Mister Hockey (Hellions Angels #1)(11)
“Huh?” She peered down at her chest, and the phrase I Believe in 398.2. emblazoned across her chest. “Oh. Hah. A little Dewey decimal librarian humor. That’s the area where we shelve fairy tales.”
“I believe in fairy tales,” he mused. Something in her dreamy eyes kept him rooted to the spot. “So what, you’re an old-fashioned romantic, eh?”
“I guess.” She toyed with a stray lock of hair, twisting it absently. “But so far I’ve only kissed frogs. No princes.”
“Well, I’ll do my best to be your knight in shining armor,” he joked, hoisting himself into her attic. Inching along, he followed the wet rafter line to the source of the leak, one big enough to require tar.
She gripped the closet door as he remerged. “How bad is it?” Her words came out tight. “Don’t sugarcoat. Shoot straight. I can take it.”
“You need a handyman more than a knight. A temporary patch will stop the bleeding and last through the storm. Is there a hardware store in the neighborhood?”
She thought a moment. “Norman Tool Supplies is a few blocks away. But you’ve already gone above and beyond and this isn’t your problem. I can take it from here.”
Her confident tone belied her panicked expression.
He took another step closer and inhaled the scent in her shampoo. Sweet, but sexy, no cloying perfumes, just a hint of coconut. An image flashed in his mind. Her, oiled up on a Hawaiian beach with a colorful sarong slung around her hips, draping her curvy waist. The idea caused a low hum in his gut, like a key turning in an ignition. “I’ll be back in fifteen,” he muttered, turning for the door, his pace quick.
For all he overthought his game, his training regime, his whole damn life, for once he didn’t want to ponder his current behavior too hard. This afternoon was venturing beyond the scope of a simple Good Samaritan. But like the state of his head, maybe it was better not to know what the hell was going on.
Chapter Five
Breezy replaced the rapidly filling bucket on her bed with an empty one, trying not to stress over the fact that a sizeable section of her ceiling had crumbled over her pretty pale blue comforter. She headed for her laundry room to dump out the water in the utility sink. If Charles Dickens could be resurrected for the thankless task of penning Breezy’s biography, today’s chapter would no doubt begin with: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
Jed West was in her home. Repeat: Jed. West. Was. In. Her. Home.
And not just in her house, but up her attic, and that wasn’t a “wink nudge” euphemism. He’d driven to the neighborhood hardware store and returned with a plastic bag bulging with supplies that suggested, true to his word, he knew exactly what he was doing.
And while she didn’t want to get greedy with miracles, if the universe could allow him to halt the deluge soaking through the roof and save her room from becoming the newest city wetland, the gesture would be mightily appreciated.
That and not have him discover that hidden in her bedroom closet was a horde of Jed West memorabilia. When she’d seen him hunched on the porch through her peephole, her brain had flatlined. She’d sprung into frantic action, whirling through the house, grabbing all her fangirl items. First and foremost, the life-size cardboard cutout of him that her bestie, Margot, had nabbed from a downtown sports bar last month. The poster graced her bedroom door like a teenybop celebrity. The fridge magnets. The mug. The bobblehead plastic toy on the sink windowsill.
“All good.” He emerged from the attic door feet first, gripping the ceiling and lowering himself down in one steady, controlled motion, suggestive of years spent working out on pull-up bars. His sweatshirt rode high over his belly button, revealing a slab of lean, hard-cut abdominal muscles. A warrior’s body, with one thick silvery scar running parallel across his hip, alongside a thick, delicious-looking vein that disappeared into his elastic waistband.
It was overwhelming, enduring this much physical longing.
“That patch should hold for the rest of the storm,” he spoke with no clue that she was on the verge of melting into a pool of lust. “I slapped on two coats of tar.”
“I can’t thank you enough.” She forced her gaze up as he casually tugged down his hoodie, staring past her with a frown.
“Shit. Your bed is soaked.”
It took a moment for anything but the last word to register. She ground her knees together, acutely aware of the damp slickness in her own panties. That ain’t the only thing wet around here.
Jesus, she could host her own creepy standup routine on Comedy Central. Her pink-cheeked reflection beamed back from the full-length mirror on the wall, her eyes were glazed with visible arousal. This was so uncool. And typical Breezy behavior.
On her tombstone it would read: She came. She saw. She made it awkward.
“You should strip off the sheets and position the mattress over the heating vent,” he continued, just as the front door banged with a short sharp rap.
“That must be Neve,” she said, flustered. “She can help me flip it off the baseboards. I’ll take the comforter down to the cleaners to see what they can do. So anyway, thanks. You’ve done so much today. Above and beyond.”
What’re you thinking, crazy? Hurrying Jed West out of here? Her subconscious screeched in Margot’s voice, urging her to throw her body in front of the door. Offer to tap dance. Or lap dance. Or a cup of coffee. Or hell, a blow job.