Page 67 of Top Shelf

She nods slowly. “And… did you think about me while you were gone?”

“Yes.”

A small breath leaves her. “Like this?”

I know what she means, because the case is open on the dresser, and residual steam still floats in the room, and my body has been dying to answer her since I walked in the door.

“Yes.”

“Okay, then.” Her fingers tighten at her towel again, and she looks down at it, adjusting the fabric before her eyes come back to mine. “And since we’re being honest, if you were feeling horny too, did you hook up with anyone while you were gone?”

“No.” The answer is immediate. “I gave you my word. I would not disrespect you that way, Heidi.”

She licks her lips and nods. “So what’d you do?”

I hold her gaze because she asked for honesty, and I will give it to her, even here, even with steam clinging to her skin and that open case on the dresser turning every thought in my head dangerous.

“I used my hand.”

Her lips part, and my eyes zero in on them. “Thinking about what?”

I could say something safe. There are many safe answers available. The trouble is, I have not wanted safe since the day I met Heidi Grant.

“You,” I reply.

Her throat moves again.

“And just so we are clear,” I continue. “I said no to you in the garage the other night because you had champagne. I did not want you to have an excuse in the morning to regret it or to tell yourself it did not count.”

“I wouldn’t have done that.”

“Maybe.” I shrug, taking a step closer. “But I told you—I do not want maybe.”

Her eyes search mine, the same way they did in the car. This time, there is no champagne between us. Only the fact that neither of us is pretending very well anymore.

My mind races, hoping she’ll drop the towel entirely and step toward me, let me tie her to the bed with those silk ropes and taste her like I’m starving to. But her gaze drops to the tie in my hand, to my half-buttoned shirt and the game-day suit waiting.

“Oh fuck, you have a game.”

“Yes.”

The silence stretches between us, and my eyes flit to her mouth as she licks her lips, cheeks still flush. I have a sudden, irrational thought that it won’t matter I am late. Coach would not care. Hockey has survived many years without me and it could survive an extra thirty minutes while I make Heidi moan under me.

But Heidi draws in a breath and steps back first. “Then I need to get dressed.”

Twenty minutes later, she steps out in tight dark jeans, small heels, a leather jacket, and a cropped Colorado Storm top with my number fitted across her chest.

Her smile edges up when I do not speak. “What?”

“That is my number.”

“Excellent observational skills.”

I keep staring, and she glances down at her top, then back at me.

“I’m a supportive fake wife, Karlsson.”

Fake.