by Lynda Aicher
She brought his duffel to him, and he found his keys stuffed in a side pocket. He slipped the house key off the ring and handed it to her, struck by the casual familiarity. He’d never had that with a woman. His throat went dry and he coughed to cover his bout of nerves. The change in her was sudden but not. This was the unguarded woman he’d seen glimpses of before. The one who could so easily steal his heart.
He cleared his throat. “Do you need directions?”
“Yeah.” She dug her phone out of her coat. “Just give me your address and I’ll map it.”
He rattled it off and waited until she lowered her phone. “The master’s on the main floor, end of the hall. My sweats are in the dresser.”
“Text me if you need anything else.” She set his bag on the chair. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours to drive you home.”
“Don’t you have classes or something else to do?”
“I only have one this semester.”
He remembered that but had no idea what it was or when. “I can get one of the guys to drive me home.”
“No need.” She gave his good leg a squeeze as she rounded the end of his bed. “I want to do it.”
Damn. The words wrapped around his heart to pump another dose of hope and longing into his unstable system. “I won’t be responsible for you failing your class.”
“Failure isn’t an option,” she assured him before she breezed out the door.
For whom? And what? The questions rang in his head long after the room had gone silent. He’d lived by that motto for years. Pushed himself every day to work harder, be better. Not Fail. This injury was no different. It was a setback. That was all.
His adamant insistence still didn’t quiet the little voice that continued to ask, What if it’s not? And what if Samantha runs again?
Chapter Twenty
Sam carried the last bags of groceries into Dylan’s house and set them on the kitchen counter next to the ones she’d already brought in. Her boots squeaked on the wood floor on the way back to the entry, snow leaving a trail of damp footprints. The fresh powder covered the walkway and drive, but Dylan said he paid a service to clear it for him. She still had to stifle the urge to shovel it before it got too deep.
She hung her coat in the closet then set her boots next his worn cowboy boots by the door. The house was quiet, lights mostly off. She took the time to put away the perishable items before heading down the hallway to check on him.
His house had an open layout and was tastefully decorated in soothing neutral tones. Light tan walls, brown leather furniture, dark wood cabinets and tables. Clean as well, which only slightly surprised her. He probably had a service for that too.
The hallway light filtered into his bedroom to slant across the foot of his bed. He was still sleeping, sprawled out on his back, one arm bent over his head. Her heart did a little flip at the sight, and the worry she’d carried for the last three days in the hospital eased a bit. But not enough to release the knot of muscles lodged under her shoulder blade.
His hair stuck up on one side and his beard darkened his jaw, sparse beneath his cheekbones, fuller around his mouth and chin. The last hints of his youth were almost gone as he matured into a man.
A picture on his dresser showed him on the ranch, cowboy hat on, his wide grin smiling out of the frame. She’d examined it earlier, not snooping but curious when she’d grabbed his sweats. The picture appeared old, yellowed around the edges, so maybe it wasn’t him. His father possibly? Granddad? If it wasn’t Dylan, then it was his doppelganger.
His black, long-sleeved shirt seemed to highlight how pale he was. She clasped her fingers together to keep from brushing them over the bruise on the back of his hand, remnants of the IV. It was good to be out of the hospital, but it was only the first step on his long road to recovery.
She sucked in a breath and made a promise to be here for him. He hadn’t kicked her out of his hospital room when he’d had every right to do so after her repeated retreats. Not that she would’ve listened. He needed someone, and there wasn’t anyone else fighting her to be that person.
She backed out of the room, closing the door behind her. There was dinner to make and homework she’d ignored.
The chicken breasts were ready to go, the salad prepped and chilling, music playing softly through the great room as she read from her textbook when she heard the toilet flush down the hall. The sky had gone dark an hour ago, and she’d wondered if he might sleep through the night. It’d been a long day. Getting home and settled had exhausted him.
“Hey,” she said when she entered his bedroom to see him slowly maneuvering on his crutches out of the master bath. “Can I do anything?”
His lips were pinched tight and he stayed quiet. She held still until he made it back to the bed and lowered himself down on the edge. She moved then, taking his crutches and leaning them against the wall between the bed and the nightstand.
“Christ,” he mumbled, head bowed. “This sucks.”
She could only imagine. He’d kept a strong front at the hospital, but she wondered if that would fade now that he was home. “How are you feeling?” She took a hesitant seat next to him on the bed, careful not to jar him.
“Woozy.” He looked up, his smile wobbly in an endearing way that twisted around her heart. “These drugs are mucking up my head.”
“How’s the pain though?”
“Sucks like hell.”
She chuckled at his bluntness. Of course it did. “You up for eating? I have chicken breasts marinating.”
His groan rumbled low and deep over her skin. “That sounds great. But you don’t have to take care of me.”
She gave in to the urge to lean into him, resting her head against his. His scent was muddied by the lingering tinge of the hospital, but she inhaled it deeper anyway. “I want to.” She threaded her fingers through his on his leg and let the warmth sink into her palm. “Besides, who else is going to do it?”
His sharp bark of laugher shot through the quiet. “True.” There was too much sarcastic mirth in that one short word.
She shifted back to study his profile. His eyes were half closed, shoulders slumped as he stared at his lap. “There’s no one from home who’d come up and help?”
“Someone would probably come—if I asked.” He turned his head, smiling softly. “But you’re better.”
Her smile was instantaneous. “Thanks. I think.”
“Trust me. You’re way better.”
“What about your mom?” He’d never said much about her, but she was pretty certain she was still in his life.
He humphed out a low sound of derision. “My mom hasn’t left the ranch in almost fifteen years.”
“Really?” He gave a grim nod. “Wow. How come?” He winced, and she immediately backtracked, guilt chasing her retreat. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.” He was drugged up and in pain one day after surgery, and she was drilling him on a touchy subject. Like that was helpful.
“Nah.” He shook his head, a slow movement that went with the hint of drawl that rolled into his tone. “It’s okay.” He shifted back, and she stood so he could lie down. Pain creased over his face in a hard wince until he was on his back. Her breath expelled with his and she wished there was more she could do.
He grasped her fingers, tugged her down to sit next to him. His thumb traced over her knuckles, his eyes dark and lazy. “My mom had a hard time dealing with my dad’s death,” he said, quiet and low. “Depression led to alcohol, which led to addiction. She tries. Functions now, but the bottle is never far away. The ranch is her safety zone.”
Her heart went out to him, compassion swelling until she wanted to scoop him into a hug and soothe away the ache buried so deeply within him.
His eyes drifted closed, and she leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead. A long, solid promise to go with her words. “I’ll be here,” she insisted. “As long as you need me.”
He turned his head toward her, squeezed her hand.
“Thanks.”
How had he wormed his way so far into her heart? All of her resistance had been for nothing because here she was, falling headlong in love with a man she still couldn’t have.
Not forever.
“I’ll go get dinner ready,” she said, pulling away. His soft grunt was the only confirmation that he’d heard her. His eyes were closed, his breaths slowly raising and lowering his chest.
Her thoughts were hitched and jagged as she tried to focus on the simple task of preparing dinner with jittery hands. Her mind spun through all the reasons why she couldn’t fall for him.
Her heart didn’t listen though.
In fact, the traitorous thing found it incredibly soothing being in Dylan’s house, making him dinner. Her homework was spread across his dining table, her playlist coming through his speakers. The soft lights and enticing scent of the cooking chicken warmed the interior against the cold and darkness outside. It reminded her of home when she and her dad would shuffle in after practice to find this exact scene staged by her mother.
It was a place she’d never pictured for herself. She’d always been on the ice, aiming to best the next challenge. Reach that next goal—one that had never included being in a kitchen, making a home. Yet she liked this.
She laughed at herself. They were silly thoughts brought on by lack of sleep and worry over Dylan. This wasn’t permanent.
She found a large tray in his cupboard and loaded their meals onto it before carrying it back to the master bedroom. The wall-mounted TV was on, the volume low as a hockey game played on the screen.
“Dinner’s ready,” she said, moving around the bed to set the tray on the empty side.
He shifted up to rest against the headboard. “It smells great.”
The familiarity of the situation was odd, given it was all new. They watched the game and ate, small comments exchanged over plays and players. The Glaciers were away but off tonight. That was probably a good thing.
He managed to finish half his food before he set it aside and maneuvered down to lie on his side, facing her. His eyes had drifted closed again, and she stared at him for a moment, longing to reach out, snuggle against him and hold him close in a way she’d never allowed before. Instead, she took the dishes back to the kitchen and busied herself cleaning up then sat down at the table, determined to focus on her homework.
And that lasted for less than hour. Her eyes kept drooping and she finally gave up on the pretense of learning.
Dylan’s back was to her when she checked on him, but he looked over his shoulder and smiled.
“Do you need another pain pill?” she asked, glancing at the time.
“No.” He lifted his hand. “Come here.”
She hesitated, too tempted. “I was going to head to bed.” She waved toward the hallway. “Does it matter which room I take?” He had two spare bedrooms to choose from.
He wiggled his fingers, motioning her closer, and she finally complied. His hand was warm and the heat seeped into her from that simple touch.
“My bed’s big enough to share,” he said, his lazy smile tingling over her. It wasn’t sexual but was far more dangerous.
“I don’t want to bump you.” She could just imagine rolling over and hitting his hip.
“I’ll be okay.” He ran his fingers over the back of her hand, shoving her sleeve up before he trailed them down the sensitive underside of her arm. A rush of goose bumps chased over her skin to scatter across her chest. “I want you next to me.”
I want to be next to you. She sucked in a breath and held it while her heart raced away. “All right,” she said, her voice wispy like her thoughts. “Let me close up the house.”
Her escape was just that, a chance to gather her fleeting resolve and remind herself where she was heading. Not his bed, but her future.
She checked the lock on the front door, flicked off the kitchen lights and picked up her overnight bag. She’d planned on staying over, but sleeping next to him, even without sex, was another step in their relationship.
Despite his joking about it, he hadn’t pushed for sex since that locker room event, which was weeks ago now. He was looking for more than sex—that had been her conclusion. Or he was getting it somewhere else.
She shook her head at the flash of angry jealousy that clutched her heart. She’d walked away and had no say on what or who he did. The knot of pain in her stomach was a sharp punch of truth. She was here now though. And he wanted her in his bed. Next to him.
Where she wanted to be and was tired of resisting.
*
Dylan forced his eyes open when he heard Samantha come back. She glanced at him then passed into the bathroom, her duffel slung over her shoulder. A smile grew, soft and slow, over his face and heart.
Her being here was the only good thing about his injury. He lowered the volume on the game until it was nothing but light chatter in the background. The glow from the screen cast a bluish haze on the room, and he tried not to imagine Samantha changing behind the door just feet away.
He snorted out a laugh. He finally had her in his bed, and getting it up was off the table. For now at least. The thought was definitely not dead, just on hold until he could move without fire shooting down his side.
The door clicked open and his gaze jerked to her. The light backlit her in a bright glow before she clicked it off. She’d changed into an oversized T-shirt that hung to midthigh, the deep V-neck plunging between the soft swell of her breasts. The whole package was a tempting display of skin that teased his memory with her naked image. Damn.
He sucked in a breath and wet his lips. His dick twitched and he almost snorted again. Yeah, good luck with that, buddy.
She smiled at him, shyness tinged in the lowered tilt of her chin and the quick jump of her eyes away from him. It was so at odds with the woman who’d charged onto the ice and challenged him to do better, be better. If he wasn’t already in love with her, he would be now.
His chest expanded with his deep breath, filled and gentled as she lifted the blankets and settled into the bed next to him. She lifted her hair to spread it behind her head then turned so she faced him.
She searched him, a world of thoughts and concerns running through her blue eyes. Ones he wanted to soothe away and reassure her it was okay.
They were good together.
Yeah, he was a goner.
His stomach tightened briefly around the flutter that lowered into his groin. Years spent watching his mother struggle with losing his dad obviously hadn’t scarred him that badly. He’d managed to fall headlong into Samantha, despite a hundred reasons not to. Aunt Bea was definitely laughing happily now.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, finding her hand to lace her fingers with his. It was tempting to pull her in until she rested at his side. Damn injury was keeping her too far away.
She shrugged. “You. This. Us.”
That could be good or bad. “And?”
“I got my acceptance letter to John F. Kennedy University.” Her face and voice were flat as she delivered the news.
The flutter in his stomach turned to a rock that sank heavy and hard. “Where’s that?” he managed to ask.
“North of San Francisco.”
“The master’s program?”
“Yeah.”
And that meant what exactly? It was months away, and she was here now. “Congrats,” he said, meaning it.
“Thanks.” Her reply was quiet, a smile returning to her lips. One that didn’t stretch to her eyes. “It was my first choice.”
Was that before him?
He cupped his hand behind her head and reeled her in to lay a kiss on her lips. He wanted to sink in for more, catch her flavor and savor it. Instead he leaned back, letting her go. Later, when he didn’t stink of the hospital and could actually function, he’d finish that kiss. Convince her that leaving was a bad idea.
He clicked the TV off, plunging the room into darkness. He found her hand again as he turned to his back
and settled into a somewhat comfortable position. Pain still laced across his hip and pulsed down his leg whenever he moved, a constant reminder of the work ahead of him.
“‘Night, Samantha.” He tightened his hold on her hand and let its soothing anchor settle the bit of panic that started whenever he thought too far forward. “I’m glad you’re here.”
There was a silent beat before her soft “Me too” reached him.
His lips curled around the confirmation and he let everything else go. He would hold on to the now and plan out the rest later.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Hey, Cowboy!” Feeney’s gruff call boomed down the hallway to ricochet off the high ceilings of Dylan’s home. “Where in the hell are you hiding?”
Dylan smiled at the accusing tone. Maybe he should’ve had Samantha lock the door when she’d left. He snapped his notebook shut on the list he’d been making and shifted in the recliner to adjust the pillow propped under his knee. The lift to his lagging spirits at hearing his friends was tapered by the inevitable envy that came with knowing they’d all be on the ice that night while he was stuck in his fucking chair.
Sidelined.
Only seven days into his recovery, and he was already frustrated and annoyed with it.
“Feenster,” he boomed when the man came around his chair. He bumped Feeney’s fist. “About time you stopped by to see me.”
“We were on the road, dude.” Feeney shoved his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. An uncomfortable silence stretched. Dylan was a reminder of how dangerous the sport was and of exactly how quickly any of their careers could end. It didn’t help that he understood that. He fucking hated being the real-life reminder of the end of their dreams. He’d left Texas to get away from that very thing.
Walters cleared his throat and stepped up, hand extended. “Good to see you up and around, Rylie.” Dylan shook his hand, grateful for the firm grip. “We missed you on the ice.”
“Fuck,” Feeney scoffed. “Don’t tell him that. His head’s already big enough.”
“Like you can talk,” Hauke tossed back at Feeney. He squeezed Dylan’s shoulder as he passed the recliner and flopped onto the couch, making himself at home. “Did you watch the game last night?”
