Destiny on Ice (Boys of Winter #1)(26)

No matter. I have a legitimate reason for doing what I’m doing—it’s my job. My client was so hungover this morning that when his new team-appointed trainer arrived bright and early, he could barely get out of bed.

That is unacceptable.

Conclusion—he’s not going to stop drinking as long as his beloved Grey Goose is around. So, here I am.

Reaching for what feels like the umpteenth bottle of booze, I let out a long sigh. Brent has so many fifths that need emptying that I’m starting to feel like I’m re-enacting the Boston Tea Party, only with Grey Goose instead of Earl Grey. Or whatever the hell kind of tea they drank back then.

I purposely chose this time of the night to complete my task. Here’s where the riling him up part comes in. This is when my adversary usually heads down from his bedroom to raid the fridge. Tonight his little snack will have to be a banana, or another piece of fresh fruit, just like it was last night, courtesy of my most recent trip to the organic market.

The first night I spent in the house, Brent came down looking for potato chips. I know this because he was mumbling something about salt and vinegar as he entered the kitchen. Too bad for him I’d already found and discarded all the bags of his preferred snack.

He actually caught me as I was in the midst of changing out all the junk food he’d had someone—probably that smug agent—stock the fridge and pantry with. I’ve since replaced every bad thing with a healthy alternative. But that night I was only halfway through with the task. I heard Brent literally skid to a stop behind me, so I spun around, smile on my face and a nice healthy peach in one hand.

The sought-after salt and vinegar bags were sticking out of the top of the trash, and with his eyes glued in that direction, he asked tightly, “Why are all the potato chips in the garbage?”

It took me a full minute to formulate a coherent response. I was caught off-guard by his buff body. Seemed he’d forgotten to put on a shirt, and the baggy gray shorts he had on were doing a bang-up job of showing off how muscular his legs are.

All those bulging muscles, right there in front of me, made my head as fuzzy as the peach I was pretty much squeezing to death by then. I swear there’s not an ounce of fat on that man, in spite of his junk food and vodka addictions.

Every inch of him is so firm and smooth that my hooha perked to attention immediately. I insisted she calm down, seeing as we despise Brent Oliver. She complied, after calling me out as a delusional liar and after I promised her some relief.

Not with Brent Oliver, just with my hand.

B-o-r-i-n-g, I imagined her spewing, along with a yawn. But then that graphic image disturbed me so greatly that I couldn’t help but make a please-bleach-my-brain-now face.

“What’s wrong with you?” Brent asked, snorting. “You’re not the one whose babysitter is throwing away all the good stuff in the house.”

Pointing at him, I replied, “I am not your babysitter. I’m your life coach.”

He shrugged. “Semantics.”

“I didn’t know hockey players knew such fancy words.”

“You obviously don’t know much about us at all, do you?”

“Pfft,” I snorted. “Let’s be sure we keep it that way, Oliver.”

“You got it, Shelburne.”

My lady bits got all excited from the lively exchange. So much so that I completely misunderstood when he said, “You’re dripping, by the way.”

“Huh? What?” I wasn’t that excited, was I? Good God, I hoped not. Because, if so, how mortifying!

I stared down at my short shorts. Could you see through them? They were kind of thin. Could I be that freaking wet?

Brent, clearly confused, said, “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m checking to make sure, uh…” Suddenly, I remembered the peach I was squeezing like crazy.

Oops.

“Aubrey?” He quirked a brow, like he was catching on to me.

Think fast!

“I thought I felt something on my leg,” I said in a rush. “A bug, maybe.” Nodding down to my sticky forearm, I hastily added, “But yes, I see what you mean. Damn peaches. They’re just so overly ripe.”

“Sure they are,” he murmured.

When I dared to look over at him, it was clear he knew precisely what I’d originally thought—that he’d aroused me. He had, of course, but there was no need to confirm it for him. In fact, I quickly went to work on making him think I hated him.

’Cause I do, right?

Right? Right?

Crap, I don’t know anymore.

Icily, I asked, “Are we done here? I’m trying to do my job, which happens to involve buying fruit for you, a food that’s on your approved list by the way.”

Yes, it was in his file. And since he hates the idea of a babysitter, which I sometimes kind of am, I knew that would chase him away. And so help me God, I needed him gone. He was turning me into a horny, confused mess.

Frustrated, I tossed the peach at him. He caught it easily and started to say something, but I turned away to face the sink. I was just so damn embarrassed by that point.

I heard him sigh as he left the room, and wouldn’t you know it, my traitorous hooha sighed right along with him, which then made me sigh. The mood was ruined for everyone, and it was an overall crappy night.

But tonight I’m ready and prepped to spar with Brent Oliver, something that is quickly becoming a highlight of my time here. Plus, if I get all worked up now, I have a new outlet.