. I thought maybe you were following the team because you missed and wanted me. Because you were sick of those memories keeping you satisfied on lonely nights and wanted the real thing as a refresher.” A slow, steady grin slides onto his lips as his eyes reflect thoughts I’d be better not to remember.
“I do like you. Like this,” I explain, pointing to him and then me. “But with you clothed and me clothed and—”
“Liar.” He unbuckles his belt.
“I’m not lying. How can I be lying?” My words tumble out in a frantic mess as my libido and my head argue with my visceral reaction to it.
He unbuttons his pants.
The body is definitely winning out over the head right now.
“What are you doing?” I practically shout because yes, I may have seen him in all his glory many times before . . . but I’ve also experienced what that glory feels like and holy hell, I do not need to be reminded with a high-definition visual.
“I’m freezing,” he says as nonchalantly as possible as he shoves his pants down his hips so he’s standing before me in his boxer briefs and a body gorgeous enough to want to reach out and touch and feel its realness.
“Hunter?”
“What?” He chuckles. “You can stand there in your wet clothes and freeze to death because you don’t trust me . . . but I’m getting in the shower.”
Heat. It sounds so damn good as my teeth chatter. I suddenly forget him standing before me and remember the wet clothes I’m still swathed in.
“No one said I didn’t trust you.” Liar. “But I’m not taking a shower with you.”
“Suit yourself, but oh, it’s going to feel like heaven sinking in a nice, scalding hot bath.”
“Bath?” My ears perk up. “I thought you said shower.”
“Plans change. Now it’s a bath.”
“Oh,” I moan the word out.
“Yep. I plan on filling it until it starts to cool and then refilling it again.”
My eyes virtually roll back in my head at the thought. “That’s wasteful.”
His chuckle is a seductive sound. “But it’ll feel oh-so-good,” he hums.
“And bad for the environment.”
“Currently, feeling my toes and my nuts trumps my inefficient use of water.”
I take a step toward him as my body shivers. “You’re keeping your underwear on, right?” I ask, shoulders straightening as if the thin cotton will be a deterrent from us touching each other.
Or wanting to.
“If that’s what you want. I mean”—his eyes roam up and down the length of me—“you’ll need to do the same because there’s no way I want to see you naked either,” he teases.
I stare at him—my body begging me to accept and my head knowing it’s the worst idea ever . . . but I’m so damn cold.
“Fine.” I strip my shirt over my head and do everything to ignore the hungry way his eyes scrape over the black lace of my bra beneath, the muscle twitching in his jaw. “Quit looking at me like that,” I scold.
“I’m not looking at you in any way. Not your curves or your ass or . . . God”—he mock shivers—“why would any man be turned on by you?” His words are playful, his smile even more so.
“Go turn the water on like you promised.” I flick my finger in that direction as I question whether the wet clothes or fighting my attraction to him is worse torture. “I’ll be right there.”