Page 45 of Desire or Defense

“Hey, guys. How’d it go?” I ask before bending down to grab Noah’s bag and hoist it inside the trunk.

Mitch’s eyebrows knit together when he spots my hand on Noah’s bag.

Noah, who’s oblivious to his look, responds, “Good. See ya, Coach Anderson.” He strides to the passenger door and plops down in the seat, closing the door behind him.

Mitch’s face is still sour, and he’s still glaring at my hand. He places his hand over mine, sending warmth shooting up my arm. The sensation of his rough, warm hand is something I’ve never experienced, something new. Sure, I’ve held hands with men before, but this contact is unique… it’s more… somehow.

The distraction of his gigantic, calloused, manly hand covering mine keeps me from noticing that Mitch is still silent… and glaring. When my wits come back, I stare at him, feeling utterly confused. Did I do something?

“Did Noah piss you off, Big Man? Why the sour face?”

He nudges my hand with his, and I realize he wants me to remove my hand from the bag. Feeling embarrassed, and a little offended, I remove my hand quickly. This whole time he was completely unaffected by the feel of my hand. Meanwhile, for me, the feel of his hand on mine will linger for days. I’ll dream about that big, grumpy hand. And wonder how those calluses would feel against my cheek, or running through my hair? Really freaking nice, I bet.

“Noah should carry his own bag,” the big guy finally speaks, his voice doing that low, grumbly thing that makes me want to curl into it, to nuzzle my face against his stubbly throat and see what his voice feels like. “He shouldn’t make you do it.”

He lifts the huge bag like it weighs nothing, making me think back to a few weeks ago when I saw Mitch for the first time… when he lugged me over his shoulder like I weighed no more than a stuffed animal. He doesn’t step aside after lifting the bag inside the trunk, but stays put. He’s no more than a foot away from me. So close that I can smell that hiking in the mountains and stumbling upon a waterfall scent that always lingers on his skin. Sweat, paired with whatever deodorant he uses. It shouldn’t be enticing… but it is. I want to climb him like the mountain he smells like.

“Oh,” I mutter, my brain clearly not working. “But it’s so big.” I’m talking about the bag, not the man right in front of me… I think.

Mitch’s hazel eyes, an even mixture of blue, green, and brown today, find mine. He doesn’t look away, but just calmly looks at me. “If he can wear the gear, he can carry the bag. It’s a rule in hockey. Everyone carries their own bag,” Mitch’s voice is even deeper now, with a raspy edge to it.

“Huh,” I breathe out. “I suppose that makes sense.”

I can feel my body trying to lean into him, to get closer. But I resist the urge. Especially since Noah is sitting a few feet from us. If his friends teasing him about me makes him upset, I can’t imagine he’d be good with me and his coach getting frisky.

Mitch’s mysterious, color-changing eyes look away from me. He must find something interesting in the trunk of my car, because those mood-ring eyes widen and his mouth quirks. My head whips to the side to see what’s so amusing, and I notice that my bubble-gum-scented bubble bath has slid out of the grocery bag. It’s the kid stuff, the one that makes the good bubbles. And I’m not ashamed.

“Captain Bubbles, huh?” He smirks, giving his eyes an evil twinkle.

It hits me then, as this man towers over me, smirking… Mitch ‘The Machine’ Anderson is the real-life lovable villain that everyone loves to hate… or hates to love.

“It makes the best bubbles,” I admit, placing my hands on my hips. A pose I’ve come to depend on around Mitch. A pose that makes me feel tough, like I can resist him.

His eyes land on my hips and rest there for a moment. The way he’s looking at me isn’t helping me feel like I can resist him. “Don’t knock Captain Bubbles until you try him.”

Mitch’s eyes meet mine again, and one of those dark, roguish eyebrows arches. “You don’t think I’d take a bath with Captain Bubbles?”

My mind goes back to when we were texting and he’d just gotten out of the shower… the picture of him in just his towel. In my head, the towel dips low enough to see his abs and he’s still glistening a little with steam.

“I can’t picture you taking a bath at all. You seem like a shower guy,” I rasp, then regret my words instantly. I’d do anything to push them back inside. But it’s like toothpaste… easy to squeeze out, impossible to get back inside the tube.

“Ah, so you picture me in the shower?” He brings a hand up to rub his beard thoughtfully. “That’s weird, since I’m so ugly and hairy.”

My mouth gapes open. “That’s not what I said!”

His throat makes a noise that sounds like a strangled laugh. “Sure…”

I open my mouth to defend myself, but Noah appears beside Mitch, he glances between the two of us with a strange expression on his face. “Are you two done arguing? I’m starving.” He glances between us again before turning and going back to his spot in the passenger seat.

Mitch is still smirking. I want to wipe that stupid look off of his stupid face. Instead, I glare at him.

“See you, Blondie,” he says before strutting off toward his fancy vehicle.

I watch him walk, not because his butt is incredible—because it totally is—but because I’m internally willing for him to trip or do something dumb.

But of course, he doesn’t stumble, or trip, or anything. He struts away like a magnificent peacock.

With an annoyed huff, I slam the trunk of my car closed, stomp around to the driver’s side door, open it and slide inside.