by Heidi Betts
Twenty minutes later, they were checked in, and she’d made a couple extra trips to get all of their luggage to the room while Zack stayed in the suite with Bruiser. She’d allowed Quentin to talk her into sharing a room and a king-size bed with Zack at each of their stops along the way, her agent’s rationale being that if word got out they were traveling together, but staying in separate rooms, no one would believe they were really a couple again and Insides Out might get nervous about the deal they’d struck. A deal with very meticulous, very precarious clauses, of which I.O.U. could renege at any time if they discovered claims she and Zack had made or agreed to within the contract were false.
She didn’t think sharing a room and a bed made much difference in the scheme of things. After all, they were both adults, and because they’d been involved once before, they were used to sharing a bathroom and close quarters.
And as far as sex went, she knew her mind well enough to be sure that if she wanted to make love with him, a wall, door, or even floors between them wasn’t going to stop her. In the same vein, if she didn’t want to be with him, then the fact that they were only a few inches away from each other under the same sheets and covers wasn’t going to give her a sudden case of brain fever and cause her to do anything she wasn’t one hundred percent willing to do.
Even so—even though she’d agreed to go along with everything the endorsement deal required—she didn’t particularly want to advertise her association with Zack to the general public just yet. They might be traveling together and sharing a hotel room, but she’d asked Quentin to make their reservations under a different name, and the fewer people who recognized her or Zack and put two and two together, the better.
Thus her desire to check into the hotel at night, with a hat and sunglasses still on, and to park at the back of the building where she could move all of their things in and out on her own.
They were pretty much sneaking Bruiser in and out, too, since pets weren’t normally allowed, and the fact that Bruiser spent a lot of time drooling on his own paws and sniffing, licking, or leaning against the walls precluded him from passing as a seeing-eye dog.
She didn’t know how much money or how many firstborn children Quentin had had to throw at the hotel managers to get them to let the Saint Bernard indoors, but he’d managed. Just one more reason he was such a good manager, and why she kept him on the payroll.
When she returned to the room a final time, slightly out of breath from toting suitcases up four flights of secluded back stairs, Zack was seated on the end of the bed, left leg propped out in front of him. Bruiser, of course, was stretched full-length across the wide, king-size mattress, taking up seventy-five percent of the plain maroon spread.
It was going to be interesting to see if they could get him to stay on the floor when they were ready to climb into bed themselves. Even though they’d brought his favorite blanket—a thick, soft throw with the Rockets emblem that was large enough to cover a small sofa—Bruiser was a dog who preferred his creature…scratch that…human comforts. And since he weighed in at a hefty, often immovable hundred and fifty pounds, she wouldn’t be surprised if they ended up sleeping on the floor and letting Bruiser take the bed.
“Sorry you got stuck doing all that yourself,” Zack said.
“That’s all right, I don’t mind,” she told him, moving things around, finding places to lay down and open their luggage. Since they were only staying the one night, it didn’t seem worthwhile to unpack anything but the bare necessities. “This was my idea, after all. I’m the one who talked you into letting us drive instead of flying, and it’s my fault I forgot to ask for a ground-floor room.”
“I don’t mind.”
His voice was low, and she glanced at him in the process of pulling a pair of pajamas and some toiletries out of her suitcase. He looked earnest and a little contrite, and she smiled to let him know she didn’t hold the manual labor against him.
“How’s your knee feeling?” she asked him.
“Fine. Great, actually,” he said, flexing it a bit to show her that it hadn’t stiffened up on him in the car. “You were right about driving, I think. I can’t imagine it feeling this good after a few hours crammed on a plane, even in first class.”
She gave a small nod, still smiling. “I’m glad. Mind if I use the bathroom first?”
He shook his head. “Help yourself. Bruiser and I will get comfortable and see if there’s anything on TV.”
“Bruiser’s already comfortable,” she told him. “Good luck finding room to stretch out on there with him.”
Zack’s chuckle followed her as she stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. She sank back against the thick metal panel and let out a long, shuddering breath.
Oh, man. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea.
She’d been fine all week, staying in Zack’s apartment and making plans for this trip. She’d been fine all day, riding in the close confines of the Hummer with him. She’d even been fine in the small hotel room, contemplating the evening ahead and having to share a bed with him. Through all of that, she’d been fine, fine, fine, fine, fine.
Then he’d looked at her in just that way he had—that soft, dark, kind of smoldering way that made her knees weak and dampened her panties.
Not that it was the first time she’d been turned on by Zack—before or after their breakup—or any other man. She wasn’t exactly a stranger to sexual arousal or how to handle it when it struck.
But then his low, throaty chuckle had joined the flashing eyes and sultry expression, and she’d felt as though an atomic bomb had detonated inside her chest. It stole her breath, knocked her back a step, and filled her with so much pent-up longing, she’d nearly moaned aloud.
Which would be bad, of course. No doubt if she gave Zack even the tiniest hint that she was still attracted to him, he’d be on her like a moth on a bug zapper.
Hiding out in the bathroom was definitely the best plan of action. And if she could find a way to sleep in the tub without waking up with the mother of all neck cramps, she might just do that, too.
When she could breathe again and her knees had stopped knocking, she set her things on the sink countertop and started getting ready for bed. After taking as long as she could to shower and wash her hair and face without prompting Zack to come check on her, she closed her hand over the round silver doorknob, inhaled as deeply as she could, and steeled herself for what was to come.
She needn’t have worried that Zack would be stripped down and ready for action, or have the lights off, the room bathed in flickering candlelight and strewn with rose petals. He hadn’t been that kind of guy even when they were engaged.
No, Zack didn’t do candlelight and romantic dinners he’d cooked himself. He didn’t do candy for Valentine’s Day or cards for birthdays.
He was more about the big gestures. The ones that came less often, but definitely had a larger impact.
When he’d proposed to her, he’d been sweaty and stinky from hours on the ice. But the Rockets had won the game, and immediately afterward, he’d skated up to the first sports reporter he spotted who had a camera and microphone, and started talking about Grace, and their relationship, and how he’d promised himself if they won that night’s game, he’d do something he’d been contemplating for the past couple months. Next thing Grace knew, he’d been on one knee in front of her, camera and microphone in tow, asking her to marry him.
Their pictures, his question, and her answer had flashed across the giant overhead monitors for the entire stadium to see, followed by massive coverage on every sports channel and news segment in the country.
Thank goodness she’d loved him and been more than ready to say yes, otherwise the entire event could have been hugely embarrassing.
For Valentine’s Day, he bought her diamond earrings. For her birthday, he flew her to the Bahamas. For Christmas, he made her go on a scavenger hunt all around town to find her gift, which was usually something gigantic and hugely expensive.
At first, everything with him seemed simple and easygoing. A small box, plain wrapping, no bow. But then whatever was inside turned out to be something amazing, like an autographed first edition of To Kill a Mockingbird or an emerald necklace that was worth twenty-five thousand if it was worth a dime.
His presents and his idea of romance were a lot like Zack himself: calm and unassuming on the outside. But inside, pure gold.
She’d forgotten that about him until just now. Forgotten how thoughtful he could be underneath the rough jock exterior, and how there were times when he’d treated her like an absolute princess.
Provided he hadn’t cheated on her, hadn’t been a wolf in sheep’s clothing, she could definitely see herself going back with this man. Marrying him, even. If…
At the moment, he wasn’t trying to seduce her. Probably wasn’t trying to impress her at all, unless he had a mariachi band stashed under the bed ready to pop out and serenade her.
Instead, he was lying on the bed, using Bruiser as a pillow. His head was propped on the dog’s belly, the Saint draped full-length across the top of the mattress just in front of the real pillows. Zack’s fingers were linked together on top of his flat, T-shirt-covered stomach, his heavy-lidded gaze locked on the television screen.
“Find something to watch?” she asked in a low voice.
He blinked and rolled his head in her direction. She expected him to answer her with a drowsy “yep” or simply the name of the show.
But he didn’t. He didn’t say a word, just stared at her, eyes wider now than they had been before.
He raked her from head to toe, his look so heated that she glanced down at herself, wanting to make sure she hadn’t accidentally forgotten to put on pants or something.
She hadn’t. She was fully dressed, and not in her usual choice of nightclothes.
The one thing she’d gotten from her mother, without a doubt, was überfeminine genes and a love for slinky, sexy things. At home, she wore satin nighties and matching robes. Heeled slippers decorated with brightly colored feathers or sparkling rhinestones.
But since she hadn’t wanted Zack to get the wrong idea—or any ideas at all—when she’d moved in to his apartment to help him get better, she’d left the Hollywood starlet wardrobe in her closet and opted instead for a few sets of nice, sturdy, flesh-covering pajama sets. The one she was wearing now had long legs and long sleeves. The bottoms were a thin flannel material in vertical rainbow sherbet stripes. The top was a solid lavender to match one of the wide stripes in the pants. She was even wearing a bra and panties underneath because she hadn’t wanted to risk erect nipples peeking through the fabric or shadows in the wrong places as she moved around.
“The bathroom’s all yours,” she said, because she couldn’t stand the silence anymore, or the way his hot stare was, indeed, making her nipples bead.
Zack blinked, swallowed, tore his eyes away as he rolled to the side and reached for his crutches.
“Right,” he said, climbing to his feet. He went to his own suitcase, which she’d arranged on top of a round table in the far corner, and began to gather a few items.
As he hobbled past her on the way to the bathroom, she said, “If you need anything, let me know.”
He gave a sharp nod, but kept walking, and she didn’t let out her pent-up breath until she heard the bathroom door click closed.
Okay, he might be in trouble here.
More trouble than in his last game when he’d gotten dog-piled while his leg went one way and the rest of his body had gone another.
More trouble than when Grace had first showed up at his apartment and dragged him out of bed, announcing that she was there to whip him into shape and get him back on his feet—literally.
Possibly even more trouble than the day Grace had walked into his hotel room in Columbus to find a strange woman in his bed.
Because he was very much afraid he was falling back in love with Grace.
Despite everything they’d been through. Despite the fact that he’d broken down and lost himself for a while after she’d left him, then pulled himself up by his bootstraps and decided he could and would move on without her. That he’d be all right without her.
His resolve had gotten a bit shaky when she’d suddenly reappeared in his life, but he’d handled it well, he thought. Even after the kiss…
Oh, man, that kiss had rocked him to his very soul. Turned him on harder than he could ever remember being turned, and made him want to sink to the floor and slide into her right then and there.
It had aroused him and brought up a lot of old memories, yeah, but even that hadn’t caused his head to spin quite as much as it was doing at this very moment.
And he wasn’t sure why. All he knew was that the minute Grace had stepped out of the bathroom and he’d turned his head to look at her, every cell of his being had seized up, frozen, refused to function. His lungs burned, his vision turned hazy, and his blood burned so hot, he wouldn’t have been surprised if steam started to seep from his skin.
The funny thing was that he shouldn’t have had that reaction given Grace’s appearance. It wasn’t like she’d sauntered out of the bathroom like Jessica Rabbit, in high heels, thigh-high stockings, and a barely there teddy. No, she was very conservatively dressed in plain cotton winter pajamas. Cute pajamas, but not exactly the stuff of wet dreams or even a Victoria’s Secret catalog page.
How she could knock him for such a loop while covered from head to toe, hair still damp from her shower, pink-tipped toes bare, he would never understand. And yet she had. He’d taken one look at her and felt his stomach drop, felt his groin tighten…felt his heart melt, slide around in his chest cavity, then re-form in the shape of Grace’s beautiful face.
Oh, yeah, he was falling, and falling fast. Falling hard, too. It was going to hurt like a son of a bitch when she let him know, in no uncertain terms, that he didn’t have a shot in hell and he hit the pavement three million stories below.
Ouch. Lifting a hand to his chest, he rubbed the spot over his already aching heart.
This was going to be brutal. Losing her the first time around had been nasty enough, but now he felt as though he’d been given a second chance…or at least a shot at a second chance.
But Grace’s mind was set where he was concerned. She thought he was a cheater, and nothing short of a message from God or Gage coming through with that lie detector idea—and Zack wasn’t holding his breath on either count—was going to change her mind.
So here he was, locked in the crapper of a Holiday Inn Express in Bumfuck, Pennsylvania, afraid to go back out into the other room because Grace was there. And if he saw her again, he’d want to touch her, hold her, tell her things that would only make his life miserable in the long run.
Leaning heavily on his crutches, he dumped his things on the closed lid of the toilet and began to undress. Once he was naked, he stepped carefully into the shower, crutches and all—though, thankfully, there was a safety bar along the wall that he could hang on to—and flipped on the water.
It was a cold shower for him tonight, unfortunately. Because if he didn’t get his Johnson under control, when he did go back into the other room, there would be no need for words. Grace would take one look at him and know exactly what was on his mind. Exactly what her presence did to him.
Then there would be a need only for explanations and possibly the ducking of objects flying at his head…or lower. It would be like opening Pandora’s box…or a big, fucking can of worms he just did not want to deal with.
So he let the water run, standing under the icy fall until he was clean, but shivering, and everything that should be drooping instead of standing at attention had dwindled back into place.
Please let her be asleep, he thought as he climbed out of the tub and started to dry off. Please let her be buried under the covers up to her neck, with a hundred and fifty pounds of Saint Bernard conked out between her and his side of the bed.
Otherwise, there w
as a good chance certain parts of his anatomy would start pointing north again, and that would be bad. Very, very bad.
Row 17
Grace wasn’t asleep, and the covers most definitely were not tucked up to her chin.
Damn.
The television and all the lights were still on, and she’d somehow managed to manipulate Bruiser to the foot of the bed so that she could turn down the sheets and the spread. Her damp hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and pillows were propped behind her against the headboard so that she could sit up straighter, legs out in front of her and crossed at the ankles. Her feet were still bare, the painted nails both adorable and sexy at the same time.
She was knitting. Something pink and girly—Jesus, not again—and in an indiscriminate shape, at least to his eyes. But it was coming along. The needles were clicking and clacking, and yarn was floating like a leaf on the wind as she wound it around her finger and one of the needles over and over with each stitch.
And just that quickly, he needed another cold shower.
Seeing her on that bed did things to him, made his mind wander in all sorts of directions it had no business wandering. Stirring up memories it had no business remembering.
Same went for his cock. If he didn’t rush across the room and dive under the covers like he was trying to stop a puck from hitting the net, he was going to be in big trouble. Ten inches of big, throbbing trouble.
Doing his best to angle his body so that she didn’t notice what was going on behind his blue striped boxers, Zack hitched his way across the room to the other side of the bed. Because, of course, she’d taken the side closest to the bathroom, closest to safety and concealment.
“You got him to move, I see,” he said once he’d turned around and dropped onto the white-sheeted mattress.
“I promised him smoochies and lured him down there with some doggie biscuits slathered in peanut butter.”
“You brought peanut butter?” he asked with a short chuckle, hoping the conversation and her knitting were enough to distract her while he eased his injured leg onto the bed and pulled the covers up to his waist.