Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90009 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90009 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Above all else, Steele has always made me feel safe.
But that’s not necessarily the case right now.
Something else besides friendship is brewing beneath the surface.
Something bigger.
Something I’m not sure I’m ready for.
Because once we cross that line, there’s no going back.
Unfortunately, my body doesn’t care one bit what my brain is screaming.
I’m flushed and restless. My skin feels too tight, too sensitive, like I’m barely holding myself together. My thighs are clenched, as if that will be enough to chase away the heat that’s coiling low in the pit of my belly.
What I need more than anything is a distraction.
Breakfast.
Right.
I need to make breakfast. If I can just focus on that, maybe I’ll feel normal again by the time I have to face Steele.
I open the fridge and pull out the eggs, setting them on the counter with hands that won’t stop shaking. After sucking in a deep breath, I exhale, trying to talk myself down from the ledge.
This is Steele we’re talking about.
The one constant in a life that’s been unraveling since the day I caught my boyfriend fucking another woman.
I need him to stay Steele.
Uncomplicated.
Solid.
Steady.
“You okay, lucky charm?”
His voice from behind me has everything tilting sideways again. It’s low and raspy. Even though it’s still thick with sleep, it’s edged with concern.
And just like that, my composure fractures. I close my eyes for half a second before forcing myself to turn around.
That’s a big mistake.
Huge.
He’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his bare chest, skin still flushed from sleep. His sweatpants hang loosely around his hips, and his dark hair is a tousled mess I want to sink my fingers into.
No.
No.
No.
Don’t think like that.
My mouth goes dry as my brain short-circuits.
He looks unfairly good.
Even worse than that?
I see it now.
The sharp jawline.
The carved lines of his body.
The way his gaze tracks me, as if I’m something he wants to unwrap.
When did Steele become that guy?
His eyes search mine as he steps into the kitchen. “You ran out of the bedroom like your ass was on fire. You sure you’re good?”
Unable to continue staring at him, I spin back toward the stove. I need something—anything—to focus on besides the six-foot-three problem that just walked into the kitchen. He’s not even crowding my personal space and I feel knocked off balance.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, cracking an egg against the side of the pan a little too aggressively.
It splatters everywhere.
With shaking hands, I grab a spatula and try not to think about how I helped him shower last night or dried him off. Or how I watched water slide down every inch of that ridiculously sculpted body like it was the most fascinating thing I’d ever witnessed.
If I’m being honest, it just might have been.
God, I need help.
The professional kind.
I move around the kitchen like a hummingbird, grabbing things I don’t need and opening drawers I’m not even thinking about. I’m flustered and uncoordinated, and the worst part is, he’s not saying a damn thing.
Just watching.
Calm and still.
Like he knows the reason I’m unraveling and he’s willing to patiently wait me out.
He’s always been steady and loyal. The one person who’s never let me down.
What I need most right now is for him to stay that way. Especially when everything around me has imploded.
My job.
My living situation.
My entire future is now riddled with uncertainty.
And my parents have never been the supportive type.
But Steele?
He’s always been my anchor. I’m afraid of what will happen if we rock the boat and venture into something more. Especially if it doesn’t work out.
Would I lose him too?
I don’t think I could deal with that.
I’m jerked from the turmoil of my thoughts when his hand brushes across mine.
“Let me help,” he says, voice low and easy, like we’re not standing on the edge of something that might break us wide open. “You’re going to massacre those eggs.”
“No, I’m not,” I lie.
He arches a brow. “Lilah. That egg has already died twice.”
Despite everything, a laugh slips free from me. It’s half-mortified and half-relieved. I step aside, giving him room to maneuver. He grabs a fork and starts whisking the rest of the eggs with practiced ease, completely unfazed by his lack of clothing.
I try not to stare, and fail spectacularly.
When he turns his back to me, I let my gaze wander for just a few greedy seconds. I’m struck by the wide spread of his shoulders and the subtle flex of his forearms as he moves. And don’t even get me started on the way his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck.
These aren’t things I’ve ever noticed before.
Or maybe I have and I just didn’t allow myself to see them.
“I didn’t realize you had skills outside of hockey,” I murmur, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
He glances at me from over his shoulder as a lazy, knowing smile tugs at his lips. “Don’t fool yourself, lucky charm. I’ve got lots of hidden skill sets. And I’m more than happy to show them off. All you have to do is say the word.”