If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(57)

I swallow thickly, combing my fingers through his hair, way too keyed up from simply his mouth brushing my hand. Sebastian leans closer and sets his forehead against my hip on a heavy exhale. “Healthy distractions,” he whispers, pressing his forehead harder into my hip, blowing out another breath. “Right.”

“Happy distractions,” I whisper. My voice comes out hoarse and uneven. Somewhere in the past ten seconds of this…whatever this is, my eyes fell shut, and they stay that way. All I know is soft, sweet darkness, the weight of his head against my stomach, his fingers tangled with mine.

“I think…” He clears his throat roughly. His voice is hoarse and uneven, too. “Happy and healthy distractions might be diametrically opposed with me.”

“That’s not true.”

Slowly, he pulls back. I open my eyes gradually, dazed as I peer down at him. I force my hand to leave his hair, but not before my thumb grazes his ear. His eyelids flutter for a heartbeat.

“How so?” he asks.

I smile, setting my hands on his shoulders. “Hockey. Makes you happy and healthy. And if it’s anything like soccer is for me, considering its demanding, consuming schedule, I’d say it functions as a distraction, too.”

His brow furrows. “Huh. I never thought of it like that.”

“How did you think of it?”

He tips his head back, all smirk and silver eyes, but there’s something different about it, something soft at the edges of how he looks at me. “As something I’m fucking amazing at.”

I roll my eyes, but a laugh still sneaks out. “Well, reframe it. It keeps you busy, and it’s something that clearly brings you joy, that’s very good for you. Happy, healthy distraction. Soon, you’ll be back at it, but it’s not available to you tonight, so…want to try something else?”

His hands settle on my hips, rocking me closer. “Something else?”

I stare at him, warring with myself. I want so badly to push him back, straddle his lap, settle my hips over his, and kiss him breathless all over again.

Friends! the voice of reason reminds me. He only wants to be friends!

Friends. Right. I can do this.

“Something…relatively healthy,” I explain. “It does involve a lot of sugar, but it won’t make you sick. And it involves chocolate, too, so I think it’s going to make you pretty happy.”

His eyes light up. “I’m listening.”





19





SEBASTIAN





Playlist: “Transatlantique,” Beirut





“This is…wild.” I take another bite of flourless chocolate cake and savor it, butter-rich and bittersweet, melting on my tongue. “It’s gluten-free. And it doesn’t taste like ass.”

Ziggy grins my way as she swallows her bite of (gluten-free) berry muffin. “Pretty darn good, right?”

I stare at her as she turns back to watching the sunset from my second-floor balcony, enjoying the dramatic irony of sitting here with her when just two weeks ago she was staring me down while I moped in my underwear. “Pretty darn good,” I agree.

“I’m glad you like it.” Ziggy takes another bite of her muffin, chewing thoughtfully. “Rooney, my sister-in-law—the one I texted earlier who sent the gluten-free kitchen essentials list—she’s the one who recommended this bakery. She said, eating this way is really manageable, so long as you make sure you’re stocked up on good substitutes, and that includes a good substitute bakery.”

“My belly thanks you, and soon my kitchen will, too.”

Ziggy smiles. “Online grocery shopping is a beautiful thing.”

“Usually I’d agree, but I wasn’t anticipating it being beautiful. I figured I’d be scouring every goddamn item for proof of being gluten-free. You, however, saved the day.”

I use my fork to cut into the cake, then stretch my hand toward her, a big chocolatey bite poised on the fork’s edge. “Want a taste?”

She smiles my way, eyes lighting up. “Thought you’d never ask.”

“Well, as our chocolate milkshake history dictates, it was offer you a bite or have the whole thing pilfered from me.”

She laughs as she leans in, clasping my hand to guide the fork into her mouth. A groan leaves her. “Wow, that’s good.”

I stare at her mouth as she shuts her eyes, savoring her bite.

God, I’m torturing myself watching her, but I can’t stop. Wanting her, denying myself her, it’s the kind of pain that consumes me like the hardest practice on the ice—muscles shaking, burning lungs, sweat pouring down me. It’s what Ziggy called it that first night at the diner. A good hurt.

“One more bite,” she mutters, guiding my hand with the fork, breaking off another piece of chocolate cake, then bringing it to her mouth. I sneak a swipe of my thumb across her hand, just to feel her skin, warm and soft.

“Why didn’t you get this, too?” I ask. “You like chocolate, obviously.”

She shrugs, sitting back as she sets her feet on my deck railing. “Chocolate’s too rich for me to want all of a chocolate something. I just like little tastes.”

“Not what your consumption of my chocolate milkshakes and breakfast smoothies indicate.”