by G. K. Brady
Shit! What else did Liz hear? A flush crept up Sarah’s neck, and she tiptoed back to the sink, out of sight, stifling a groan.
Quinn retreated too. “Who says the money in the jar is for you, Mom?” He stabbed his finger toward the family room and whispered to Sarah, “Mom radar.” Then he pointed to the back of his head, then at his eyes.
“She might be worse than my mom,” Sarah mouthed back. They shared a snicker, which surprised her because she felt as though she’d just landed in the Quinn camp. Oddly nice.
“Well, then, what are you going to do with it all? There’s a small fortune in those jars,” his mother called back.
Without missing a beat, he yelled, “Thought I’d donate it to help out folks who are losing their jobs because of COVID.”
Sarah’s eyes shot to his, but he wasn’t looking at her. Is he serious? A cursory sweep of his face told her he was. She could’ve been knocked over with a feather at this unexpected gesture.
“Oh, Quinnie, that’s a wonderful idea. You’re always so thoughtful like that.”
“It’s not that big a deal, Mom.” There was a trace of peevishness in his voice. His cheekbones were flushed bright pink, and he fidgeted, seeming to avoid Sarah’s stare. When he finally darted a glance at her, he tossed out an annoyed-sounding, “What? Don’t you need to finish cleaning up?”
She opened her mouth automatically to hurl a barb as yet unformed but stopped herself. Why wasn’t this egomaniac soaking up the compliment and growing even cockier? Instead, he seemed embarrassed, almost as if he’d been outed for a good deed.
Abruptly, he headed for his wing with a “’Night.”
Huh. What other surprises was Quinn Hadley hiding?
Restless and unsure why, Quinn retreated to the gym for one more session once dinner finally settled in his stomach. Two hours later, his jolting energy somewhat dissipated, he walked into a deserted kitchen. He pulled a cold bottle of water from the fridge and placed it against his sweaty forehead while he caught his breath. The kitchen was dim, lit only by the under-cabinet lighting. Where was everybody? Even Archer was MIA.
A faint noise tickled his ears, and he paused to listen. It sounded like … high-pitched voices? He wandered to the French doors that led outside and peered through. The deck was submerged in darkness. Then a motion caught his eye, and he lasered in on it. Two dark shapes hovered by the hot tub. He’d solved the mystery of the noise only to ponder a new one. What the hell were his mom and Sarah up to?
A motion-sensor light came on—triggered, apparently, by Archer’s madly swinging tail—and the forms froze. His mom’s wide eyes were clearly visible as she lay across the edge of the hot tub. Sarah, whose back was to him, appeared to be helping her climb out. Though she was muffled through the thick glass, he distinctly heard his mother whoop. Then she burst out laughing, and Sarah folded over, bracing herself on the rim of the hot tub as her shoulders shook.
They couldn’t see him, but he could clearly see them, so he paused to watch. His eyes had been pulled to Sarah immediately, to her wet skin glistening in the light. And there was a lot of skin to glisten because, Jesus, she was wearing very little: a bikini top tied with straps no bigger than skate laces and bottoms that barely covered the crack of her ass. What little fabric there was clung to her and outlined her contours. He needed little imagination to calculate how well her perfect ass cheeks would fit in his hands.
Shit!
He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to dislodge the image from his brain. He did not need to be picturing himself fondling his buddy’s sister’s gorgeous ass. Scratch that. Her ass is. Not. Gorgeous. Too bad his stirring dick wasn’t buying it. He willed it to calm the fuck down, envisioning a pissed-off Gage and how messed up their line chemistry would be if Quinn pulled anything.
And though he knew, he knew, he shouldn’t be ogling Gage’s sister, that’s exactly what he continued doing. Couldn’t tear his eyes away, especially when her movements caused her cute booty to jiggle enticingly.
The light winked off again, and more giggling followed. A thought pierced his lust-ridden brain. He should be helping because, at the rate they were going, Sarah was going to end up on that beautiful ass of hers while his mother slipped back under the water.
After rearranging his clothes, he flipped on the deck lights and stepped outside, leaning forward to disguise his obvious problem. Sarah’s head jerked, and two pairs of wide eyes landed on him. Then they both dissolved in laughter again. His gaze bounced around the perimeter of the hot tub, taking in towels, an empty bottle of wine, and two glasses.
They’re hammered!
“What’s going on out here?” He was struggling to keep amusement from his voice. These two did not need any encouragement.
Sarah wheeled and faced him, and before he could stop himself, his eyes took a quick tour of her wet body, landing back on her grinning face. Jesus, the girl was smoking hot! Not that he hadn’t suspected it, but here, with her facing him, her fully displayed ample assets would not be denied a starring role in his dirty mind. Sleek, toned legs, a flat stomach that hinted at a lady six-pack. Breasts bigger than expected—because damn if they weren’t spilling out of her skimpy top—with beaded nipples imprinting the triangles of fabric laughingly called a swimsuit top. Everything was arranged in one hell of a perfect package.
He blew out a breath—praying she couldn’t see the surging tent in his shorts—and willed himself to keep his eyes fixed on hers. Not wander anywhere below her chin. Yeah, he could do that. Absolutely. Maybe.
She smirked as if she knew exactly the effect she was having on him. “Your mom and I …” She paused to laugh some more while his mom snorted in the background. “Your mom and I decided to socially distance out here with a bottle of wine. We stayed six feet apart”—she slid her eyes upward as if pondering—“mostly. We also figured the heat would kill off any viruses.”
Hysterical, his mom banged her hand against the hot tub’s edge. Rolling his eyes, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you need my help to get her out?”
“Sure,” Sarah giggled. “I’ve been trying, but …”
“She can’t pull me out!” his mom hooted. “I’m too slippery!”
For Christ’s sake, these two were drunk as skunks. Suddenly, Sarah began to shiver, so he darted to the towels, grabbed one, and awkwardly tossed it over her shoulders. “Here.” He didn’t dare touch her.
She wrapped it around her body—thank fuck!—and he proceeded to help his mom out of the tub. Her limbs were a little floppy, so he reached in and hoisted her into his arms. Seemed easier.
“Ooh, look Sarah,” his mother said, “Just like Lord Lanternjaw in The Lady’s Lustful Lover.” Then she gave his shoulder a playful slap. “You’re sweeping the wrong one off her feet. You should be sweeping Sarah off her feet.”
No, I really shouldn’t. He muttered a PG curse and took his mom inside.
After depositing her, he stuck his head out the door again, looking anywhere and everywhere but directly at Sarah. “Uh, you good out here? Need any more help?”
She materialized right beside him, nearly shooting him out of his shorts. “No, I’m good. But thanks.” Her voice was on the breathy side.
He rolled his lips between his teeth and gave her a quick head bob before turning away. The energy he’d spent during the workout was surging through his bloodstream once more, and he loped down his hallway, chased by his mother’s voice. “I think we scared him. Let’s open another bottle of wine.” More giggling ensued.
In his bedroom, he swiped the beanies from his nightstand and started tossing. Goddamn, this shelter-in-place crap was going to kill him. Couldn’t go out, couldn’t have anyone over. Bottom line: couldn’t get laid. He definitely could use a good grinding fuck right about now. Maybe it would bleach the image of somebody’s sister from his brain.
Despite his desire that Sarah stop messing with his mind, a picture of her in that nothing bikini played across his inner
movie screen, and he missed one of his beanies. It hit the carpet with a soft thud, followed by the other two. He sighed as he picked them up and swapped them for his other phone. Facetime sex might keep him sane.
Closing and locking his bedroom doors, he toed off his shoes and plopped on the edge of the bed, where he turned on the phone and began scrolling through his contacts. He imagined each woman as her name glowed on the screen. Not a single one netted his interest. With a frustrated huff, he tossed his phone on the bed and yanked off his clothes. He headed for the shower, where he planned to kill two birds with one stone: jerking off and getting cleaned up.
He turned on both spray heads in his shower-built-for-many and soaped himself up as hot water peppered his skin. Sarah popped into his consciousness, so vivid he could’ve sworn she was standing in the shower with him. As if he could reach out and run his soapy hands over her slick, wet skin. Tease those tantalizing tits. Cup the softness between her thighs. Kiss her lips and plunder her soft mouth.
Though he told himself to knock it off, his dick would have none of it. The urge was too powerful, and it took over. Fueled by an image of Sarah’s body in his brain, her lush mouth whispering erotic, dirty words in his ear, he came hard and fast.
Spent, he planted his palms against the shower walls to hold himself up, gasping in air. Jesus, what had happened? He couldn’t remember jacking off and coming like that before. As if something potent had taken possession and moved through his body.
He shook his head. The only reason the vivid vision of Sarah had blazed in his brain was because she was the closest fuckable female. That had to be it. He could not, would not, let himself fantasize about her again. She’s off-limits. Just get her out of your mind now. Problem was, he wasn’t confident he could heed his own advice.
Chapter 14
Lockdown is a State of Mind
The next day, while Liz napped and Quinn was out for a run, Sarah had her nose in the fridge, humming to eighties music playing on her phone. She ran her eyes over the fridge’s inventory. What could she make out of broccoli and ham? “Empanadas,” she said aloud. “Crap. I don’t have enough flour for the pastry.”
“You have flour now,” Quinn’s deep voice rumbled behind her, and she let out a surprised yelp. She whirled just as he plopped an armful of brown paper bags on the counter.
“You went to the grocery store?” she screeched. “I thought you were running.”
He flashed her an apologetic grin. “I was. After my run, I drove right by King Soopers and thought I’d check for you—”
“I was gonna go.” She closed the fridge door behind her.
The smile faded, and a vertical crease formed between his dark eyebrows. “I was right there.”
She cinched her arms over her chest, fighting the urge to acknowledge how sweet she found his gesture. “You’ve just screwed up my plan for the day.”
His face dropped.
The crestfallen look gave her a surge of guilt, and she rushed on. “How am I supposed to trash-talk you when you do something nice?”
The grin returned with a triumphant twist. “Wait’ll you see what else I got.” Out came a humongous package of chocolate morsels that he laid on the counter. “In case someone feels the urge to make more cookies. Oh, and I went with paper bags because I read they’re great for letting the cookies cool. Dual purpose.”
She’d baked one batch of sugar cookies—one—since she’d arrived, and apparently he’d picked up on the fuss she’d made about how to properly cool them. Newspaper, her go-to choice, hadn’t been available.
Suppressing her astonishment, she said, “I have bad news, Sparky. No flour.”
He held up a finger. “But wait!” His delivery reminded her of a TV pitchman.
She watched his retreating back as he jogged toward the garage. Minutes later, he reappeared hefting a huge-ass bag of flour, and her mouth dropped open of its own accord.
He set it down. “I scored a twenty-five-pounder!”
Before she knew what she was doing, she flew to him and looped her arms around his solid neck. Oh God, his hard body felt even better than she’d imagined. Not that she’d looked that closely. Oh hell, who was she kidding? She noticed every damn time he was around.
For a nanosecond, he rocked backward, arms at his sides. Then he swept her to him and hugged her back. He fit her beautifully.
What the hell am I doing? Recovering her lost senses, she shoved herself away. “Um, thank you.” Then she broke out in a smirk. “A little self-serving, isn’t it?”
He looked dazed and stared at her for a beat before putting all his attention on the still-full brown bags. Keeping his head down, he began emptying them. “How so?”
She ignored the tingles racing up and down her limbs. “Well, you’re the biggest cookie consumer in this house …”
“You noticed that, huh?” He raised his head, and a half-smile that managed to show off his dimples quirked. He patted his firm stomach “Since you started staying here, I’ve packed on an extra ten.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” she huffed. She was trying to sound annoyed, she really was, but her hip-hopping hormones got in the way. And honestly? He didn’t look—or feel—as though he had an ounce of fat on him.
She swallowed. “Anyway, thank you. That was really thoughtful of you.”
His head dipped, and he returned to his unpacking. “I know, huh? Sometimes I even surprise myself.”
Without another word, she planted herself beside him and helped unload the bags. They worked side by side, putting away the foodie treasures. Finally, she said, “You really shouldn’t have gone. You’re exposing yourself to COVID every time you step into a store.”
He flapped a dismissive hand. “Pfft. I’m a big, strong hockey player, remember? I don’t get sick.”
“Yeah, well, other big, strong hockey players are getting sick, so don’t think you’re immune. Whatever happened with that tweeze-head reporter, by the way?”
“I didn’t tell you? The guy tested negative for the virus but positive for the antibodies. He’d already had it!”
“What? Is the team going to make him apologize publicly? He was a totally Twitter jerk about this whole thing.”
“Didn’t know you were paying attention, Sunshine.” He scooped a handful of nuts from a bowl she kept filled on the counter and popped them in his mouth.
Her cheeks heated. “I assume your teammates know. Are they talking to you again?”
“Mostly. I’ve been texting or talking with nearly everyone. They’ve more or less moved on, except Wyatt.”
She chuckled. “Well, what do you expect? He’s a goalie. They’re all temperamental. And superstitious. Well, all players are superstitious.”
He stopped chewing, and she hurried on, trying to fill the awkward silence. “Hockey’s my favorite sport by far. I love seeing the athletes’ reflexes, their strength, their bursts of speed. It’s breathtaking.”
She side-eyed him. His eyebrows had crawled up his forehead, and his mouth hung open. Evidently she’d shocked him.
He shook his head, seeming to recover, and smirked. “Who’s your favorite player?”
She didn’t skip a beat. “Gretzky.”
“No, I meant present day.”
Now it was her turn to smirk. “My brother, of course.”
“Damn.” He nodded. “But I totally get that. It’s the safe answer.”
“You honestly didn’t think I’d say you were, did you?”
A gleam lit his eyes. “You wouldn’t be the first if you had.”
She gave him her best eye-roll and went back to unpacking. “So fu—darn cocky.”
A laugh rumbled through his chest. “Good catch, toots. So you making empanadas tonight?”
“Yeah, if that sounds good.”
“Sounds great. Can you pack some with meat?”
“I’ll see what I can do, caveman.”
“Need any help?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “
Why are you being so nice?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. In a good mood, I guess. Don’t feel like fighting.” He broke out in Alabama Shakes’s “Don’t Wanna Fight,” his voice possibly at a higher screech level than the lead singer’s.
She stared at him for a few beats. Maybe he hadn’t gone running at all. Maybe he’d gotten himself laid instead. The notion made her stomach sink a little, so she pushed it away. “I don’t need help, but thanks.”
“Better make lots.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I’m going downstairs to work off the cookies I hope you’re making along with the empanadas.”
She was still gaping at the doorway after he’d left. Maintaining her dislike for him twenty-four-seven was becoming much harder.
Quinn couldn’t take it anymore. Being cooped up just shy of two weeks with two nutty women was making him squirrely. That had to explain why Sarah Sunshine was on his mind. All. The. Freaking. Time. It would also explain what had motivated him to do something nice for her and why her reaction had made him feel like he could fly.
Not to mention what her commentary about hockey had done to him. His insides had cartwheeled at the possibility of carrying on an intelligent conversation with her about his sport. And goddamn, goalies were temperamental!
What he needed right now was to whack a fuck ton of pucks and work her out of his system—except she wasn’t in his system. Was she?
He continued this debate with himself as he set up his shooting pad and dumped out a bucket of pucks in his driveway. Next he hung a screen that covered his garage door with an image of a goalie and five shooting targets. A few shots in, however, the very object of his frustration appeared.
“Hey, want some help with your drills?” Sarah stood to the side, hands in her back pockets, her eyes trained on the screen.
He stopped and straightened.
Her gaze swung to his. “I used to help Gage before he went pro. I’m not very good with a stick, but apparently I’m good enough to get in the way and be a pest, which was what he said he needed.” She grinned.
