Wild for You (Hot Jocks #6)(16)

“This is a lot of food,” he says matter-of-factly as we trek toward the kitchen, Hobbes close on our heels.

I begin unpacking the cold foods, pulling out the produce and frozen meats first. “It’s the least I can do. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to make the meals while I’m staying here, as a thank-you for letting me stay. For everything.” Why does my voice sound so high-pitched?

As I lean into the fridge, making room for the new groceries, Grant seems to mull over my offer for a moment. Too bad. I’ve already made up my mind, mister!

Then I wonder if he’s right. Maybe this is too much food, and buying it implies that I plan to mooch off of him for longer than he anticipated. I feel my resolve slip, ever so slightly.

“It’s not that much,” I say weakly. “We’ll get through it quickly. And you can keep whatever we don’t get to when I find somewhere else to stay.”

Grant’s eyes flash, and my breath catches. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, and I take a deep breath.

“I’m sure we’ll get through it all. I have a good appetite,” he says with a nod, then leaves the kitchen and heads down the hall.

Suddenly, I’m annoyed. Would it kill this man to crack a smile? I decide that’s the goal for tonight. I will make Grant smile with whatever food I whip up for the two of us. Right after I—

“I already took the dog out,” Grant calls from the bathroom. “You can take your coat off.”

I frown, looking down at Hobbes. He wags his tail, happy to have my attention, blissfully unaware of the upheaval our lives have been thrown into.

“Thank you!” I call back. I chuckle to myself, watching Hobbes roll around on the hardwood floors like he’s a puppy again. He really loves it here, the little traitor.

I hear the shower start in the bathroom and a sensation of warmth floods over me. Perspiration forming on the back of my neck, I take off my jacket and return it to the front hall closet. It’s nice to have someone else walk Hobbes for once. It’s been my sole responsibility for the past three years that I’ve had him. Lord knows Jason never volunteered. Another point for Grant.

With these odd but pleasant thoughts brewing, I begin dinner. Lasagna is a no-brainer; it’s quick and easy and always a winner, as long as you don’t overcook the noodles. I start the sauce, letting it simmer while I arrange fresh ricotta and lasagna noodles in a glass baking dish that I find in a nearby cabinet.

Once the sauce meets my standards, I finish assembling the lasagna and place into the pre-heated oven. Within minutes, the kitchen is warm and fragrant.

I’ve pulled my thick hair up with a heavy-duty hair tie into a loose bun on top of my head. Based on my reflection in the glass of the window, my cheeks are red, so I grab a glass of water to cool off.

My ears perk up as I finally hear the steady stream of Grant’s shower halt. I can’t help but be amused by the length of his shower—I’ve been toiling away in here for at least a half hour. I guess when you have a body like that, one so big and bulky, you need more time to wash.

And here I am again, thinking about a naked Grant. I down the rest of the water in three choking gulps.

When he reappears, wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, I’m coughing pretty violently.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his brow furrowed in that classic look of worry he wears so well. His skin is rosier than it usually is, no doubt from the scalding water raining down on his flawless skin . . .

“Wrong pipe,” I say, wheezing as I wave away his concern. Thank God he put some clothes on. I definitely wouldn’t have recovered if he’d come out in a towel.

“It smells great. Can I help?”

I’m struck speechless for a moment by the good-natured tone of his voice before I nod and point to the salad bowl resting near an assortment of vegetables.

“Cut the rest of the tomatoes and cucumbers?” I say when my voice returns.

As Grant gets right to work, I’m impressed with our ability to cohabitate this space as practical strangers. We dance around each other with ease, Grant moving between the sink and the counter, and me checking on the oven’s contents after adding frozen garlic bread and setting plates on the dining table.

I hear the pop of a bottle of wine being uncorked, and turn to see Grant pouring two glasses of a deep red cabernet.

He’s a wine drinker. Huh.

“Dinner won’t be ready for another fifteen minutes,” I say apologetically.

Grant shakes his head, passing one of the wineglasses to me. When he extends his arm, I notice a nearly imperceptible wince flicker across his expression.

“There’s no rush,” he says, his voice tight with the effort of masking pain.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my healer’s instinct making me reach out involuntarily to feel his shoulder.

I quickly retract my hand, suddenly aware of a line being crossed. My impulse is always to help, and my expertise is touch, but I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable by disregarding his boundaries. Luckily, Grant seems to think nothing of it, merely rotating his shoulder in small, focused circles.

“It’s nothing,” he says with a short sigh. “I . . . knocked my shoulder on the ice today, and it’s still feeling pretty sore.”

Grant doesn’t seem like the type to go down easily. My twisted imagination takes me down the darkest path, imagining a certain dick-headed teammate slamming into his unsuspecting team captain in foul play.