“Yup,” is all he says.
“Well, you shouldn’t be living on takeout. I can take you to the grocery store. You should at least have fresh fruit and vegetables. I can even pick us up some steaks and cook them for us instead of ordering in.” I gesture with a nod to the deck area. “When I was here yesterday, I saw a barbeque out by the pool.”
“Yeah?” He cocks his head to the side. “You’ll take me shopping?”
Why does that surprise him so much? Okay, yeah, sure, we don’t like each other, but I’m not a monster. I’d help anyone out in this kind of situation. Enemy or not. “Of course.”
“And you’ll cook?”
“Yeah, it’s not a problem.” I throw my purse back over my shoulder.
He frowns, and waves his hands to stop me. “Wait, wait, you did enough cooking growing up. You shouldn’t have to do it for me.”
“I really don’t mind. I like being in the kitchen, and your equipment…I can’t wait to try it out.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
Oh, shit. I really need to stop saying things about his equipment, even if I am referring to his appliances…at least I’m pretty sure I am.
Gawd…
I steal a glance at the clock and clear my throat before saying, “I think I’ll have time to prepare a healthy meal before the game starts.”
“You will if I help.”
“You?” I poke my finger into his chest—and wish I hadn’t touched him. It does the craziest things to the needy little spot between my legs. Working diligently to pull myself together and pretend his hard muscles and strong heartbeat hadn’t affected me, I continue with, “The self-proclaimed bachelor who can’t cook is offering to help me?”
His cocky grin is back. “Sure, tit for tat, remember?”
I roll my eyes. “Come on. You can talk to me about hockey in the car.”
“Okay, but is that the tit or tat part?” he asks.
“Just so we’re clear, there will be no tit part,” I say, but then embarrassment floods me when I realize what I said. Sure, I write hot sex in my books, but in real life, I don’t talk dirty or say things like…tit, or penis, or worst of all…cock. Ugh.
“So all tat, huh?” He grabs his house keys from the table near the door and locks up behind us. “I can work with that.”
“Good.” We hop into the Mustang and I back out of his driveway, but being in such an enclosed space with him, and him smelling so damn good and clean and soapy, is messing with my brain. “Where is the closest grocery store?” I ask.
“You’re asking me?”
“Right, what was I thinking?” I gesture to the bulge in his jeans. Not the one I can’t seem to stop checking out, but the one in his pocket. “Check your phone.”
From the corner of my eye, I steal
a glimpse of him as he stretches out those long hard legs of his and tugs his phone from his pants pocket. He pulls up a map. “Turn right at the stop sign.” I follow his directions and make quick, efficient turns, appreciating how the Mustang handles. A few minutes later, we pull up in front of the grocery store. I kill the engine and reach for the door handle, but beside me Cole hesitates.
He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath.
Knowing exactly what’s he’s going though, I put my hand on his arm, and his lids flicker open. I shouldn’t have dragged him along in his current condition. What was I thinking? “Why don’t you take a minute?”
“I seriously appreciate your skilled driving, but I think the motion caused a bit of vertigo.”
He thinks I’m a skilled driver?
No one has ever complimented me on my driving before.
I give a quick shake of my head. What does that even matter? What’s really important here is his health. I look him over, take in the pallor of his skin, the sweat beading on his upper lip. My heart squeezes. It can’t be easy for him to be down and out with a concussion, missing out on playing a game he obviously loves, and having no one to help him.